I Met Hell and Punched it in the Face
Between moving, suffering through the most hellatious flu EVER, a flooded laundry room, a broken dishwasher, and Better Half Ben’s broken back, last week blew chunks. Our little family teetered on the precipice of a sulfurous abyss for days on end, but I’m happy to report that we avoided the gaping maws of hell (except for the dishwasher) and have moved straight into purgatory, an otherwordly waiting room filled with boxes and paper and dirty dishes. It’s all good though, because it’s QUIET here. And I don’t HAVE to do anything. I could stare at these boxes forever… and ever… and ever. Maybe I will.
Honestly, it’s looking ok at the new house. Tons of projects to complete, and lots of pictures to share as soon as I can clear away the dirty laundry lurking in every corner. We’ve even mangaged to catch up on some tv, and I’m very glad that we didn’t move into this house:
If you’re watching American Horror Story, you know what can happen when good real estate goes very bad.
Apparently the Alfred Rosenheim house was for sale in January and it’s a stone cold fox, no doubt. Too bad about all the dead people in there.
Yeah, I know It’s just a tv show but now I’m going to have to get out my ghostometer (or whatever equipment they use in those dumb movies) and check all the closets and attics in our new house… Cross your fingers and toes and eyeballs that it’s dead body free.