Oh My God

It's 1:45 in the morning.

I can hear a kitten crying outside.

What do I do? It's cold! What if it's hungry and scared? Ohmygodohmygod.

But aren't you supposed to leave them alone? If you get your human scent on them, don't their mothers abandon them? Or is that only baby birds that fall out of nests?

UPDATE: rescued and fed. Sleeping on back porch now. Will deal further with furball in morning.


Overheard in the Hallways of a Frat

Late night quotes from some of Moscow's finest:

"Jens, it would be an honor and a privilege to drink that with you."

"Are you peeing? Because I'm about to kick down that door."

"There's nothing wrong with my carpet. NO I DON'T CARE THAT IT WAS MOLD INFESTED ONCE."

"I wasn't doing what you think I was doing...yes, that's a screwdriver in my hand, but that's not what it was for."



I hate doing laundry.

I once went an entire semester without doing any laundry of my own. I waited until I got to a point where I was wearing the same jeans five days a week, and then I packed all my dirty clothes into the trunk of my car and I drove home for the weekend. I then dumped all my clothes in the wash room and waited. Magically, my clothes were washed and folded by Sunday afternoon, just in time for me to return to Rexburg. Later, rinse, repeat and voila! An entire semester without having to set foot in the creepy dorm washroom.

More often than not, though, I find myself in the tragic situation of having to do my own washing. Laundry is a viscous cycle that leads to misery and despair in my life. This morning was not the first time that I've considered flinging myself out a window to avoid the mess, and it won't be the last, either.

I've been staying with Chandler because I left my job and hey, it's summer! I have nothing better to do, right? There are several pros to being around my significant friend, and one of them is that now I have someone to share laundry duty with.

Except, you know, not really.

Here's how laundry has gone down the last week:

The first two days of being here, I glare passive-aggressively at the two (yes, TWO) overflowing StorageMate tubs of clothes. They offend my sense of justice. How can one person possibly have that many clothes just SITTING ON THE FLOOR IN A BIN. WHY DON'T YOU USE YOUR CLOSET.

The third day, I emphatically tell Chandler that he has to sort his clothes so I know which ones are clean and which ones are dirty. He agrees.

The fourth day, I tell Chandler again. He agrees, again.

The fifth day, I threaten to throw them all away if he doesn't tell me which ones I can wash. We then proceed to spend three hours cleaning his room, avoiding the laundry for as long as possible.

Finally, I am given a bin with dirty clothes and told that anything that goes in there is safe for washing.

There are so many clothes that it's too heavy for me to lift. I make Chandler carry it to the basement.

There is only one available washer in the laundry room.

It's also dark and creepy down there.

We strike a deal: I'll be in charge of putting the clothes in the washer and dryer if Chandler will fold most of them. Perfect.

One load down, three to go. I return to the room to watch a movie.

An hour later, I remember about the clothes and go back to the basement.

I step in a puddle. That's odd. I flip on the light. There's a few centimeters of water covering the entire floor.

I think through my options, and decide that I might as well move the finished load from the washer to the dryer, while I'm down here.

Cold wet cement is cold and wet and splashy and eeeew I hope that slippery stuff I just stepped in is soap. Cold wet cold.

Realize there are no available dryers.

Fold someone else's clothes so I can have their dryer.

Move first load to dryer.

Back to room. Chandler asks me what took so long. I told him the basement was flooding. He runs downstairs.

Returns with the good news that he doesn't think the washer is leaking. It was a hose in the utility sink. But it's all fixed now. He thinks. And he put another load in the washer for me! How sweet.

Now I have to wait up until that load is finished washing, because I can't leave it in the washing machine overnight, it will get that weird wet clothes moldy smell.

Finally transfer second load from washer to dryer. I should fold the clothes...no, wait, that's Chandler's job. Score! Bedtime.

Next morning: basement floor is dry. Oh, good. Time for more laundry.

Fill only available washer as full as I can, realize that I'm not going to get all the clothes in. Will have to do ANOTHER load. Ffffffuuuuuuu.

Half-heartedly fold some socks, get tired, go back to internet.

Forget all about laundry.

Later that night: bring Chandler downstairs to fold laundry. Basement floor is wet again.

Seriously, not my fault.

And then I killed myself. The end.