Blech

Yesterday I had to get a criminal record check for the new job I'm starting at the end of the month. It was a bit of an exercise in frustration. I had filled out the form and was pulling out my ID when the Desk Chick says, "You live out of town? Then I can't help you." Well, no, I don't really, but my permanent address is still out at the farm. I'm a nomad, lady. So I trekked back to my place to get my letter of offer, the only thing I have with my current address on. It took all of 3 minutes, once I got back, for her to do the record check and print it off. Once again I have triumphed over evil, as personified by my amazing capacity for taking little frustrations personally.

So anyways, after I got home from work I decided to change the sheets on my bed, which I've been putting off for about a week. While fussing around with the bedskirt (yes, I know, bedskirts aren't really up my alley, in an I-swore-never-to-have-one, over-my-dead-body sort of way), I noticed some kleenex had fallen down against the wall beside the bed. While I was grabbing it, I figured I'd swipe it on the floor, get an idea of the amount of dust accumulating back there.

Except the dust was green.

Mmm, mold. Caked all along the baseboard and the edge of the floor. I'd been sort of wondering why I've been allergic to something in my apartment lately. I'm really glad I got a dehumidifier a couple days ago. At least the mold was dried up by the time I got to it. So I spent an hour moving furniture and scrubbing mold.

You see why I don't tell stories often? Too much background information. If I actually tell a story, it turns into at least a novelette. Or an 8-part mini-series if you can't extricate yourself in time. This, you see, is why I think I talk too much.