I went over to the hotel to hang up clothes, along with my son, the very unwilling helper.
My closet IS NOT RIGHT.
I have one rod for my coats and dresses. It is nice and high
Then I have three rods, meant to hang separates. Did anyone MEASURE how long my shirts were? No.
Did anyone measure to see how much room Mike’s shirts and jackets would take up? No.
So I am stomping around, crying because it not only is not what I asked for, it’s going to make life just that much more of a mess for me to take care of.
And did the guys take the furniture upstairs? No. It is all in the vacant shop downstairs.
Does not one person on Earth listen to me?
I wanted the stuff I WANTED upstairs, upstairs. Everything is effing labeled.
The stuff in the shop is the stuff I want to yard sale, next week. (Oh, yeah, all by myself. I can’t expect anyone to help me.)
So I guess it was easier to just jam everything downstairs and figure I wouldn’t mind paying them AGAIN to drag it upstairs. I effing didn’t want to pay six or seven times. I wanted it up. I want to have my yard sale. I want to rent that shop out and I want a new bedspread.
I am so upset that I yelled at the dogs and started to cry.
No the dogs are scared and Mike is upset that I’m upset.
Me? I’m just upset.
So once I’m settled down, I ask Mike exactly what he told the guys? “Put everything in the vacant shop and let Chloe decide what goes upstairs.” So they did what he told them. It’s just that every damn thing was labeled and every spot was labeled so it should have been easy for them to figure out what was supposed to go upstairs. But does anyone ever ask me? That would be no.
I’m just there to clean and cook and hand over money.
I need to put some cold spoons on my puffy eyes. And then make myself a big Margarita, salt, rocks. It’s got to be five o’clock somewhere.