That’s how many of us will be sitting down to dinner Saturday night, including the little critters. There’s not enough space for 17 in the cesspool in the valley so we’ll be packing it up to the shitheap on the hill again.

I was just up there cleaning, getting the place quasi-presentable because it does have that musty air of abandon to it. An the dead flies…. Ugh! I think they clogged up my Hoover.

So I’m sitting here in a funk, realizing I’ll probably cry myself to sleep again over this fucking house and the nightmare that it has been. Tomorrow, the 15^th(and yeah, that’s probably today already), marks the one year anniversary of the court-set date that we were supposed to have the report from the expert. We still don’t have it, and still have no idea when we’ll have it. Hell, we’re not even sure IF we’ll have it. And until we have it we can do nothing but sit and wait. And wait. And wait some more.

Have I ever mentioned this has been a five year ordeal now? FIVE FUCKING YEARS!

And no end in sight.

Ugh, I’m off on a tangent, which is actually what inspired me to sit down and share my misery tonight. See, there’s these dead flies, or at least there were these dead flies. And that got me thinking about my mother, of all people, and some of the jokes she used to bring home from the nuclear plant where she worked. One of these jokes was an evaluation form for one’s colleagues and included in the questionnaire was a section on personal hygiene. It was a multiple choice type thing and the answers were: 1. Extremely fucking neat—even combs his pubic hair to 5. Filthy Disgusting bastard—flies leave fresh dog shit to follow him. And it made me think that our shitheap on the hill rates around a 6—this is where the fecally-filled.buggery bastards come to die.

But at least there’s no need for extension cords. We got the here-an-outlet-there-an-outlet-everywhere-an-electrical-outlet thing right—that’s something, right?