I HAVE A SUN SPOT, PEOPLE.

Have you guys read my "Dillio" page?  It very clearly states the following:

• I live in Canada;
• I like late night dance parties in my living room;
• I love Hubby and my kitties; and,
• I am in my mid twenties (continually refusing to define the point at which my mid twenties become my late twenties). 

Now.  I acknowledge the legitimate possibility that one's personal "about" page could change over time.  There may come a day when I no longer enjoy late night dance parties in my living room.  It's unlikely but theoretically possible that I could move away from Canada.  I may even get a new cat (or a new Hubby).  Or maybe even a child. 

But my age?! My age should never, ever change.  A person's ability to come to terms with his or her number of years on this planet is a long and painful process.  Once achieved, this is not a process that should have to be repeated.  At any time.  

I'm happy in my mid twenties. 

I used to miss age 21, but I got over it. 

I was comfortable with 24.  24 was ok with me.  I was usually the youngest person in the office, but still an adult. 

Then 25 hit, and I tried my best to ignore it. 

Not surprisingly, 26 was a fucking PROBLEM.  All of a sudden I was on the wrong side of 20.  I had a real issue with 26.  26 and I DID NOT get along. 

And now I'm 27.  Still mid twenties, as far as I'm concerned.  Getting too close to 30, but still twenties.  Not the youngest person around, but still young.  Loosening and wrinkling, but still looking ok. 

But now it's happening.  Age 27 is coming to an end.  Next Wednesday I will turn *gulp* 20 *gag* 8. 

No no no no no no no NO!

To make matters worse, my colleagues hosted my birthday party last Friday with my FAVOURITE Dairy Queen ice cream cake... while I was at home taking a Benilyn Day.  Although I think they saved me a piece. 

Even more fun, I'm going on a business trip this week, meaning that (given the 5 hour flight and the 3 hour time change), my whole birthday will be spent ON A PLANE.  Eight hours.  On a plane.  They had better bring me a free cookie or something. 

The only redeeming components of this week will be: a) going out West, which does happen to be a wicked cool birthday present; and, b) getting to see Carmen, which is better than a birthday present - it's like a effing birthday PRIZE. 

So while I may make it through this week, I'm concerned about my longer-term ability to accept my new age range.  I'm not sure I'll have the strength to update my Dillio.  I'm basically a pathetic old lady.  Getting older by the minute, and hating it. 

Hubby on Homes

Holmes

I've been complaining about my laundry room for several months.  It's in the basement, in an unfinished room with a concrete floor.  And I hate it.  There's something extremely twisted about cleaning my clothes in a dirty storage room.  There are spiders down there.  SPIDERS.

Although we could put our laundry machines in the main floor bathroom, I find that equally disgusting, given all the poop spores floating through the air.  Not to mention that most guests would wonder when they come into my home why I've spread my entire wardrobe across my foyer.  

This is why I've been dreaming of updating my laundry room - some paint, some Ikea cabinets, a new  light fixture, and maybe even a laminate floor.  All fairly easy improvements that would make a big difference in my daily life. 

So Thursday when Hubby emerged from his lengthy "I've been sick" funk, he decided to initiate my little laundry room project.  I was thrilled.  He's a brilliant little worker to have around the house.  Free labour = happy wifey. 

We talked about it, considering all the renovation options, but ultimately decided on minimal repairs and adjustments. 

You know what happened don't you. 

This.  This fucking happened.

First he found mouse shit and tunnels in the walls (no huge surprise, as we sometimes have mice living in our damn crawl-space).  But this was a LOT of mouse shit.  A SHIT-TON of mouse shit.  It was interspersed throughout the insulation. 

So, he pulled down more and more of the drywall, only to realise that some idiot had framed the wall SIDEWAYS, rather than up and down  So the little rodents were just running back and forth horizontally across the entire side of my house.  Fuckers. 

And THEN he found some mould.  And if you knew Hubby, you'd know that he hates mould even more than he hates mouse shit.  A HOUSE WITH MOULD CAN NOT STAND. 

So the entire wall came down, all the way to the concrete foundation.  And the wall next to it.  And the ceiling. Oh, and he'd demolish even more if I'd let him. 

So now I'm left with that goddam disaster zone. 

As well as this disheveled mess. 

I know what you're thinking.  I'll be happy when it's all said and done.  Not the point, people.  NOT THE POINT.