settling

So far, in my new role of household layabout, I have managed in less than a week to completely destroy my mother's house. Also, I don't know how to open the dishwasher.

The barge unit arrived, a van was rented, the inherited furniture was unloaded (these are my mother's, entrusted to me by a relative in California 4 years ago, which has taken this long to get home to her because of inter-island shenanigans), and in order to make room for the hutch, a desk had to be moved. This desk caused a shuffling of furniture which resulted in a wall-length mirror getting torn out. The adhesive on the mirror gouged giant holes in the wall. Which necessitated patching and painting, and meanwhile everything has been crammed with boxes of books which can't be unloaded without the shelves, which can't be mounted until the wall is repaired, and it is just a chain-reaction of logistical fuckery. The closets need to be arranged to accommodate trunks and a couple bins of quilts and holiday trappings, and I suck at Tetris. I have the spacial-arrangement skills of a thing that doesn't have any spacial-arrangement skills. Also no attention span for it. Guess what I am supposed to be doing right now?

Not this.

On top of moving hassles, a very distressed construction worker showed up at the house with a box full of baby birds he found while tearing out an attic, because my mom has a reputation for being some sort of wild bird rescue wizard. 

They are the most adorably horrifying things ever, and now my mom is in love with them. She carries them in a little box stuffed down her motorcycle jacket, keeps them under a warming light, and plugs them full of baby bird formula with a syringe every 30 minutes. They are supposed to turn into Java Sparrows.

I am not sure about this. They look more like Skeksis to me.

 Laundry to fold. Boxes to unpack. Furniture to shuffle. Dishwasher to take a crowbar to. I am doing it.