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Monday Evening: a Tragecomedy in Five Acts

April 11, 2011

Act I: Hubris

I realize that when I say this openly, I tempt the fates to bring on weeks’ more horrid Arctic weather, but allow me to boast for a moment nevertheless:

For the first winter of my life (#33 if you’re counting, which you shouldn’t, because it’s rude), I did not fall on the ice once. Not a single wipe out.

I owned this winter, bitches!

Act II: Cats are Gross

I typed the passage above an hour or so back before being distracted by sawdust sprinkled all around my kitchen, a faint trail of which grew thicker toward the hallway and into the bathroom.  While it’s true that Boyfriend is by trade carpenter, I could not even allow myself the hopeful delusion that he was the culprit.

For the two years that I’ve had my two charming felines, I’ve struggled with the seemingly mundane question of what kind of litter to buy. Many of the commercial litters are unbearably perfumed, as was the corn nonsense. The wheat litter was almost odorless and clumped like a dream, but alas, one of the cats kept getting clumps stuck around her claws, which transformed them into tiny hypodermics full of toxoplasmosis that could be injected into my lap whenever instinct told her to nest there.

[ Once I was an OCD germaphobe.  Now I am a defeated OCD germaphobe.]

So we’ve been on the pine stuff for a while. It seems to be the least of the evils so far, but it’s still far from acceptable in my book. After a few days, it begins to degrade from pellets to sawdust, which gets stuck in the great tufts of extraneous hair between Fluffbutt’s toes, only to be shed as she walks around the house. I am also beginning to understand (O! Sweet Denial! Return to me! Take me into your warm embrace and let me unknow the things I’ve known!) that she gets on the table when I’m not at home. I can’t bear to say how I know this, but if you read those last two sentences back to back once or twice, you’ll piece it together a helluva lot faster than I did.

Act III: Non-Hoarding

I have three vacuums for a reason. The first was a gift from my mother, received the Christmas after I got my first carpeted apartment. It’s still in good working order.

But Boyfriend is a Man, and a Man needs a Man-Vac. So we now also have the home-and-garage sized shop vac. It really does work very well, and it stores its various attachments much more discretely than the old upright, so it also has a purpose, I suppose.  Besides, the upright really is no match for the basement, and while we’ve certainly never vacuumed the basement, it could happen.
And the cats need a dustbuster. Before you go picturing them operating it themselves (Adorable! But how would they work the switch?), it’s used strictly for cleaning up around the litter box.

[ Once I was a defeated OCD germaphobe. Now I am a defeated OCD germaphobe with a separate vacuum for the bathroom. ]

Act IV: The fates, they were tempted.

So I thought boastful thoughts about how my grace and agility allowed me to best the Longest Season with undisturbed uprightness in all my pedestrian pursuits. And not an hour later I found myself in the hallway, dustbuster handle in my left hand, dustbuster dirt bin in my right, staring agog at the floor beneath me where lied the filter that should have been nestled in the dirt bin, a soft shower of “sawdust” settling all around my feet.

Grace. Right.

[ Once I was a defeated OCD germaphobe with a separate vacuum for the bathroom. Then I was a defeated OCD germaphobe with a filthy mess at her feet. ]

Act V: Redemption



I love this stuff. I should carry it in a holster around my waist.

Antibacterial.  Non-toxic. Thyme-a-licious. Antidote to the slings and arrows of pet ownership and Boy cohabitation. My best friend.  My hero.  Okay, I’m pushing it. But it really does make me feel better to have a purportedly safe antimicrobial weapon around the house. And while I haven’t run any cultures in the kitchen or anything, it cleans well enough that I allow myself to believe that it is also disinfecting.

[ Once I was a defeated OCD germaphobe with a filthy mess at her feet. Now I am an OCD germaphobe with the liquid equivalent of a Blankie. ]

~ Fin. ~


One Comment leave one →
  1. April 12, 2011 3:57 pm

    Brava! Encore!

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