Paint It, Black

I’ve got to get over my clean floors. I won’t let anyone walk on them, and given that a vast amount of our first floor is tiled, that means I’m demanding that every living creature – two- and four-legged – avoid making a mess. There are multiple paw wipings each day, and the amount of litterbox scooping I’m doing is incredibly unhealthy. I mean it’s to the point where I’m hovering over him while he pees and immediately whisking away the results. If I hear scratching down there, I’m hurtling down the stairs at breakneck speed, pooper scooper held aloft. Today, Adam dropped an ice cube in the kitchen, and I attacked him with the fire of a thousand suns, screeching “BUT…MY CLEAN FLOORS!” like Donna Reed on meth. God.

We also went a little Glade Plug-in happy, and in retrospect, perhaps I should have gotten corresponding fragrances, because oh holy shit, the sticky-sweet vanilla from the dining room is not meshing well with whatever oceanic breezy-type thing we’re rocking in the kitchen. It’s like having a vanilla cupcake up to your neck in seaweed. Tell me, is this not the most exciting thing you’ve read all day? Because I could go on. I could talk about my toilet cleaning and the intense pleasure I feel every time I wield a toilet wand, because clean toilets are extremely important for everyone involved, and I am a bit of a zealot about them. I am not, however, a zealot about the toilet cleaner I picked up, which smells like mint, the implication being that I want minty-fresh toilets. Which is gross, really, because there is no licking of the toilets happening. This isn’t Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Room, for chrissake.

The truth is, we’re milking whatever sad calm we have before my parents arrive on Saturday. Which, for those of you keeping score, means that we’ve either had family in town or been visiting friends and family every week for the past three weeks, and while I’m looking so forward to seeing my parents, there is a small part of me that’s just sort of had it. Also, I’m a little disappointed that all of my cleaning efforts are being focused on parts of the house that we don’t actually utilize, i.e., our bedroom is pretty much the grossest place ever, although it looks passable, if you don’t inhale the sheets deeply, that is. And if I don’t get in there and clean that toilet, instead of focusing my attention on the other two, however, I’m going to have to start doing the Stall Squat right in my own master bathroom.

Speaking of clean: I’ve discussed my neighborhood’s frustratingly pervasive poop wars before (incidentally, the Asshole Bag is still in full circulation, although I believe the originator has been outed), but what’s bothering me is that there are some – nay, there are MANY – neighbors who don’t want my dog pooping anywhere near their yards, even if I clean it up. Now, this hardly seems fair, given that postage stamp-sized lawns are the norm around here, and unless I feel like circling Sunny in a two-inch radius, screeching, “Sunny go POOP?” over and over again, I’ve got to walk her. Is this reasonable to anyone, and if so, for the love of poop, why?

Also, thanks for the comments on the bad habits, because Jesus, I am so happy there are at least that many quiet eaters out there. It’s worth noting that Andrea made the most insanely accurate observation of a smacky eater I’ve ever heard, which is that loud eaters sound like someone is stirring a big bowl of very creamy chicken salad. And um, EW? HOW ACCURATE IS THAT?

Finally, after watching Bon Jovi on American Idol tonight (what?), I can’t help but notice that there’s Jon Bon Jovi (hot), Richie Sambora (also hot) and then there’s the other guy with the bad perm. Kind of like the bass player in the Goo Goo Dolls, or, say, Turtle on Entourage, I wonder what it’s like being the unattractive dude with bad hair in a hot band-slash-entourage (ha!)? Or do they just not care that people think they’re relatively unsightly because, hey, at least they’re getting laid? And further, what the HELL is with that guy’s hair?

*Rolling Stones, of course. And, I might add, it’s the frillionth – THE FRILLIONTH – song that I love that American Idol ruined for me with their cheesy Ford commercials. I don’t care how overplayed it is, I’ve always loved Paint It, Black (comma and all).

19 comments May 2nd, 2007