Out of Line
Nothing screams GOOD MORNING! like a cat biting you on the ass shortly after you head into the bathroom for the first pee of the day. Three mornings in a row, that’s what he’s done, and because I’m goldfish-like in that I have absolutely no recollection from one morning to the next, I continue to let him follow me into the bathroom. And every day, I proceed to sit down and do my business with my eyes at half-mast, only to be jerked into full consciousness by the stinky-lipped teeth of a pissed-off cat who just wants his goddamn BREAKFAST ALREADY, oh my God, is that too much to ask? This leg-rubbing shit just ain’t cutting it anymore I guess, so he’s resorted to circling the back of the commode for access to my (still-ample) backside.
His only regret is that he didn’t get to toss any salads while he had the chance.
I neglected to mention that during Tuesday’s Day of Woe someone at the office stole two pounds of my newly-purchased cherries from the refrigerator and had themselves a delicious snack. Honestly, I have to think there’s a special place in hell for office food thieves – a place that involves nothing but half-eaten sandwiches with moldy crusts and partially-thawed Smart Ones with the cellophane all broken, rendering them all but un-microwavable. Further, I have to wonder what kind of person wants to eat someone else’s office food, because I think I’d rather lick up my own bile from the floor of a fetid bathroom, seriously. I mean, cherries I guess I understand (TWO POUNDS), but I remain utterly mystified by those who steal things like homemade sandwiches, leftovers and (oh my God) dairy products, and shockingly, they are a legion.
*gags uncontrollably*
I have a thing about dairy products, in that they cannot be shared, except under the most sterile of circumstances. I have a set of rules around the sharing of the dairy, which involves no carton lips touching any drinking surfaces, and CERTAINLY no spoons in the ice cream except for the one that you use to serve yourself, and if you even consider double-dipping, I will never eat ice cream again. Whenever anyone offers me a taste of their ice cream cone, it literally takes every ounce of restraint I can muster to choke out a polite “No, thank you” instead of smashing the cone between their eyes and running away. I don’t know, maybe it’s that milk IS some kind of mucus (thank you random health food store lady), which makes me feel…mucusy, and all I picture is mucus on mucus and oh my God, I’ve got to go throw up now, for I am grossing myself out, because dairy is really, really gross, yet oddly compelling. Mmmm…cream cheese.
Speaking of foul, a friend of mine had a perfect stranger tell her today that not only is it ridiculous that she’s been married to her husband for four years and doesn’t have any children, but that the stranger’s parents were fertility doctors, and in order to make the babies, my friend needs to douche with baking soda after sex to “get the sperm moving,” combined with appropriate hand-flitting gestures, like little fireworks. Or sperm cells, or something. I don’t know. The thing is, when was the last time anyone mentioned the word “douche” in any sort of remotely serious and/or helpful context? I mean, don’t get me wrong, douchbag is actually one of my favorite quasi-curse words (it’s so satisfying, and I don’t know why), but no one should be douching. No one. And certainly not with baking soda, sweet Jesus, I don’t care how zippy it makes sperm (or not. Because really). But who knew that the cure for infertility has been right there in all of our cabinets all along? Fuck Clomid! Who needs IVF? Arm & Hammer’s where it’s at, and it freshens your refrigerator, too!
And on that note, I hope you have a douche-free Memorial Day weekend full of wonder and delight and fast-moving sperm, if that’s what you want. For our part, we plan to take lots of pictures and do a whole lot of nothing, which is exactly how I like it.
*The Bravery
22 comments May 24th, 2007