Steam

I loved hearing about all of your hobbies, or lack thereof, and perhaps most importantly, Lawyerish is right: who the hell has hobbies under the age of 85? Who? I mean, assuming that hobbies involve train sets and die-cast cars and maybe some woodcarving.

I kind of want to make out with my Bissell steam cleaner. No no, I want to have intimate relations with my Bissell steam cleaner, and do wildly inappropriate things with its purple steamy cleanliness. It’s highly possible that I may be leaving Adam for the steam cleaner, oh yes it is. It’s so satisfying, really it is, in a way that vacuuming could never be. The nap is restored! The carpets smell oh-so-fresh!

I really think I need a moment. It’s getting hot in here, isn’t it? Some might say steamy!

(I kill myself!)

Anyway, my carpets are sparkling, and I’m with Beloved Reader Kristin in that I have a particularly odd love/hate relationship with the resulting gallons of black, black water and terrifyingly large clumps of pet hair, and I can’t believe I even deigned to walk on such filth before the existence of my new lover, the Bissell.

It reminds me, too, of the bizarre phenomenon of imploring others to witness and/or smell whatever horrors unfold before you. You know that urge you have to share something gross? How many times have you smelled something horrid, only to announce, “This reeks like moldy towels. Hey, smell this!” and proffer it before your companion so that they, too, can understand just how foul it is? Lest there be any mistake, I will wholly admit that I am the first — the very first — to stick my nose in whatever nastiness is offered before me. And really, I want to smell it, because I must know — I simply MUST KNOW — if this particular mildew growth rivals that of my past.

Ergo, I was dragging large clumps of moist, filthy pet hair up the stairs to show Adam the disgusting, wretched mess, because he needed to see it, really he did, just like I need to know when your fingers smell like earwax, despite the fact that they were not in fact in your ears, for reasons unknown.

Go forth and steam!

Also, hey hey HEY, how about them Red Sox? Or, if you’re Suebob, the most loathsome team in baseball.

Aand, speaking of loathsome … Heroes, anyone? Is it making anyone other than me want to kill themselves slowly? Because the characters! The neverending stream of characters! And women kissing Peter Petrelli who are not me! And oh my God, just enough, please, enough with the whole thing.

And finally, look, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I can’t keep it in: Sunny has tapeworms. Ostensibly, she got them from swallowing an errant flea, despite being Frontlined and … and … well, the discovery was among the most defining moments of intestinal fortitude in my entire life, and I don’t know how to say it other than … I can’t. I can’t even say it. It’s too much, even for me. It’s too much.

Happy Tuesday! Happy happy Tuesday!

*Peter Gabriel

19 comments October 22nd, 2007