Take It Where You Find It

Right now, I am studiously avoiding the cat’s litter box. It’s so bad — oh, it is so, so bad — and yet I can’t bring myself to do it, I simply can’t. And the worse it gets, the really and truly worse it gets, if you know what I’m saying, and I kind of hope you don’t. I keep telling myself day after day that tomorrow will be that day, it will! It will be tomorrow! And then suddenly, today is tomorrow, and tomorrow becomes the new tomorrow, and there is an endless string of tomorrows full of poopy litter boxes that will kill us all, I’m sure of it. So I, uh, sprinkle another dose of Arm & Hammer and run away, because I’m confrontational like that.

I find it interesting, actually, that landlords would rather have cats than dogs, as a general rule, when in my experience, dogs are far more sanitary. Their poop is completely contained to the outdoors, and if trained properly, don’t claw or chew anything and spend most of their time lying about like pickle warts begging for belly rubs. Cats, on the other hand — at least my cat — poop in large quantity at odd intervals (particularly just after you’ve cleaned the litter box) into a receptacle that stays in the house, and oh yes, there is much carpet-clawing going on, and we’ve already replaced several squares as the result of his extreme anger at being locked out of whatever room he wanted to get into.

Note to self: when/if I am a landlord, accept small dogs, no cats. Yes, that’s it. Small dogs, no cats! (The truth is, I don’t think I’ll accept any pets, which makes me a fat hypocrite, I know it does, and the reason I’m considering this is that it is a possibility I may rent my house in the future because Jesus knows, no one is going to buy it. See: last week’s mental breakdown.)

Anyway, there are far more important things to think about, like whether Mucinex does anything at all (Verdict: no). I mean, I was convinced that all of my chest congestion would just go whipping out like a bat out of hell — or, more accurately, like those fat little mucous-men with bowler hats and New York accents. Mysteriously, they would also be carrying suitcases. Except it’s done nothing at all, and I’m back on Robitussin to keep the barking at bay. The word “expectorant” is also a little upsetting, so perhaps it’s best.

I was up all night with a super-attractive post-nasal drip — you know, the kind that gathers in your throat so bad that you must, you SIMPLY MUST, clear your throat right then and there, only to find that it is merely a temporary solution that lasts no more than, say, THIRTY SECONDS before you have to do it again? Everyone loves a throat-clearer, especially at 2:42 a.m.

Also worth noting: I drooled my face off last night, in the precious moments that I actually slept, and my drool turned my taupe pillow case blue. Blue! Am I a medical mystery? Am I somehow tainted with top secret poison-infused drool? Why is the pillowcase blue? This and other mysteries solved tonight in a Robitussin-induced haze.

All this, P.S., and I watched the last episode of Grey’s Anatomy, despite my better judgment, and oh, RIGHT. That’s why I said I was finished and started reading more. OF COURSE. I’m actually interested in how this writer’s strike will affect the shows I watch — if nothing else, I’ve gotten along quite swimmingly without television. Do you know that I never even watched the last three episodes of Heroes, and in fact, deleted them from my TiVo without a second glance? The only shows I miss are Friday Night Lights, Pushing Daisies and Dirty Sexy Money. That’s it. The rest of them can go shit in their collective hats of bad writing and painful melodrama.

And finally, I always find it a little funny how things can seem so cruddy and then all of a sudden, they return to normal, or some variation of normal. It’s like we’re all set to some relative standard of balance, like a bobber in a lake. And we just bob, bob, bob our way back to okay no matter what.

Van Morrison

14 comments December 10th, 2007