Thursday, August 29, 2013

Watermelon Cat

Have you ever eaten so much rich food that you felt practically ill, like at Thanksgiving or Bratsfest?  And then, did you wish that you could take something for it, orally?

Yes, it might be more logical to consider a method of subtraction, rather than consumption.

The Romans had the vomitorium.  But we are shocked by the idea of the vomitorium, having an ethical discomfort with excess and indulgence that renders it morally repugnant.

Some people attach moral significance to eating behaviors.  Overeating as a sign of weakness, for example.  They think that the preparation of food ought to be cerebral, creative, and ethically high-minded; it ought to be labor intensive, if grown in one's own garden; or expensive, if bought at Whole Foods.

I am morally disgusted with the obscene volume that is my lifetime of material consumption.

We are in the process of moving from one household to another.  I am literally bent under the volume and weight of my possessions.

I am a glutton for beautiful things and I have way more than I need.  I have been accumulating them all my life and I probably won't ever stop.

Moreover, I have to bring every room in the house up to a certain level of aesthetic pleasing-ness before I can rest.  So this post will be short and riddled with mistakes, because time is of the essence.  Life grinds to a halt until my environment rises to par.

I keep telling myself, it's a farm!  It's a farm!  What's with all this artsy-fartsy urbane crap?  Go outside and sweep the goddamn barn.

But no, I can't.  I have to keep at it.  I need one more week.

You will be astounded if you visit (and by the time you finish reading this post, you will probably decide against that), because it's quickly going to look like we've been living there for ten years.

That's because, apparently, I'm some kind of aesthete lunatic.

On the other hand, some people never unpack.  That's gotta be another form of lunacy.

Phil, always a handy example, will never unpack.  Nor did he ever unpack at W Grove Street.  The movers put every odd item (every single one) into boxes that will be emptied into Phil's new habitat which will inevitably become, to my way of thinking, a disaster area.

Don't mistake my decorating obsession with being a clean freak.  At best, I am tidy.

When the two big guys removed the box springs from my bed, I hesitate to tell you that they saw there.

Prepare to be disgusted.

If you are allergic to cats, this would be your worst nightmare.

My very timid, watermelon-shaped cat spends 90% of her time under my bed.  There was a three-inch layer of cat hair there, and desiccated poop, and a horrifying stain on the wall.

(This explains my sleep apnea.)

Amid the horror and the suddenly overwhelming stench was a four-color paperback (thanks, Elise!) on the Kamasutra.  I'd forgotten I'd put it there.

Where the heck are you supposed to put those things???

Then men stood frozen to the spot for a thousand days, repressing their gag reflex while staring at the image of the Kamasutra.

Mortified, I finally grabbed the book out of the muck while stammering apologies for the boudoir filth.

If adverse conditioning has any merit, none of the three of us will every enjoy that particular Kamasutra position again.

The raising of the bed incident raised my olfactory awareness to acute levels I haven't experienced since I was pregnant with Josh.

We have pillows that smell bad.

We have carpets and blankets and comforters that smell bad.

Our couches don't smell as bed as you would think, but probably worse than your couch.

This discovery has made the overwhelming process of relocation even more stressful.

In the end, I almost didn't want to bring the watermelon cat over to the new house.  I wanted to just leave her there, as a fixture, like andirons or a ceiling lamp.

I didn't really want her anymore.

But I took her, of course, because of the Irish influence.  She's ensconced under my bed in my new room.
It's just a matter of time...The horror.

I am battling forces that I can see (aesthetics) and that I can't see (odors).  (Hank's diarrhea yesterday did not help!)

Like the mad wish to eat something for relief from food, there is the insane need to buy something to solve the problem of having too much.

So last night, at eight o'clock, I went to the Goodwill near the Super Target, and later to the Super Target itself, to buy stuff to make me feel less hoarding and, by the way, less smelly.  Waste baskets, sheets, towels, pillow cases, blankets. toilet plungers, toothpaste, mouth wash.

Out, out, damn spot!

It's a farm, lady!, it's a farm!

Yes, it is.  And it always has been, hasn't it!

And I, raving mad aesthete, am suited to it.

I may not be a farmer in the best Scandinavian sense, but I'll be a farmer in the best Anglo-Irish go-back-and-get-the-stinky-watermelon-cat sense, (or lack thereof).

God help us, we're totally going to perish on the ice.





 













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