The Way Things Are






Our garage smells like a litterbox
2005-08-04, 1:54 p.m.

Our garage smells like a litterbox. And this really sucks because WE HAVE NO CATS. There havenít been cats at this house at least since 1989, when DW bought it. He is a confirmed, hmmm, not a cat-hater per se - he's not one of those obnoxious assholes that pretends to swerve towards the cat crossing the street, because my baby is just not an asshole - but a cat non-admirer, as am I.

I donít dislike other peoplesí cats, but I donít like the way they smell, and I have no use for one of my own. So for at least 16 years, there have been no cats in this house, and the first thing people say when they innocently wander into the garage to retrieve an adult beverage out of the beerfrigerator is ďCats?Ē

I think an appropriate answer is ďPossums.Ē

Or ďI think itís you.Ē

Or ďFor dinner, yes.Ē

Speaking of assorted vermin (we were, I swear it), our neighbor has torn down most of her ancient detached garage because all but two walls of it were falling down. DW, as is his wont, was out chatting with the contractors doing the rebuilding work, and he learned that they rooted two snakes out of her garage (and killed them and hung them on the fence, ostensibly as a warning to the other snakes in the neighborhood - SNAKES BE YE WARNED - but thatís beside the point).

This garage is adjacent to our property, and I am not at all very happy to know that she is infested with snakes. And now that the snakes are gone, Iím sure sheíll be infested with rats. Great. Now I am a little hesitant to clean out our little white trash storage building in our backyard (that our white trash dog sleeps under all day). I donít mind snakes Ė non-poisonous snakes Ė from a distance. Itís the snakes up close, the ones that rudely take up residence in what are clearly human structures that piss me off. Donít they know? What are they thinking? Rude, it is. And if we donít have snakes, we surely have rats.

One thing that I have found when I have gotten (what a nice Germanic work that is Ė GOTTEN) the Christmas decorations out of the white trash shed is piles of teeny, tiny delicate paper-thin eggs of some kind. About the size of a garbanzo bean. I look at them and think ďOh, lizards eggs. How sweet,Ē and my Michael Crichton braincell (located on the back of your brain where it can orchestrate chills going up and down your spine) imagines something large and forboding and carnivorous lurking right around the corner, eyeballing me as it swallows the dog whole.

Whew! Itís fun in here!

Letís continue on the vermin theme, shall we? Don, as a licensed Texas pest control GOD (thatís what they call them Ė state law) has a subtitle under his business name of ďThe Varmint Whisperer.Ē Honestly.

Would you do business with a pest control GOD whose business subtitle was Varmint Whisperer? I know I would. And I do.

And other than these assorted sundries, I really got nuthiní. Nothing really pissing me off, no indignant outrage or rants bubbling under the surface. Mind control is going well. Iím maintaining a reasonably happy and even-tempered disposition. If anything funny and worth relating here has happened lately, I slept through it. In fact, I slept really late this morning: 7:15. I felt like half the day had gone by, and struggled with feelings of guilt as I got myself hurriedly ready for work.

I started doing my minute-by-minute log again this morning, but in true ADHD fashion, I got distracted and blew it off. However, I have a pictorial entry for 10:25 am:

That's leftover birthday cake.

Iím going to use my next 4 work hours as shining examples of time-management and efficiency. Itís amazing how good I felt yesterday after spending minimal time online. Like a recovering crack whore putting on clean panties and returning to a productive position in society. No more cake at my desk. No more party, no more disco, no more fooling around.

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