Cleaning, Concavities and Cats

Gads I’m tired. I was up until one this morning, cleaning and laundering and straightening up for Sunday’s guest. And yes, The Socialist helped. He did all the vacuuming, and a fair bit of the tidying. He also gave me the last piece of his Sara Lee chocolate cake (with chocolate icing). It would have gone faster if I hadn’t waited an hour after getting home to get started, but I got home just as Seventh Heaven was starting, and I hadn’t seen this episode before, and it was the one where Eric gives up the ministry and Lucy gets jealous when she sees Kevin dancing with Roxanne at the country-western night at the pool hall and ends up talking in the sanctuary all night with Chandler and Annie goes to the pool hall without Eric and Simon ends up getting a job as a night janitor for his girlfriend’s father and the new kid down the block gets locked out of his house by accident, so I’m sure you understand why cleaning had to wait for an hour. Yes, I know. I need to get a life. And I swear I will get one, once they go on sale at Walmart.

The twin bed in the spare bedroom has had its sheets freshly laundered and is now officially free of cat hair. It’s a favorite place for the cats to hang out, and they alternate as to whom the spot officially belongs to. This week the spot apparently belongs to Cattitude, but Kitten used it most of last week. In order to keep Cattitude hair and Kitten hair and even O’Beast hair off the bed, I spread an old queen-sized sheet I have over the freshly made bed. That way they can have their spot, and I don’t have to worry about having a guest sleeping in a bed that’s about 25% cat hair.

The bathroom has been scrubbed to within an inch of my life. I have tooth-brushed all the grunge that develops on the bottom of the bathmat around the suction cups. The rust stains have once again been bleached off the tub (a thankless, useless endeavor, guaranteed to frustrate because the stains reappear so quickly after having been obliterated). In a fit of desperation, all the books, mail, receipts, and odds and ends that I was responsible for have ended up in a pile in my computer room. I had just rid my computer room of piles, and now I go and create another pile-from-hell in there. I must get it cleaned up once I get a free moment, or it will multiply and my computer room will return to the nightmarish state it was in for the past year.

Pile. Interesting that should be a synonym for “hemorrhoid”. I’m sure it’s not a coincidence. They’re both a pain in the ass.

I’m packed, the cat sitter is arranged for, and the cats’ meals are pre-measured out and in the microwave (the one place in the kitchen I’m relatively sure that the Kitten hasn’t figured out how to break into yet I’ve purchased a map that has an insert of D.C. on it (I couldn’t find one in my maps file when I looked). I’m taking LOTS of extra meds, just in case of emergency.

The new paving in my walled ex-garden has been repaired. There was apparently additional sand and ballast placed in the area where the concavity occurred, and the area was repaved. For a finishing touch, they put several inches worth of brown stone chips where the remaining available earth was along and under the fence. From the looks of things, my morning glories are going to be the last thing that grows along the fence for a long, long time (unless I decide to try to find a way to put potted plants along there).

I feel betrayed. One of the big selling points of this apartment was the walled garden area. Now I have a fenced-in paved area. I’m sure it will be very nice for people who like to sit outside on their lawn chairs sipping iced teas or margaritas while reading the latest Vanity Fair, but that’s what the back patio is for. I’ve lost something I held in great value.

The Socialist will be happy though. He’ll no longer need to worry about crushing “The Ball and Chain’s” flowers when he heaves his hose in there after washing his car. sigh

I go to bed several hours before The Socialist does on weeknights. I’ve taken to leaving the bedroom door open a crack, so any cats that wish to can curl up with me on the bed for a quick nap. So far the only cat that’s taken me up on the offer is the Kitten. Twice now The Socialist claims he’s come in and found her curled up asleep on top of me. I didn’t wake up either time he removed the Kitten and put her out of the room. Last night though, I did wake up (slightly) as he was lifting the comatose kitten from my ribcage (I sleep on my side, and she’d tucked herself in just below the shoulders).

I try not to play favorites with the cats, but the Kitten makes it hard sometimes.