Slithering Mediterranean Oils

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So I'm cleaning up my kitchen counter. The cat litter box stinks all the way from down the hall, because I forgot to hit the No Frills on the way home for litter. I’ve had a lot on my mind, what with having a blog obsession lately, so I’ve neglected little things, like the kitty litter, self-nourishment, and the telecommunications bill (not paying the internet bill: it may be my subconscious ploy to find sweet relief from my own compulsions).

At any rate, I just find myself suddenly cleaning things these days, to feel like I’m accomplishing stuff, to get shit done, do some recycling. As I flick around my bachelorette counters rinsing foil Thai takeout packs and throwing out the piles of, well, just things, everywhere, I'm determined. I'm restless. I'm just shy of angry, in my need to connect with the non-web world. "Got Myself Together" is the song (soundtrack?) crazily swirling 'round my skull, and I'm humming it. I'm multitasking as I feed Emma, stack shit up, and light a stick of Nag Champa to mask the kitty litter reek.

Emma: not impressed with the reek

I bend over to adjust a small piece of cardboard I cut from a box to slip under my shelving unit for balance (not unlike the tradition in your local cafes everywhere. I mean what in fuck’s name is up with the cross-shaped bistro table bases, when a round base will be intelligent? I mean won’t it? Someone just tell me now, why, why won’t they ever stop making those bases. And why do they never fail to take us by surprise? Does anyone ever adjust their cafe table before they sit down with their full mug? I’m not an engineer or a mathematician; I just fold up match packs and stick ‘em under bases, after I’ve slopped a pool of hot liquid all around of course. But it’s a goddam coffee shop. Hot liquids=stable tabling, people, that’s all I know. Jeezus.)

Only, only, my hair can cause the little pokes, such coiffurious abuses, as that which happened next. It was only a moment, but millions of moments make up each week of your exasperating life, dear reader. And one bad moment can mean many more moments of cleaning up the mess the original moment caused. I hate that.

As I'm bent over, my hair snags an open bottle of olive oil, which tips ever-so-obligingly, dumping most of itself on my back, causing me to stand up slowly in my hurt feelings, which then causes all the oil to slither into the crack of my ass.

Not so unpleasant, perhaps, in more hedonistic times. Belieeeve me, I know the joys of the Meditteranean-oils-inflatable-pool combo! But man, I just need to get some functional shit done already, as I whined to you earlier.

Emma stares at me coldly.

I take my freshly cleaned crack out for a coffee to get me in a writing mood, and of course, immediately slop my drink on another stupid, assing, wiggling cafe table.

Fuck.

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For more on Fuck, see here. And thanks Cathy; you started this whole 'f' word thing, woman!
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