Stay-cation Kitchen Report
Other than a good vacuuming, the inside of the house doesn't look too bad. Although dishes pile up magically, almost as if they multiply ex nihilo, the house has (so far) avoided the entropic degeneration of descending into a neanderthal cave of temporary bachelorhood. I'll wash clothes and the bed linen on Sunday. But, the floor, this kitchen floor is a disaster.
The textured white linoleum is a mad painter's canvas of muddy paw prints--I can't help thinking of a backwoods trailer-park Expressionist using "found material" to assemble his folk-art in Georgia red clay. I should take pictures of this shit. Frame it, name it, and sell it to an Atlanta art gallery. Some socialite executive in a Peachtree Street mansion would pay good money for a picture of my kitchen linoleum. I'm sure of it. Invite their friends over and everything, talk about how it captures the "frustration of the southern lumpenproletariat" or something like that.
Paw prints. Mud. Damn my class consciousness, where was I?
I've been playing with the dogs on a daily basis. One at a time, I'll take Jericho and Wangari out into the front yard--something Janine does on a regular basis--and throw a tennis ball until they're tird of chasing it. Tearing after it, they'll leave chunks of grass, leaves, and clay in their wake. Jezebel, poor benighted, probably retarded Jezebel, just watches and barks, not having the slightest idea about chase, fetch and catch. And so, the thirsty dogs will eventually want to go inside and head straight for their water bowl. Jericho is notorious for taking mouthfuls of water and splashing the kitchen floor with it so she can wallow around like a porcine puppy. Their paws, still dirty with red clay dust, paints the linoleum with smears and spots and swashes of mud.
And of course, cracking open a beer, I'm too overtaken by their total unselfconscious joy and happiness in just being dogs to get too pissed at them. There it is, my trailer-park masterpiece. I think to myself, Why clean it up? I'll just have to do it all over again tomorrow. But, of course, Stay-cation will be coming to an end, and soon, any evidence of my neanderthal temporary bachelorhood will have to be cleaned up, bagged, and taken to the dump before The Wife comes home...
The textured white linoleum is a mad painter's canvas of muddy paw prints--I can't help thinking of a backwoods trailer-park Expressionist using "found material" to assemble his folk-art in Georgia red clay. I should take pictures of this shit. Frame it, name it, and sell it to an Atlanta art gallery. Some socialite executive in a Peachtree Street mansion would pay good money for a picture of my kitchen linoleum. I'm sure of it. Invite their friends over and everything, talk about how it captures the "frustration of the southern lumpenproletariat" or something like that.
Paw prints. Mud. Damn my class consciousness, where was I?
I've been playing with the dogs on a daily basis. One at a time, I'll take Jericho and Wangari out into the front yard--something Janine does on a regular basis--and throw a tennis ball until they're tird of chasing it. Tearing after it, they'll leave chunks of grass, leaves, and clay in their wake. Jezebel, poor benighted, probably retarded Jezebel, just watches and barks, not having the slightest idea about chase, fetch and catch. And so, the thirsty dogs will eventually want to go inside and head straight for their water bowl. Jericho is notorious for taking mouthfuls of water and splashing the kitchen floor with it so she can wallow around like a porcine puppy. Their paws, still dirty with red clay dust, paints the linoleum with smears and spots and swashes of mud.
And of course, cracking open a beer, I'm too overtaken by their total unselfconscious joy and happiness in just being dogs to get too pissed at them. There it is, my trailer-park masterpiece. I think to myself, Why clean it up? I'll just have to do it all over again tomorrow. But, of course, Stay-cation will be coming to an end, and soon, any evidence of my neanderthal temporary bachelorhood will have to be cleaned up, bagged, and taken to the dump before The Wife comes home...