Day 93 What’s That Smell??
Hot yoga is hell on the laundry schedule. Every class means one large towel, plus a hand towel, and one entire outfit – top, bottom, underwear, headband. Also I usually have a third towel for the car, so I don’t soak up the upholstery.
On the days my daughters join me it means an instant mountain of drench-n-stench in the laundry room. Of course, I toss it in the washer right away – when I can. But I’m not the only one who does laundry in the house (thank god) so sometimes the machines are in use. Then, the towels have to sit there, emanating their funk. Imagine those cartoon wavy lines of stink rising up into the air, creeping up the stairs, ghostlike, until they’ve infiltrated every room in the house.
Now, I’d like to point out that one of the lesser-known side effects of menopause is an increased sensitivity to odours. Which is fine when you suspect a gas leak. But it seems I’m always asking “What’s that smell?” or “Can’t you smell that?” until people just tell me to shut up. Which makes me doubt myself.
I should know better.
Back to laundry. Since the laundry room also houses the litter boxes (two of them; we’ve also got another set upstairs. Four cats, sigh.) it’s not a happy room for me. To make matters worse, the garbage cans into which the used litter is dumped is just around the corner, in the garage. It’s a trifecta of gag-orific odours congregating in about 25 square feet. The girls are very good about staying on top of the litter boxes, rather than face the wrath of my nose. But still.
So, yesterday I noticed that the mat in front of the stairs just outside the laundry room looked a little murky. I got down on my hands-and-knees, turned it over and picked up the unmistakeable slap of ammonia.
Cat piss. I knew it! I knew I’d been smelling something more than my own mouldering, sweaty yoga duds. The cat in question has a history of such transgressions, but she’s been good lately. Or so we thought. Or maybe it’s one of the others, letting her take the rap.
I got out a bucket of Mr. Clean and channeled my disgust into adiosing every iota of cat urine out of the tile. And the grout. And the wall. And that thing at the bottom of the door that keeps out drafts. And the baseboard.
But it’s like trying to unring a bell. Once cat urine gets in a wall, can you ever really get it out? Even if I succeed, I’ll have the olfactory memory forever. Is it real? Is it my imagination? Does it matter?
So I’m employing a product called Nature’s Miracle Urine Destroyer, Just for Cats. Nature’s Miracle is a staple in our house, and it really does work. But the cat urine variation was news to me.
I’ve soaked the affected area and you know what? It smells better already.
Day 69 & 70 Ahead of My Time
When I was about 16, a friend of mine told me that I’d make a great grandma one day. This person was petite, blonde, vivacious and popular, everything I was not, and her comment did not exactly boost my self-esteem. I’d have been thrilled to have a boyfriend, or at least boobs, and there she was, leapfrogging me over all the fun stuff, straight to cardigans and support-hose.
But it’s okay, I heard she ended up teaching in a one-room schoolhouse in black-fly country somewhere. Karma’s a boomerang.
However, 30-odd years later, I think I’ve grown into the sentiment. I can see how having another baby – one that’s mine but not mine, if you understand what I mean – could be pretty nifty. And my brother and his wife have just thoughtfully provided me with a second baby niece, as of last week. Sophie, sister to Isabel, and I can’t wait until they’re all closer than Taiwan. Grandma might be a ways off for me yet, but I’m rather enjoying being Cool Auntie Roxanne.
Yesterday, we had Easter dinner with all three of our daughters, plus assorted friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, and for good measure, our nephews and my husband’s sister, too. My nephews are handsome, strapping young men, who seem to genuinely enjoy our company and who are a pure joy to cook for. The food, if I say it myself, was spectacular. BBQ ribs, beer-can-chicken, vegetarian lasagna, my husband’s famous Greek salad, bread, cheesecake… sorry, South Beach people. Too bad for you.
It felt so good, so right, to have a houseful of young people, all eating and laughing and happy to be with us. (Liam, we missed you. Steven, especially. I think he cried a little. On the inside.)
Now, I’m no Martha Stewart, and I couldn’t feng shui my way out of a bag. Plus, you know that whole clean-house-weak-immune-system theory? Not a problem here. In fact, keep your shoes on, just to be safe.
But it seems that despite the inevitable dust and cat hair, our house can be welcoming and comfortable. I’ll never be a Dresden-china sort of person and there will probably always be four-legged creatures claiming the best seats but as long as my children feel good about bringing their friends around, it’s good enough for me.
And if, perchance, someone happens to bring a baby around, nudge, nudge, I’ll even wash the floor. I promise.
Day 36 Who’s the Handsomest Prince?
Randee of Bikram Yoga Abbotsford has just returned to teaching after having her second child, and lucky for me, she taught the 3:30 class today. She was nervous, she said, coming back, but she did a great job.
And I so needed it today!
You see, it’s grooming day for my dog and I do it myself. It’s a bit of a job. He’s a poodle, very masculine, self-aware and has more important things on his mind than superficialities like ear-wax, cling-ons and eye-goobers. Important as in squeaky toys and Western union money transfer squash balls.
I’m not a professional groomer, nor have I had any training, but I groom him myself because a) it’s an unpleasant job that can make groomers justifiably impatient, b) he’s an unpleasant subject and c) professional groomers have injured him worse than I ever have, probably because of a) and b).
I have to be in the right mood to tackle the job. I must remain in a Zen-like state, using my best deep breathing, perfectly aware of his incredibly fantastic personality off the grooming table, or I’m liable to bean him in the head with a brush.
Big-Poo (to differentiate him from Little-Poo, who as you might have gathered, is smaller) is a twitchy sort, very responsive to the vibes around him. If he looks out of sorts, and I express concern about it, he immediately adopts an air of deathly illness.
“What?” his look implores. “I look sick? Am I dying?? SAVE ME!!”
He plasters himself against my knees, quaking, until I feel him over and pronounce him well. Then he leaps up, shakes off his terminal terror and goes off to hunt down his squeaky.
For him, the grooming table might as well be a guillotine. He’s tense, uncooperative, resistant, jumpy, everything you really don’t want when you’ve got sharp instruments at hand. I’m sympathetic: after all, imagine someone scissoring around your short curlies. Well, he’s all short curlies.
I go slowly and he tolerates it, trusting me not to hurt him. This is the main reason I can’t let anyone else groom him: I know where all his scars and tender bits are. His flanks, where he’s been clipper-burned and cut, his shoulders where the coyote grabbed him, the side where he ran into a sharp stick, opening up a three-inch gash, chasing a ball of course.
He trusts me, but he still hates grooming.
Once the job’s done, he’s gorgeous, sweet-smelling — and I feel like I’ve spent the day shoeing Belgian draft-horses.
So 90 minutes in the hot room was exactly what I needed to get the kinks out.
But he’s so worth it!