#819: What Two Cats Can Do To A Kitchen
And it's very exciting! So I am abusing! exclamation! marks!
In honour of The Great Mofo Delurk 2007, I am out wearing the fingerprints off my fingers while I madly comment in all blogular directions.
What are you doing? Are you delurking? Leave a comment here! And there! And then do it everywhere!
After work last night, I had this urge to clean, which, if you have been around these parts for any appreciable amount of time, you will know is extremely rare. It happens every six months or so. I had planned to open the windows and do laundry and clean the bathroom and tidy the kitch... the kitch... The what. The. Hell. HOLY CRAP.
The above is a picture of what I saw when I left the front entry, all four square feet of it, to head into the kitchen and make some coffee to fuel my housework. I blame The Secret for this. I was thinking about fresh, dark coffee from my french press all the way home on the bus, and there it was, manifested all over my kitchen floor. And the stove. And the oven. And the dishwasher. And the refrigerator. And the garbage can.
I knew immediately who was responsible: Oskar and Onion.
You will notice that I made these pictures of the event very dark and dramatic looking. That is because that is mostly what it looked like to me. Rarely have I been so mad as to pull that film-noir-ish, staring-through-slitted-eyes-in-anger expression, but this did it. I could hardly even make sense of it. How is it possible for two cats, who have never caused destruction while we were out, to create this much chaos?
The oven door was open, the big soup pot was across the room, the tea kettle was on the open oven door, the french press was shattered all over the floor, and its remaining coffee and grounds were everywhere. I could go on and on with various prepositions to describe how everything but the kitchen sink was befouled with broken glass and coffee grounds, but if you will just imagine that my kitchen were a giant sponge and that every hole in that giant sponge was sopping with gritty, brown liquid, you will know what I mean.
The first thing I did was go and sit on the edge of the bed in the living room. The two cats sat themselves down opposite me and stared. They knew, and they were hoping I would make quick work of their deaths.
No, I did not beat those cats. I couldn't. Where would I start? I do not own an ice pick, so lobotomies were out of the question.
They kept terribly quiet and leapt away from my thundering feet every time I passed another dripping item out onto a towel in the hallway. I must have had my demon face on.
So, I spent my evening pulling all of our major appliances out into the middle of the room so that I could sponge up all the mess, which had somehow dribbled underneath everything nearly to the walls. And then, instead of my planned dish of gallo pinto, we ate frozen Indian dinners, because there was no way I was going to spend one more minute finding coffee grounds in all the cracks and crevices.