Tuesday, 16 October 2012

NO WOMAN, NO CRY, AND NO PANTS: DAY ONE


Day One, Part One

Came home from work to find a clear, yellow, pungent liquid soaking into a pile of papers, among which were my medical credentials (wondered where those had got to) and a cheque I hadn't yet deposited. The liquid was not familiar to me, and a taste test--which indicated recent consumption of old socks, garbage, and feces--provided no further clues to its provenance. Not wanting to leave it for Sareena to clean up, I used one of her cashmere sweaters to absorb the liquid, as I felt this would be less abrasive to the floor tile. I set the papers to dry over a roaring fire which I started in the bathtub. Quite ingenious, I thought!

Still puzzled as to where this unusual liquid had come from, I then let the dog out, as I had seen Sareena do this on a few occasions upon her return from work. The dog secreted some yellow liquid of his own in the back yard, then he promptly came back in and began circling a mysterious empty bowl on the floor. The bowl contained what appeared to be remnants of rancid coffee beans. The dog whined excessively and inconsolably. Believing he suffered from lack of stimulation and ennui, I placed some wireless headphones over his ears and played Slayer's "Diabolus in Musica", but the ungrateful beast kept trying to knock the headphones off. I realize it isn't Slayer's best work, but I thought he would enjoy the dropped tuning of that particular album. Luddite.

I will soon turn my attention to concocting supper and disposing of the soiled crockery. This should not be too difficult. After all, Sareena does this every day!

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Day One, Part Two

Managed to successfully heat some items from the refrigerator, although this took repeated trials. Sareena failed to provide instructions for the proper operation of the microwave (an amateurish oversight on her part, as everyone knows microwave ovens are among the most difficult electronic instruments to master), and it was not evident to me that this required pressing buttons in a specific permutation! It was the dog who revealed this to me: I was about to place a mound of silverware in the microwave for purposes of decontamination (I thought that using it as an ersatz autoclave was quite brilliant!) along with my leftover spanakopita (killing two birds with one stone...genius!) when the rabid beast leapt at me in an obvious fit of insanity. He knocked the cutlery out of my hands, managed to close the door, and accidentally nudged the "quick reheat" button three times in his spastic state. After I beseeched the confounded hound to behave by appealing to his higher cortical functions, and having furthermore banished him to the other room, I returned to the microwave and found my meal was the perfect temperature and consistency. Lovely!

I returned to the living room to feast upon the fruits of my cerebral labours, expecting to complement my delicious vegetarian fare with some prosciutto that I thought I'd left on the coffee table by the television. Such did not appear to be the case; all I found in that area were a few sheets of pork-flavoured waxy paper and a satisfied-looking canine laying on his back and licking his chops. I've no idea why the accursed mongrel appears so bloody complacent. Perhaps he thinks he got "one over" on me with his behaviour in the kitchen. Suffice it to say that his massive ego and smugness appear to have encroached 'pon his stomach, as he had no interest in the kibble-type libations I proffered him (these were found in the white plastic container helpfully labelled, "GUS," which I seem to recall is his name). Shameful cur. He's a damned nuisance, although terribly cute...

I will adjourn for now in order to attend to the dishes. They are rather hefty and numerous, which leads me to believe I will require more than one heavy-duty garbage bag in order to dispose of them. I will report back at my earliest availability.

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Day One, Part Three

I'm sheepishly stumped.

I sequestered the tainted earthenware to a suitable receptacle. Imagine my surprise when I saw "Royal Doulton" inscribed on the bottom...how bourgeois! Had I known sooner that we possessed such babbittry, I would have rid us of it long ago. God Save The Queen and all that...but not Her Dishes, thank you, even if the "china" is "Made In England".

In a rare fit of initiative, I then took it upon myself to dispose of the rubbish...and my first major hurdle manifested itself. It's all well and good for Sareena to loudly and repeatedly announce, "I'M TAKING THE GARBAGE OUT," (generally during one of my favourite programmes) but where EXACTLY in hell's half-acre does she put the bloody refuse? "Out" obviously does not indicate "By the back door," since I can see for myself that there isn't a large collection of detritus there.

No, this task would require me to think "outside the box," as my wife is often fond of encouraging me to do. Heeding her advice, I found the nearest box and placed the filth around it. I thought it unusual that the box in question was hitched to my neighbour's Escalade...but there you are: lateral thinking in action.

Following my conquest over the garbage, things briefly became more exciting. Having taken especial notice of the canine, it had become obvious to me that he'd been spending most of the evening wistfully and expectantly looking out the window as if he were a lonely Victorian scullery-maid pining for the return of her lover, the handsome stableboy. He then became restless, alternately approaching the door and your ever faithful writer. On his obvious recommendation, I checked the door for leaks and found it to be in full working order. I started back towards the salon to find him holding a leather strap in his mouth, trotting towards the door and yours truly. His meaning was clear: he intended to hang himself! I stole the sturdy lash from him, reassured him that his life was most certainly worth living despite his lack of testicles, and placed the near-instrument of death well away from his delicate, honey-drop eyes.

It's been rather tiring, navigating from one crisis to the next and having to divine meaning and procedure from occult shibboleths. Nonetheless, I am confident that I will have mastered the "art domestique" before my wife's return. I won't say that I have a new appreciation for how difficult her assigned tasks have proven to be (since they really aren't all that difficult)...but I WILL say that it's nice to have someone attend to these menial, unfulfilling, yet necessary chores.

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