Riley and I are disgusting people. Individually, we are kind of dirty but tolerable. Together? I hesitate to even tell you about this for the simple reason that you will probably defriend me on facehole and in real life and you will never want to come over to my house and have a taxidermy tea party with me.
Apparently, Riley and I never had to clean up after ourselves when we were growing up. EXCEPT THAT WE DID. We had good mothers who made us pick up our rooms and dust (oh god, the dusting. My mom made me dust EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE EVERY WEEK. Including all her silly trinkets that you couldn’t even see dust on) and clean the bathroom and do the dishes. I lived in perhaps the cleanest house on the planet when I was growing up. At my father’s retirement party, they had a slide show where one of the pictures was a book on his desk at work entitled “How to Clean Almost Everything.” I am not kidding. There were a million jokes at that party about how clean Bill’s house is and how manicured his lawn is.
So maybe that is why I now clean nothing unless it gets to the point where I’m living in biohazardous waste. Maybe I am still rebelling against being made to clean so much during my youth, even though I am 28. If that’s not maturity, I don’t know what is. Let’s take a tour of the shit house. Come on in.
Here in the bedroom is where we have the ever-present “laundry mountain” at the foot of the bed, which is of course unmade. Usually, there are two mountains, one clean and one dirty. Somehow, I can tell them apart, probably by the smell. There’s a door off to the right side that goes upstairs to the music room, where my band practices. Sometimes, the laundry mountain has relocated itself to the floor, so they have to wade through it to get upstairs, and I have to wade through it every night to get into bed. I’m beginning to think of it as a conversation piece rather than a pile of laundry. Also, yes, that’s a guitar sticking out of the laundry mountain.
This is the litterbox. We call it “The Igloo of Death.” It smells like shit, all the time. I swear my cats must go out and order the greasiest fast food they can find when I’m not home. Their poop smells like the apocalypse is coming. Sometimes, Charlie, our dog, sneaks into the litterbox and gets some “takeout.” You know what I mean.
We have another litterbox upstairs for Molly, Riley’s cat. She hates my cats because they try to play with her and sometimes eat her food. But mostly she just hates other animals and makes horrible trollish noises when she sees them. Anyways, Riley and I went on vacation a few weeks ago, and the door to Molly’s litter got stuck, so she peed and pooped outside of her box. Riley found the poo chunks when we got home and cleaned them up. Except the other day at practice, Jim pointed out that there were two renegade poo chunks beside Brian’s bass case. Whoops.
Then, there’s the dog. Look how cute he is. DO NOT BE FOOLED. Charlie has a problem with submissively peeing when he’s scared or nervous or excited. I seriously have watched him pee a) in his own bed, b) on two of his toys, c) on MY bed, and d) ON ME. Last week, we were at my parents’ house, and Charlie literally stood over me and peed on my legs when I was sitting on the floor. I couldn’t even do anything about it but sit there and let him finish peeing. I felt so violated. I’d like to believe that it was because my mom gave him way too much water and he wasn’t sure of where the bathroom was, but he was probably just mad at me about something.
Also, he pulls things out of the bathroom trashcan on a regular basis and makes them his chew toys. This angers me because a) he has roughly one billion chew toys that we bought him and b) I don’t like looking at my own tampons on the floor. They are not for decoration. They serve one purpose, and after that purpose has been served, I put them in the trashcan WHERE THEY BELONG. Also, Charlie, I saw that thong you chewed up. At first, I was like, how did my ass do that to that thong? How is it possible? And then I remembered that Riley said Charlie had gotten some of my underwear from the laundry mountain and had ripped it apart. Of course Riley didn’t throw it away. Why would he? No, he let me find it, put it on (it was from the clean mountain, I swear I’m not so dirty that I wear dirty undies), and then wonder why it felt weird and stretched out. DISGUSTING. When I asked him about it, he said “Well, I liked that one. I wasn’t ready to let it go yet.” ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
Incidentally, this reminds me of one time in high school where I went swimming at the beach, then went home and pulled down my bathing suit to pee and found a small dead fish giving me the chicken eye from the crotch of my bikini bottom. Seriously. There was a dead baby fish right next to my hoo ha that entire time.
Also, our basement floods. It once flooded, by the way, WITH SHIT AND PISS. This was not our fault. Our pipes broke in half because of tree roots, causing the toilet to back up and sewer water to spew forth with a mighty rage all over the basement floor. To Riley’s credit, he cleaned it up stat with a shop vac. We have a song about it, it goes “suckin’ up poop with the shop vac, la la la.” We haven’t shared that song with many people, until now.
Our basement flooded again last week when rain fell from the sky with a mighty rage and did not stop for like 4 days. Thank god that this time it wasn’t poop all over the basement floor, just groundwater that seeped up from the pipes and in through the basement door. It’s still gross and it was too much for the shop vac to handle and the landlady has not sent anyone yet to clean it up so I live in a swamp. Also, it smells and I am forced to do laundry wearing Riley’s combat boots to wade through the swamp. It’s like Vietnam, if Vietnam involved more laundry and less guns.
Someone please help us. Send us a maid or maybe a life coach. We are drowning in our own filth.