08 April 2008
i have this white shag rug. which is a pretty damn stupid thing to set adrift in a household of women molting tendrils of raven hair. but alas. i have this white shag rug.
for a long long while, i've loved the white shag rug. because the white shag rug was an impulse buy back in the days before i had a cat, when i couldn't have a cat, and when an excessively fuzzy rug seemed an acceptable substitute for a cat. but those days are long gone, God-willing, never to return. and i can't help but wonder if perhaps even the days of the white shag rug are passing.
having sensed that its twilight years have come, the white shag rug began acting out. naturally it would do so just prior to the commencement of the rinse cycle, easing into its dotage by becoming irrevocably unbalanced in the washing machine. sitting there, stubbornly unspinable after having absorbed (sometimes only that word will do) every single stupid drop of soapy water into its shaggy mass.
there's a funny story here. a long drawn out tale of precisely how i hoisted a 500 pound, sopping wet furry rug up four flights of stairs leaving a torrent of water in our wake. but that story will have to wait. it's a little too fresh. my muscles still a little too sore for a lighthearted recounting.
suffice it to say, few people know what it feels like to bathe a filthy, catatonic polar bear in a bathtub.