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 40 Endorphin Junkie
Several years ago, before a trip to Mexico, I decided to have my legs professionally waxed. I have nothing against shaving, but I’ve got a raised pigmented mole on my left shin that I tend to forget about. I’ve cut the top off that thing so many times, it now looks like a little brown target, which you’d think might help me remember, but doesn’t. I figured it would be nice to vacation without a bloody scab.
Well, that was a deeply enlightening spa experience I’m in no hurry to repeat, thank you very much. Lovely result, but that poor esthetician was dodging random kicks to the head and I’m pretty sure I was offering to sign a confession, any confession, by the end. Turns out I need to be in control of the pain myself.
So I do my own waxing. Now that I’ve reached the age when, as Janette Barber’s famous quote goes, “they’re not chin hairs, they’re stray eyebrows,” it’s a top-to-toe deal. “Your face feels so smooth and woman-like,” my husband tells me afterwards, with all sincerity.
And you know what hurts the most? (No, it’s not what you’re thinking. Hello, natural childbirth times three.) It’s the top of the feet. Oh, come on. I’m not the only one with periodic bouts of hobbit-foot. You know what I’m talking about. Or if you don’t you either should, or you will. Somehow the skin over the feet and ankles is so thin, it produces a spectacularly bright sort of pain when the hairs rip free.
But afterwards? It’s not just the smooth, exfoliated skin. It’s an endorphin rush, the body celebrating “I suffered, and I survived!”
I wonder if that’s not part of the draw of Bikram yoga, for me. I’ve never been one to do anything the easy way. Ten years of pregnancy and/or lactation. 14 years of homeschooling. 23 years, coming up, of marriage. In fact, if there’s a hard way, a long way, or a wrong way, I’ve probably taken it. (I chose to be a writer, after all. And not just any writer – for years, I wrote for pet magazines and church magazines. The two lowest-paying segments of the freelance market. Good job.)
But there is satisfaction in doing something really, really difficult. (I once wrote a piece on how to deal with masturbation in cats. It’s true. I’m not saying it was a good story, but it was assigned, I got the information, the interviews, and met my deadline. Thank goodness the editors saw reason and killed it before the issue went to print.)
There’s nothing like the sensation at the end of class, when I’m lying in Savasana – Corpse Pose – drenched with sweat, swimming in endorphins, limp, limber and loose.
I’ve suffered, I’ve pushed through, and I’ve survived. And I’m stronger for it.
Warning: life is risky!
Warning: life is risky!
Wow. An article in today’s edition of the Vancouver Sun gives us quite a newsflash: U.S. government researchers reveal that pets can be dangerous to your health. To whit: one could trip over the leash while walking one’s dog, or a water bowl could spill, resulting in a dangerously wet floor. One could (shudder) sprain a wrist.
About a third of dog-related falls happened because the person tripped over the dog (hey, it happens) one-quarter just while walking (what does this mean??) one-fifth because the dog pulled them over (get a Halti, take a class, or don’t get a Mastiff if you weigh 120 pounds, how ’bout that?) 3% while running from the dog (idiot) and 0.5% while breaking up a fight (just let Darwinism work here.) Two-thirds of cat-related injuries are from tripping over the cat (shit happens, move on) 12% involved chasing it (why? Just why?)
The article goes on to detail the worst perpetrators (88% dogs, 12% cats) the largest age group injured (children under 14) and the worst-injured group (people age 75 and over). If I understand correctly, this research informs us that when kids play with pets – dogs mostly – they sometimes fall down and skin their knees. Old people who play with pets might fall down and break their hips.
The researchers went on to offer tips on avoiding such catastrophes, suggesting people educating themselves on how a pet behaves during “risky activities such as walks.” Obedience training is highly recommended, as is ensuring that rooms with a lot of pet and human traffic be well-lit.
To think that just last night, when we were curled up in the family room watching The Office, our safety and well-being was in jeopardy. Not only was the room dimly lit, but we had three dogs and a couple of cats lurking nearby, just waiting to trip us or spill water in our direction. (You know how much pets love being stepped on.)
Now you’ve wasted nearly as much time on this subject as I have.
If I’m still chasing my dog at 75, I’ll take the risk of breaking a hip, thank you very much.