Sunday, September 2, 2012

Laboring on Labor Day weekend

"My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?" Erma Bombeck

PAUL AND I are celebrating Labor Day by laboring. We're giving our home a deep clean from top to bottom. We've also been binge-watching Doc Martin. We sweep and scrub and watch a couple episodes, dust and vacuum and watch another episode or two. Last night we finally reached the end of all the episodes they've made so far — all five seasons of it.

If you aren't familiar with the series, it's a British-made TV show. PBS is currently airing a limited number of episodes. The story revolves around a former renown surgeon from London who quite suddenly develops a blood phobia and relocates to a village of 900 in Cornwall to be a GP. He's also socio-phobic with Asperger's syndrome. Though brilliant, he's incapable of recognizing or communicating about his own emotions much less any one else's, and wouldn't pick up on a social cue if it hit him on the head — and people sometimes do out of unalloyed exasperation! 

He's in love with a lovely young woman who — and for the life of me I can't see why this would be so — loves him. 




We discovered Doc Martin about six episodes in, running on IPTV and watched them until they stopped. They'll be airing more episodes later this month. Happily, Paul discovered that the whole series is available on NetFlicks. There are five seasons, eight episodes per season.

I have to warn you; they're highly addictive. It reminds me of the #1 Ladies Detective Agency series of books. Once we had read the first one, we were hooked and had to read the next book in the series as fast as we could, one right after another. 

So we're cleaning interspersed with watching the Doc and Louisa. I get a certain amount of satisfaction from cleaning, actually. Unlike the messes in the world at large, I can do something about the ones at home. 

At our house, it's a constant war against cat litter and fur. My heavens, these four (!!!!!!) are a lot of work! But they're so funny and so loving and loyal that there's no alternative. 

The three downstairs comprise a little pride. I wake up in the morning and there are always at least two, often all three, sleeping with us. They wait for me to get up — sometimes they demand that I get up — but if I don't, all three of them settle back down in bed for the duration. They'll stay there as long as we do — even all day, if that's the order of the day.

When I do arise, they escort me to the kitchen as a group to make sure I'm adhering to the treat ritual; we call them my entourage. After they've reassured themselves that morning treats are being served, they each go to their respective spots — Shiva on a little table in the kitchen by the window, Boy Boy in the dining room and Shye in the bedroom — to wait to receive them. Afterwards, in good weather, they all move en masse to the back door for their daily constitutional. 

Anaya, who lives upstairs, had a big adventure yesterday. She doesn't care to leave her second-floor room, so I go upstairs and read or write or sometimes sleep in the room with her. Yesterday, however, Paul decided to vacuum every square inch of her room, and she wasn't about to hang around for that. She crawled in a book case in the hallway upstairs to hide. After a while we began worrying that she was too afraid to get out and have access to her food, water and litter box, so we pulled all the books off the shelf and coaxed her back into her safe haven. That's where I am with her right now — about to have a little lie-down. Later today — barbecue.
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