August 14, 2018

never deep clean because you find traumatized edamame

Yesterday, Molly yarked up a mile-long trail of grass and foam ear plugs.  P.J. picked it all up in a towel and folded the towel up in a desperate attempt to make it all go away like it never happened, because it really was that disgusting, but the end result of that is a towel that's sitting there balled up that nobody wants to touch.  It's a problem and we can't nope out of it.

The ear plugs came from the same place as the lotion bottles, we realized:  Molly's found a way to get under the bed.  I started sleeping with ear plugs years ago, mainly because every single little thing that happens in the house can trigger my startle reflex once I'm asleep and nobody wants to peel me off of the ceiling or put up with me the day after a night like that, especially me.  I buy those purple Fleet plugs in the 100-piece jars.  I'm constantly having to take new ones out of the jar because the pair I took out just a few days before mysteriously disappeared joined their people in Plugotopia, located on the floor under the headboard, a magical land of dust and power strips.

Because of the yarkisode, P.J. and I decided that it would be an ideal time to turn the mattress, which we've been putting off doing for over a month because it's too much like work, and to use the disheveled-mattress stage to pick up everything that's under the box springs back there.  Except that when we got the mattress moved and I looked to see how many ear plugs there were, I saw this:



It was at least five minutes before I could even talk.  P.J. and I still can't look at each other today because we start laughing again and it hurts.

This little ... object ... entity ... being ... was looking at me all reproachfully like, "Do you even know how long I've been down here?  Where the fuck have you been?  Do you see how dusty it is?  I don't have any friends, either.  The ear plugs hate me.  I'm sad.  I've been here and sad for a really long time.  Don't you even care?"

I didn't know if it was supposed to be the God of Ear Plugs conceived by a growing population, or a rotten lime, or a forgotten Bark Box toy, or a figment of my imagination.  I just know that it's the funniest thing I've seen since the night P.J.'s cat walked over the lamp shade and cast the shadow of Gothor the Great Blood Demon of the Night on the ceiling and I pointed up in silent horror with my mouth open.

Investigation bore out that it is a forgotten dog toy, probably an edamame that wanted to be an actor when it grew up, but that had tiger parents that forced it to be an edamame against its will.  We know it's a dog toy because it squeaks.

The experience of living under our bed for god-only-knows-how-long has not done wonders for its disposition.  Ditto for the sight of Molly's teeth when she heard the squeaking.

Then it occurred to me that it has been hiding all this time from Chester or Rose, alone and afraid and completely traumatized by its early days of being used as a squeaky toy.

We're trying to give it a supportive community and teach it what it's like to have friends and a hygienic environment.  I'm naming him Derek the Traumatized Edamame.  I think with enough time and understanding, we can help him ....

... oh, fuck, seriously?  I was going to write "come out of his shell" and then I realized what I was about to say and no, because I hate puns.  So we're just going to make him feel better, okay?  Fine.  Good.


Update:  It turns out that it's a Bark Box cactus that's been ripped open and lost its spikes and been exposed.  So it's Derek the Violated Cactus now.  I liked him better as edamame.

5 comments:

  1. Poor little edamame. Have you tried standing him on his head? It might help him turn his frown upside down. Ha! :)

    Mona

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    1. I hate you so much right now. But in a good way.

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  2. Okay, just hold on one pea-pickin' minute here! I just checked out the advertisement for Consuela the Cactus! So am I to believe that inside every prickly but happy -- flirty even -- cactus is a sad, pickled (it looks a little pickled from where I sit) edamame -- with no defenses? I don't know what it is about this, but something just doesn't feel quite right here. It seems like this edamame -- perhaps, Consuela even -- might have a little something, something to explore with a therapist. Maybe not...but then again, could it really hurt? *scratching head*

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    1. Pea-pickin'! I see what you did there. I'm sorry, but this is not what is inside of a cactus, and it's totally unfair to those of us who can be manipulated by some cloth and thread and anthropomorphize and feel sorry for it. Hope you can find Consuela! You'd be a good cactus-edamame therapist, I think.

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  3. Also,
    I must have one right now!
    Mona

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