My morning turned into a Rube Goldberg Machine of ridiculous events.
First we had breakfast, Cheerios all around. That went well.
Then I saw the pack of wet cat food that Santa left for Tuna Cat. I thought she’d like that, so I put her up on the table and grabbed a bowl and she went crazy with purrs and anticipation for yummy smelly cat nuggets of “food”. I tore open the pack, and she tore into it.
Then she leaped off the table, fat and full and satisfied. So I started cleaning the kitchen.
Then I heard it.
Yay, cat puke. All over the carpet. Anita ran over quickly enough to pick her up and put her on the kitchen tile floor (much easier to clean up). She puked some more. Oh well, just proves that she’s a dry food only kind of cat. Lesson learned.
We started cleaning up and the kid wanted to help. Well, Erik, that’s nice and all, but dddd 11 … ahh see, thats’ what he does, he sticks his fingers and nose into everything. Like this keyboard while I’m typing.
So there’s Mom and Dad double-teaming these steaming piles of cat puke, Erik (who usually plays alone very well when we ask him to) insists on helping, and this is just frustrating us more. The cat is nowhere to be seen.
Eventually we get it all cleaned up and we’re ready to get the heck out of the house. We try to get out every day, and since today its raining like mad outside we decide to head to the mall so the kid can stretch his legs and we can get some shitty food. Why not. Nothing else is open today.
Before we head out we need to see if the kid will poop, so we bring him upstairs to his bathroom / potty.
The cat puked in there too. All over the tile and the carpet.
I figure while I’m in there cleaning and bleaching I may as well clean and bleach his potty too. So everything goes into the tub and I start scrubbing. Then I drop the bleach spray bottle and it splashes up all over my clothes. Greeeat.
So now I’m cursing under my breath, squished between the toilet and the bathtub (seriously, I’m going to punch the next plumber I see) on my hands and knees trying to clean things, I’m half naked, covered in who-knows-what, and now the cat comes back.
Bleach, you see, makes my cat mental. Much worse than catnip.
My hand, apparently, looked like a mouse to her, and she attacked it with vigor.
Once I was done, the kid got to poop, and we all headed downstairs to decompress with some delicious homemade cookies.