fearlesstemp | vomitacular

Scout, the uninjured kitty, just puked (not once but twice) downstairs in the family room, on the carpet and mere feet from the linoleum floor of the kitchen. Fun was had as mother, brother, and self argued loudly over who would clean it, all three of us gagging uncontrollably. For some reason, fresh kitty vomit really grosses me out, despite the fact that I live in a college dorm ten months of the year and am exposed to the human kind in my lovely shared ladies' room many weekends of the year. Also, I've babysat many times and dealt with baby and little-kid vomit with no problems. But I guess I draw the line at non-humans.

This occured just after we discovered that Molly, the injured kitty, had decided to blatantly diregard the litterbox in the cellar and, to quote my father (minus expletives), take craps all over the floor. We suspect this was done in protest over being refused access to nature's litterbox. The clean-up job was, needless to say, a laugh a minute.

Great way to cap off a day that started with me being awoken by my father bellowing: "Jessica!" at the top of his lungs. Always a bad sign when someone uses my full name. He follows my sleepy "wurhgh?" with "Get down here! Your grandfather was in the hospital and you have to do his laundry!" which took me a minute to digest because, really, it doesn't make sense. Turns out Grandpa had fallen in the garden on Thursday (Thursday!) and decided to go to the ER today to get himself looked at. My Dad, the next of kin, was called and went down to the hospital to check things out. Showcasing his charming personality (my Dad's nothing if not direct), my father asked him why he was wearing a jacket with a massive stain, which led to a screaming match (in the hospital, mind you) where my father was apparently called several choice phrases that I didn't even think my 85 year old grandfather knew. All this led to my father coming home and ordering me to go over and do my grandfather's laundry.

So, I brush my teeth, throw on jeans and a T-shirt, and hop in my little blue station wagon with my father. Now, Grandpa's eighty-five. He lives alone. He's still a practicing attorney, but he's getting on in years and really never learned how to take care of himself (always had a mother or a wife to look after him), and since the death of my grandmother things have declined. This is hard for my Dad to see, so he delicately brings the matter up ("You've got crap all over you"), and loud father-son bickering always ensues. I spend most of the ride bracing myself.

So we arrive, laundry bag in tow, and walk into the backyard to announce the laundry heist we're planning. He counters by telling us that he's already washed the jacket my Dad hollered at him for wearing (he announces this with a triumphant "Ha!") and that the cleaning lady who comes every two weeks is going to do the laundry for him tomorrow. I try to talk him into handing over his dirty clothes. I fail. We hang out for a while, talk about grandfather's rib injury and try to wrestle out of him whether he's taking the medicine he's been prescribed (this induces a lovely discussion about constipation and painkillers which really doesn't bear repeating). We spend a while hanging around the garden, me trying to act as a buffer between Dad and Grandpa while also trying not to let myself think about how depressing the whole situation is. He's getting so much older and it's really scary to think how he could hurt himself if he ever took a bigger spill. Anyway, before I get too upset, my aunt Barb arrives and relieves us. We bolt. Fun times.

The rest of the day was spent laying down weedkiller on the yard, watching the Mets lose, and making multiple trips out to buy food because no member of my family (myself included) has the mental capacity to remember more than one item when sent out to the grocery store. It took three separate trips for one of us to come home with mayo for the potato salad (which was good and, in the end, worth the trouble).

Anyway, I'm feeling that today kind of sucked. I hate having sucky days, and I feel all whiny and pathetic writing about it. So. Good things!

(1) Grandpa is fine.

(2) Though Grandpa and Dad fight all the time, neither of them are good at holding grudges and seem to forget about all previous fights every time they see each other.

(3) Our lawn is going to be beautifully weed-free due to my machinations and we won't have to feel quite so inadequate to our neighbors across the street.

(4) Pre-Scout's stomach issues, had a good time watching Strictly Ballroom with mom and bro. Love that movie.

(5) There is yummy potato salad still left in the fridge.

and

(6) The guy at the fish fry joint my parents frequent intentionally undercharged me last night. Either he thought I was cute or so down on my luck that I couldn't afford three bucks for a fish fry -- let's lean towards the former and put this episode in the good column. :)

Feeling better now. Am off to waste time online. Later!