At the kitchen sink in my bra . . . yes, the window's open . . .

12 March 2010
So how, you ask, did I come to be standing at the kitchen sink in my bra at 11:00am on a Friday morning . . . prime time for the mailman to be coming 'round . . .

It goes something like this: After yesterday's little fiasco with the steak-juicy boob, I was looking forward to a quiet day. I'm supposed to meet a friend for lunch today, so I got up and dressed in a shiny white T-shirt, all the better to show off the pretty blue-green necklace and earrings I made yesterday. (I even put on lip gloss - those who know me well will know what a landmark event that is for me, lol!)

Brodie came into the office and asked to go out to potty, so out I went . . . right through the boy's room . . . and found the walls, floor, and back of Claire painted with a lovely shade of medium brown kitty poo . . . apparently Matey wanted to boff the poop right out of her. Sigh . . .
OK, dogs out - check.
Matey back in his run - check.
Very pissed-off Claire running through house covered in poop - not so much a 'check' as an 'oh, shit' . . .
Grab PO'd kitty by scruff and over to kitchen sink . . . this is definitely a job for the sprayer.

Crap - I'm dressed to leave for lunch. OK, more of that thinking on my feet nonsense . . . wrestle shirt off over head while still holding PO'd cat. Uh, check?

I wash the rear end of the now frankly-out-for-my-blood cat and wrap her in a towel. If looks could kill . . . well, I'd look more like that steak from yesterday, I think.

OK, now I've got to decontaminate the sink. Clorox to the rescue. I scrub out the sink. Of course the phone rings at this point. Where's the damn kitchen towel? Son-of-a . . . Angel has apparently kidnapped another towel. I wipe my hands on my jeans so I can answer the phone, forgetting that I've had my hands in bleach. Well, crap - I'm sure these jeans will now be sporting a white handprint on my rather wide posterior. I answer the phone. Telemarketer. At this point I want to kill.

OK, gotta go meet my friend for lunch. Keys in hand, I'm ready to head for the door. Am I forgetting anything? Oh, yeah - my shirt . . .

Crissa calls to say she needs to meet at noon instead of 11:30. Thank God. I can inspect myself for poop and catch my breath.

How long do you think I can drag lunch out? After all, the boy's room still needs to be de-pooped when I get home. Maybe something from Frederick's of Hollywood for my afternoon cleaning attire? Thank God, it's a quiet neighborhood . . .