Cat Puke

I live in fear of my cat throwing up on our duvet cover.

I cringe if I hear the slightest noise that could possibly be construed as a cat blowing chunks because nine times out of ten I am justified in my visceral reaction. 

Today, when I hear that unmistakable heave, I frantically scour the house for Tigger to see where his masterpiece may lie. I hope and pray that this time he has decided to choose the hardwood flooring as his medium but as I round the corner to our bedroom, and see our huge Eastern King, my hopes are dashed. There he sits, in the middle of our masculine-yet-pleasing navy blue duvet cover, licking his lips admiring his newest creation. 

I can't even begin to explain how angry, upset, infuriated, and over-the-top dismayed his throw up makes me. Why? Well, for one thing, it's absolutely disgusting. Little chunks of half-eaten kibble in light brown digestive juices. Yummy! Sorry for the visual but I'm fuming. 

For another thing, the BIGGER thing really, it is bloody inconvenient. Why?

It's inconvenient because we don't have a washing machine or dryer in our apartment! When we have an urgent load that needs urgent attention or even just an everyday load of everyday socks and undies I have to walk down three flights of stairs, out our front door, around the corner and down the block, take a right into the back alley behind our sister building, open our sister building's back door, and enter the dank dark lint-filled laundry room. Argh. You try doing that with a two-year-old in tow!

I have to tell you: I love living in San Francisco. I love our little three bedroom flat. I love the views, and the neighborhood, and the fact that we are only two blocks from Golden Gate Park. I love everything about our home except for the following: I wish we owned it and I wish we had a washer and dryer. 

The fact that we don't have a washer and dryer is the leading reason why I want to move to Colorado. Yes - there are other very worthy, very significant reasons to move, but right now none are more important than owning my very own washer and dryer. They are going to be red by the way, because red is my favorite color. 

I can't wait to hear the siren signaling the clean clothes are dry and ready for folding. That loud obnoxious horn blast will be like Mozart to my ears when it is my very own loud obnoxious horn blast. 

Right now all I hear is my microwave timer going off telling me the laundry is dry. Telling me to get my butt downstairs. Telling me it's time to make my awful trek. Telling Tigger the duvet cover is clean again and ready for his next assault.

[Sigh...]