Earlier this afternoon, I had finally succeeded in dragging G away from the computer, prodding her into the shower, prodding her out again, and making her get dressed so we could go out for the first time since Friday evening.
We went downstairs and she put on her shoes, and then I stuck my foot into my flip-flop and promptly yanked it out again. The flat surface and toe strap were both cold, wet and slimy, and that's a combination that never means anything good*.
I said, "What the ...?" and bent down to look, and one of the cats had thrown up in my shoe. Not a single spatter on any of the other shoes, not a drop on the floor, just a perfect blaarrrghhh that covered the inside of my flip-flop like a revolting custom-made insole. And as I hopped around, trying not to get any of it on the carpet, I thought, I would be a lot more upset if this didn't so neatly symbolize how the last couple of weeks have gone for me. It was like the universe punctuating a long joke with a rim shot.
There was nothing for it but to laugh. And then go back upstairs and scrub my foot with antibacterial soap. Ugh.
*Unless you're a frog on a blind date, but how often does that happen?