WARNING: READER DISCRECTION ADVISED
A friend called me the other day while I was in my room so I
went out to the balcony to chat.
I call the outdoor space my ‘summer living room’, a place where
I can feel free to talk uncensored and without being heard (except, of course,
for the neighbors if I talk too loudly).
It’s not that I have anything to hide or secrets to guard,
it’s just that being a caregiver there is very little privacy, so I try to
carve out what little space I can.
As I walked through the apartment I happened to look down
and noticed that Miss Cathy had spilled something on the caret in the hallway
right in front of the kitchen doorway.
Earlier I’d heard her in the kitchen rustling around with
the kitchen garbage (something I’ve told her time and time again I would take
care of because she’s famous for leaving the garbage bags ‘next’ to the can and
never taking them out to the dumpster) so I thought it might be coffee grounds
or maybe chocolate ice cream that had spilled.
But, I continued on, chatting away, I thought little of it,
other than to make a mental note to go buy some caret cleaner later and joked
to my friend, “I don’t know what that is, it could be poo for all I know” then I
proceeded to the balcony where I spent the next hour or so talking about everything
from the Project Runway season premier on Lifetime (television for women-and
gay men) to the Anthony Weiner scandal (television for women-and gay men).
After clicking off my conversation I was ready to tackle the
stain, which now looked as if an attempt had been made to clean it up but the
result was less than successful.
Fearing permanent damage (because it looked like she really rubbed
it in instead of lifting the stain out) I went to mom’s room in search of some
answers.
She was already tucked in bed for the afternoon.
“I’m going to the store to get some carpet cleaner”, I said.
“So I need to know what you spilled.”
“Oh, that”, she answered, as matter of fact as if I’d just
asked the time.
“That’s shit.”
No comments:
Post a Comment