Hiya, old buddy!

Ok, so I haven't visited with you in a while. Ok, a loooong while. Sorry, Nettie! Let's just take up where we left off, and forget about those nasty recriminations. Mmkay?

So today started off with a bang. Actually a prolonged gagging, horking, and a splash. Not me, Nettie, I'm fine! Fat cat decided to hoover up her special treat of 'salmon filet in sauce' (What a delightful name. I'm guessing 'salmon organs 'n offal' didn't have the same delicious ring.) ,while I was enjoying my own delightful breakfast of Frosted Flakes (the real thing, Nettie, not a knockoff--love those coupons).

I'm just debating a second bowl when I hear it. The whistling of an immanent tornado, the squeal of a braking car, the wail of a siren--none of these things can make me cringe more than gagging. I promptly put my hands over my ears, but guilt made me glance over to check that she's not dying. Damn you, guilt, add my morning to a list of things you've ruined!

That nanosecond was the exact moment the half-digested salmon came spewing forth.

Linda Blair has nothing on my cat.

Let me remind you that I have a finely tuned gag reflex. The Stradivarius of gag reflexes. It takes the merest whisper of discomfort to give me my own matching discomfort.

**Amusing sidenote--well, it's amusing now, some twelve years later. My college roommate and I lived on the 11th floor of the dorm. She and another friend, both aware of my touchy stomach, trapped me on the elevator and made gagging noises for ELEVEN floors. In a Cold War-era elevator, which equates to probably three hours of downward travel. I was so incapacitated with nausea that upon the doors opening, I staggered outside and collapsed on a convenient shrubbery. I never recovered. Well, about dinnertime I did. Slightly. **

Back to the present. I must have bellowed something unsympathetic after the first rush, because fatty turned her back to me and continued to heave on another, heretofore unsullied, patch of carpet. Cream carpet. By this point, 'earmuffs' still firmly attached, I am whimpering like a toddler, intermittantly hollering NONONONONO. Deluge finished, she skitters off. I cautiously lower my hands. In an effort to collect myself before the inevitable cleanup, I focus on my bowl of milk-sodden cereal flakes. Remember, my tummy is full of sodden flakes, consumed prior to the fracas.

I realize that the remains in the bowl bear a disconcerting resemblance to the remains on the carpet.

Deep breath. Hold. Hold. Think happy thoughts. More vomit to clean up is NOT A HAPPY THOUGHT. It's ok. Rubber gloves. Paper towels. Carpet cleaner. You can fly you can fly you can fly.

Do you ever think, "This is NOT why I went to college"? I don't know what bearing that has on my cleaning chore, but it popped into my mind. As if a college degree bars you from unpleasant cleanup. "Sorry, honey, you're going to have to clean up Junior's diaper blowout. See that diploma?" That would be an awesome marketing campaign, if they could actually make it true. On second thought, a LOT of the things they say about college doesn't necessarily happen. Like "you'll get a good job immediately after graduation" and "student loan payments are small".

As soon as I tackle the salmon filets in sauce, I'll get right on that marketing campaign.