Fuckety fuck fucks. I just stepped on a small cat turd with my bare foot. This was in the kitchen, right next to their food bowls. You would think the little idiots would be smart enough to not shit where they eat, but as we have learned over the years, my precious felines have no boundaries. A recent development over the past few weeks is that I can no longer see the ground very well over my big fat pregnant belly, and as a result, it’s like a universal law that my bare foot will somehow land in every splash of barf or dropped dingleberry that the cats so graciously leave around my apartment. And unfortunately, one of them is 14-years old, weighs nearly 20-pounds and has diabetes, and the other two are 17-years old, have delicate constitutions, long hair and virtually no brains. The result is a hell of a lot of poop and barf to dodge, which is not very easy these days. Hazards of pregnancy. The other problem is that the wider I get, the harder it is for me to lift my foot up to the bathroom sink to clean it off. Or to even bend down long enough for a thorough cleansing. I’ve been a damn lucky pregnant lady so far. I’ve never had morning sickness, have passed all my tests with flying colors, and have yet to wet my pants. But if I step in one more piece of fecal matter or a regurgitated hairball on account of not being able to see the floor, I’m tying the cats in a sack and throwing them in the East River.
2 years ago
May 17, 2011
