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.