The Perils of Facebook - nah. Cat Puke.

Just as I sat down to start writing a wonderfully humorous and insightful post about how bad Facebook is for making first impressions, my cat (whom I love dearly) puked under my bed. And this was by far the grossest-smelling puke (and, to share the joy of cat puke with you all, the most peanut buttery in texture and appearance) I have ever encountered. So aside from having to clean up a big pile of vomit, I am now suppressing a really strong urge to hurl. I started to write my post anyway, but I am so damn cranky that I just can't do it. Also I am now inhaling the fumes from the carpet cleaner I just put on, which is not doing anything for my normally cheery disposition.

Gah. It's OK. I'm getting a pedicure tomorrow with my best friend from 2nd grade. I will look like I just rolled out of bed and she will have a wonderfully co-ordinated outfit and impeccable makeup, and yet we will gossip like she never went off to Catholic school and I never turned into a crazy hippie with dreads. That is to say, it will be wonderful and I will forget all about how much I love having a cat who cares about me enough to puke right under where I sleep.

Blast from the Past

Like, way in the past. I went out to see my grandma today. She's turning 93 in December. There are a couple of options for how she is when we visit:
1 - chatty and will not stop asking questions
2 - mildly morbid about how old she is
3 - super reminiscent.

Today we got option 3. But this wasn't the usual stories she told. Today we heard about when she first met my grandpa, in what must've been the early 40's, during the war. I hadn't heard anything about that before, and it was really cool. Apparently some friends had set her up on a blind date with him, but it was a dinner party with her friends, my grandpa, and one other single woman. She was very impressed by the 6'3" man in the lieutenant's uniform, and she obviously beat out the other woman, whose name she doesn't remember. (She says this in a way that makes it sound like there was no real competition.) Harry asked if he could drive her home that night, and they stayed up talking on the front stoop until 3 AM. They met on December 8 and got married on the 16th, because he was stationed in Iceland and was being called back to service. Since everything was done in such a hurry and lieutenants were well-paid, Harry's family thought she was a gold digger for a while, but I guess they got over it.

A blind date, and an 8-day courtship? My grandma uses a walker (but proudly accepts no help with it), and her main occupations are reading, watching opera videos, and walking up and down the ramp into the backyard garden - but 60 years ago, she married a soldier after an 8-day courtship. And something about her pride, and the sense of mischief she still has, makes that story surprisingly un-surprising.

I wonder what stories I'll be telling at age 93?