Alot in the car

Today is Wednesday (YOU'RE WELCOME).  Wednesdays are my Now-I-Can-Catch-Up-On-Game-Of-Thrones days only we've reached the end of the season so WHAT THE HELL DO I DO NOW??

I suppose I could do the dishes, but how lame is that?

Anyway, the best part about Wednesday is that I don't have to get up early, I don't have to change out of my pajamas, and all I have to do is wrangle the Spawn until she and her father trip merrily off to day-care and work, respectively.  That's respectively, not respectably, because sometimes my child is dressed from head-to-toe in cotton-candy pink because beggars can't be choosers but we sure as hell can be embarrassed.  

And that's what Spawn and I were doing when the Danish Boy went out to the car to make sure that everything that needed to be in the car was in fact IN the car.  

He quickly returned, very distraught.

Alot had been in the car all night.  He'd gotten in yesterday and although this is a common occurrence, as the cat adores the car, the DB had completely forgotten to check before closing up the car.  

You'd think we would have noticed that the cat hadn't been around that evening, but the weather was fairly good and sometimes he's just busy doing whatever it is cats do, so it's not that unusual for him not to be in the house in the evening.

But there he was, frantically pawing at the window when the DB went out this morning.  And yes, twelve hours in a car was too long of a wait, so he'd left us a present.  In the brand-new car seat.

Oh was the DB pissed.  Not at the cat, but at himself for not checking the car.  "The new car seat!  That we just bought!  Oh, gauraghhhhh!"

I was a bit more pragmatic.  "Solid or runny?" I asked.  I happen to be the resident poop expert, not just because I am The Mommy and therefore have a high degree of exposure, but also because I have a great deal of experience with animals and their feces, I've worked in a pet store and a children's "zoo."  I found a book on animal tracks in the in-laws summer home and avidly read the section on poop.  Only the pictures were in black and white and lacked a scale so HOW DOES THAT HELP ANYONE IDENTIFY ANYTHING, I'D LIKE TO KNOW!?  So, yeah, me and poop?  No problem.  

Vomit, on the other hand.  Can't stand vomit.

"Solid," said the DB.  "Do you think he peed?"

At this point if you are reading this and thinking "oh my god, this entire post is about the bodily functions of her cat" you'd be right and you can totally stop reading now if you want.  "But hey," I'm betting you'll rationalize to yourself, "I got this far and I just want to know how it ends.  Not that I'm one of those weird people who like to read about defecating animals, I just want to know if they have to go buy a new car seat, or a new car."  

Keep telling yourself that, poop-lover.  

Anyone who's owned a cat knows, you KNOW when your cat has peed.  So I asked, "Does it smell of pee?"

"No."

"Then he didn't.  You would know if he had."

But of course the DB wasn't convinced, so he brought the seat in for me to smell, after he'd de-pooped it and sprayed all-purpose cleaner on it.  And with my allergies running high at the moment, it was a miracle I could breathe, let alone smell, but okay, whatever, I'll lean over while holding a wriggling child and sniff.

"I don't think he peed.  But use the old car seat and we'll wash the cover, it'll be fine."  

This did not mollify the DB.  He was beside himself with loathing.  If he was any more distraught over the event, he'd be a Brontë heroine.  As it was, he stomped around and slammed doors and sighed loudly and pointedly.

"Don't worry about cleaning it," he declared magnanimously.  "I'll do that when I get home."

Yeah, because what I want is to leave a stinky car seat next to the clean laundry for eight hours.  "It's no problem," I said.

"But, well, it's the washing machine..." his anguish was palpable.  I'm not to play with the washing machine.  Bad things happen.  Like clothing getting washed at the wrong temperature, spun at too high a speed, or other unbelievably horrible sins.  It's not that I've once dyed my socks pink, ONCE mind you, it's that I wash darks at 30, colors at 40, and whites at 60 (all temperatures in Celsius), irrespective of their instructions.  The Horror.  Never mind that because I've played with the machine, I know more about the various settings (he only recently discovered that you can tell the machine that you've got chocolate stains that need removing), I might decide to skip the pre-wash or something!

"Fine.  Whatever."  And after he left, I stripped the car seat, put the cover in the washing machine but no, I didn't turn it on, it's happily waiting to be washed, and then carefully cleaned the foam padding.  I've looked up the washing instructions and have set them out for his approval.  Then I fed the cat, who's looking a bit betrayed, but is otherwise fine.

Then the cat promptly jumped into the closet, because being trapped in one confined space in the last 24 hours wasn't enough.  If he poops on my sweaters, I may just skin him and use him for slippers.

I can't see you... go away!