And Now the Cat's Puking in the Corner

So last week my cat threw up on my down comforter. My white, king-sized, Ralph Lauren down comforter that was a hand-me-down from My Lady.

Kitty's not the first one to throw up on the comforter. The first one to throw up on the comforter was Football Buddy. She was two. We'd just finished construction on the Bedroom From Hell when Johnny's mother died and he went home to bury her (well, he didn't bury her, but "went home to burn her body and toss her ashes in the woods" sounds downright criminal). While he was there, my sister and brother-in-law came to help me set up the bedroom so it would be ready upon his return, and as soon as the bed was made Football Buddy ran straight over to it and yuked up blueberry bagel. It was hysterical. You know I'm telling that story at her wedding.

This isn't the first time the cat yacked on it, either. This isn't even the first time kitty hurled on it this week. But it was particularly lavish, it was brown, I was running out of still-white corners, and it wasn't getting any warmer in the nighttime around here.

Just for the record, I have never spewed on the down comforter. Not the Ralph Lauren one, anyway.

There's a dry cleaner I walk by every morning (or I used to), about halfway between where I park my car (back when I used to) and the T. They have a sign in the window saying they clean down comforters, so last ... Wednesday, I think it was? ... I brought it in. They said it wouldn't be ready until Tuesday, so I hauled off and punched 'em in the nose.

No. No, I didn't. That was just a little private joke there for my friend Marie. She lived in Allston in the eighties, see, and---

Never mind.

I'm generally uncomfortable requesting favors (though I know some of you are reading this and thinking whaaaa???) and besides, haven't I had enough to deal with lately? On a cosmic level, I hardly think it would be wise to ask someone to take me to the cleaners. So when Chuck (TFT) bought the farm on Monday, I already knew I'd be fetching the down comforter myself.

I took the bus to the train and walked the mile from the station. If I'd thought ahead I'd've realized that the mile back with a king-sized down comforter under my arm would be uncomfortable, considering it was 80 degrees outside and I was dressed for 60. But oh well. The whole reason I was dressed for 60 was that I'm not thinking ahead. With my new zen attitude, remember, I'm only thinking about Now. And by the time Ahead was Now it didn't matter anyway.

Because what's happening Now is that the girl behind the counter's asking if I can come back for the down comforter tomorrow. And Now I'm explaining about the car and the bus and the train and the mile-long walk. And Now the girl's getting the manager, and Now he's explaining to me that my comforter was Very Messy (yes, you are a Cleaner), lots of stains (yes, I pointed them out to you and apologized, but once again: that is Your Job), he has to bleach it (bleach? Is that the Ancient Chinese Secret? Shit, I could have bleached it -- and it wouldn't have cost a week or $35, either), and he had to wait until someone brought in another one to balance the machine.

And Now I'm thinking about how on M*A*S*H, when there was just one wounded body, they'd put a dummy on the other stretcher to balance the helicopter. And Now I'm wondering if the manager would fit in the machine.

And Now he's asking me if I can please come back tomorrow, and Now I'm allowing as how I really have no choice. And Now, because I'm having a very hard time not thinking ahead to how I have to do this all again, I'm pointing out that he could have saved us both an awful lot of trouble if he'd called. And Now he's staring blankly at my chin, wishing I'd stop bugging him and go away.

And Now I do.

And Now, for the record and for the FTC, I would like to publicly state that I have received no goods or services in exchange for writing about the dry cleaners between the car park and the T. This is not a compensated endorsement -- in fact, it should not be considered an endorsement at all. But it's not an admonition, either. I can hardly risk a public insult, after all, considering that they're still in possession of my down.

Because oh, yeah, if that Manager thought I was bus/train/walking back the next day at his convenience, then I've got a little Ancient Chinese Secret of my own:

Goosefeathers!