It was the puke that inspired yesterday's post, and yet, I forgot to mention it. I fell asleep at a ridiculously early 8:30 p.m. last night, exhausted, and woke up at 5 this morning, still exhausted, and wondering how I could have forgotten the vomit in yesterday's post. Overload, I guess.
Anyway, on Saturday morning, as I went out to take the picture of my poppy, Glen called out after me: "Watch out for the vomit. Some asshole puked out there last night. I'll clean it up in a few."
And indeed, there was a healthy pink pile of spatter in the street, just a few feet from our door; it brought me back to the days of Wolfe Hall: I dodged a lot of yak there, too. It is not something I'm proud of, not a skill I ever thought I'd need. It's just the way it is. I thank my former dorm mates for my iron stomach. And I thank my current neighbors for keeping it so well honed.
I texted my sister Karen, who was on her way over, and told her to avoid parking right next to the house, because of the pile. She appreciated the advice, though the puke was gone by the time she arrived.
I cut my poppy, brought it in, photographed it some more, and then took the baby from Glen so he could get the hose.
I held Matthew by the side door, and together we watched Glen spray down the street. "It wasn't so bad," he called over the sound of the water hitting asphalt, "Looks like the birds got most of the big chunks."