the ocean

Friday morning, Ian woke me up forty-five minutes early.

"Hey, I need to talk to you about something," he said.

I thought perhaps he had some tragic disease or had been caught watching Little Women: Atlanta again.

"Did you leave any cash out that she might have eaten? Because I found this in the closet."

Indeed he was washing off a wad of chewed up $20 bills.

"Uh, no," I said. "I mean, I think I pretty well learned that lesson last time."

"Cause I don't know what's going on here. If she got more cash somehow or something."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's still from the last time around. It could take a while to make it through the digestive system. But regardless, I'm pretty sure we can throw it away."

"I just don't know what's happening here."

"She ate cash and she's pooping it out. I don't think it's complicated."

So the takeaway here is that Ian thinks cash pooping is worth waking me up for, whereas I would prefer to not get up early for anything short of a fire. Also that twenties don't digest as smoothly as little dogs might hope. Karma's a bitch, and so is Aubrey.

I went over to help my sister with my nephew tonight. It was fun but so exhausting. I seriously don't know how people who actually have kids do it; my limit is about two hours before I need to lie down with a cold compress on my head. When I get there, he immediately greets me with a book he wants me to read with him, which he follows with another and another. I know I should be happy that he wants to read rather than watch TV, but after about the third time through Hop on Pop I find myself thinking that Disney Junior is looking pretty damn educational. And his favorite book is supposed to be sung to the tune of "My Darling Clementine," although it actually doesn't scan correctly for that matter, and it gets old super quick.

When we're not reading, we're running, or he's asking to be lifted or swung around in circles, which is surprisingly effective cardio. And there's lots of babbling -- we're very hot on numbers 1 to 10 right now, as well as animals and colors. He is a strangely thrilling conversationalist, even if he does refer to Ian as "Ita" for some reason. Of course, Aubrey is the one he really wants to talk about all the time, even though she is also the only one who has growled at him. Someone alert Ryan Murphy; this is a feud for the ages.

My new assistant is kind of fascinating. She is perhaps the bossiest person I have ever met; she spent my first week on the job telling me how I should set up my office, what office supplies I should want, how I should enter my time, and where I should go for lunch. She is obsessed with the hot breakfast our office cafeteria serves on Thursdays; she refers to it as "bacon day" and emails me about it on a bi-weekly basis. She likes to pop into my office to "chat" without regard to whether I'm on the phone or halfway into a $5 footlong or hosting a meeting with the prime minister of Bulgaria. Last week she spent twenty minutes telling me stories about her cats. And she is vehemently opposed to our upcoming office move, as though that accomplishes anything. She primarily seems to be upset that her new cubicle space won't have a shelf. I try to commiserate, but I frankly have no idea what she is talking about.

A few weeks ago, after striding into my office unannounced to look at protesters in the plaza below, she exclaimed "Geez, I guess they don't have anything better to do. I mean, he won, support him." And last week she popped in and asked, without preamble, "are you a popcorn guy? Like a guy who likes really good popcorn?" I had to admit that I was not.

She does know how to format a Word doc like nobody's business, though, I have to give her that.

Aubrey literally ate $100 in cash yesterday.

I had left it out for the cleaning lady, who isn't coming until next week, but I never really have cash, so when I happened to be by an ATM, I picked it up. And left it on my bedside table for the week. Where it was grabbed, torn up, and partially digested by a naughty beagle. I'm pretty sure it's no longer legal tender when you can't even find all the parts of Jackson's face any more.

I was furious, of course, but Aubs is kind of going through a rough time lately, as we are trying to cut back on her meds. The vet is nervous about them for long term use and wants to see how she does with less. I think we have our answer. Why she couldn't just tear up the two-month-old Entertainment Weekly on my nightstand, I'll never know.

Anyway, lessons learned. Expensive ones. I can think of better ways to spend $100, but I guess the lady is worth it.

Apparently, Ian and I both got norovirus. I say apparently because we haven't been to the doctor, but our symptoms corresponded pretty much exactly with those listed on the internet. Which is, of course, the ultimate medical authority. And by "our symptoms," I mean a full evening of vomiting and pooping. As in, I lost count of my vomits after fifteen. And you know how usually you feel better after you throw up? Not with this one -- it just started the countdown to the next round. I never slept more than fifteen minutes straight all night long. And I didn't manage to find a barf-appropriate vessel every time, so there was a lot of disgusting cleaning up that figured in. I won't even mention how our classy little Aubrey decided to handle this, but let's just say it wasn't helpful. So there I was, showering filth off myself at four in the morning, gently sobbing, and praying that my stomach was finally empty. Truly fun times.

The good news is that, two days later, we both feel relatively okay. I managed some toast at lunch and a full-on sandwich at dinner. I'm sure everyone at work will be very impressed with those accomplishments when I finally return there.