That is NOT Going to Air Out.

My bedroom is my great-grandmother's Art Deco furniture.  Blonde wood, rounded uprights.  The dresser is a classic, a glamorous low-slung piece with a four-foot wide circular mirror.  Out of one of the Thin Man movies, Myrna Loy poised on the little bench, at the two-foot high top vanity, cocktail in hand.  I don't really use the furniture, but on the vanity sits the only picture I have of my great-grandparents, holding the baby that became my grandmother.

Yesterday I had an interview.  One I had because you never turn down an interview.  An interview that went very, very well.  I really hope they don't offer me the job because I do not want to have to decide.

Today I had another interview.  One I luckily got because I totally want to work for this organization.  I sent in my application, I dropped off a clever leave-behind; I practically sprinkled twenties in their office.

It was a phone interview, and due to scheduling I had electricians at the house so I figured I'd just hole up in the bedroom with the cats.  The cats were in the bedroom all morning, waiting for the call.

I'm thinking Call call call.  RING People RING.  Please!  I sat in the bedroom, keeping the cats from the electricians.

Call call call. RING, PLEASE.  Let me interview and be the ONE!  They are late CALLING...must call at any minute right?....

Just then Noah jumped on the vanity, as one of the electricians unexpectedly and loudly drilled through the ceiling - he looked both panicked and apologetic as he raised his tail ....

and pissed against the picture of my great-grandparents.  The urine poured out, down the photo, pooled on the vanity, and soaked the carpet.

Then the phone rang.

And in all honesty, as I write this - he just threw up a hair ball on my Moroccan carpet.