then flying monkeys, and then...
Well, let's just say my stomach hasn't been happy in this last week and leave it at that. This morning, I ditched the workout regimen and the housecleaning resolutions, and slept with Squish on my lap for two hours, while my dehydrated body recapped a little bit of snoozola.
It was nice.
And then I went to the yarn store, and chatted with Babetta, who loves me, and that was nice too, but the best part of that? It gave me a break from Squish.
See, Squish is a blessing in a lot of ways. She's smart, she's vocal, she's fun, she's vocal, she has a good heart, she's vocal, she's funny, she's vocal, she's active, she's vocal, she's charming, she's vocal...
Uhm... you get the picture.
Let's just say that spending enforced time with Squish is making me appreciate the silent vortex of my own thoughts... at least the only conversations that happen in my own noggin are ones that I can steer!
But today is the last day of soccer for Squish, at least, and that's wonderful-- that takes our soccer days from five to three, and *whew* I can almost dream about breathing again! (Whoopie!) Zoomboy and Chicken are unfazed by this... soccer is neither the thing that drives them nor feeds their souls... but it does teach them all sorts of good things, like how not to beat the crap out of the kid that just pissed them off, and that's always a useful lesson.
And the game itself was cold and rainy, which doesn't sound exciting, but since it was ninety degrees until last week, it actually, kinda was.
Steve the cat keeps trying to escape into the garage. I'm not sure what to do to get her to stop doing this, because, the thing is, *whisper* THE BAAAAAAADDD cats are there.
Yes, it's true. We have two cats in the garage, who, during the house reorganization of 2004, decided they didn't want a fucking thing to do with us. Since the damned things hated us when they lived here, and chose to have as their only talent, the ability to crap twice their bodyweight anywhere BESIDES the catbox, we sent them to the garage, where they have lived, happily hating our guts, for the last six years.
Steve adores them. Steve wants to learn bad cat habits, like sitting and scowling, hiding under the shevles, and sleeping on the clothes meant for Goodwill.
This morning, after Steve's third escape, I did the unforgivable. I actually grabbed my precious Steve BY THE TAIL to get her back in the house. She has been glaring at me ever since.
Guys, I hate to say it, but should I not blog for a couple of days, there's only one reasonable reason why:
The damned cat killed me in my sleep.
Everyone cross their fingers--even Steve may find forgiveness in her fuzzy little black (& white) heart...