I’m not gonna let myself go down a black hole of self-pity. So I’ll just say a heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone for your kind comments re: Othello. It’s weird not having the little bugger around, sleeping on my head and knocking shit off tables and doing his best little Oliver Twist impression at the food dish (I never did get him one of those slouchy tweed caps…).
Jeff left on Sunday, early in the morning – I drove him to the airport at 5:30. His flight didn’t leave ’till 10:00, but I was just ready to be rid of him.
OMG, Y’ALL. Kidding. KIDDING.
He did leave at 5:30, though. And then I kept busy all day, with important tasks like publishing a Wikipedia page for my boss, buying a maxi skirt at Nordstrom Rack (woot!) and making baked beans.
I can hear your jealousy from way over here. Tone it down a bit, eh?
Sunday night was a work potluck to celebrate the end of the school year, and to be a send-off for my boss (who’s spending the next year at his home far from St. Louis.). That was really nice, and also served to help distract me from the empty(ish) house waiting for me. I ate grasshopper cheesecake, which was so good that I almost died. Seriously, I just about plowed face-first into that fucker. It wouldn’t have been pretty.
Roxie’s not adjusting to the changes well. A friend pointed out that Roxie and Macbeth are probably thinking, “OMG first Mommy gets rid of Othello, now she gets rid of Daddy. AM I NEXT?!?!”. And when you’re my pea-brained puppy, this fear and anxiety somehow – inexplicably – translates to a compulsion for anal gland expression. REPEATED anal gland expression. WTF? Fucking disgusting. (Though at least it’s always been in her kennel or on the tile.) My poor, disgusting, confused baby. She doesn’t know what the hell is going on.
Macbeth is holding a grudge against me. He’s become fond of sitting just out of arm’s reach, glowering at me and repeating “You’re not Daddy. You’re not Daddy. You’re not Daddy.” I can hear it.
(And no, it’s not time to call the nice men in white coats. Yet. I’ll let you know.)
Here was last night’s exhibit, while I was trying to read before bed:
If that’s not a cat with a grudge, then I don’t know what is. Little beastie.
In other news, I was forcibly enrolled in a yoga class. I’m sure we’ll all share a hearty laugh about that one someday.
But all that really matters is, T-minus 1 week until the end of the yarn diet. I may not ever finish the 29-day countdown (I know y’all were just waiting to see a photo of me scrubbing the toilet), but at least it has been a good distraction these past couple weeks.
Which I guess is the best you could hope for.