Wednesday, 26 February 2014

frosty wife, frigid life

Having onions in your lunch is always a risky decision.  Just so you know to avoid my office this afternoon, in case you were thinking about dropping by. 

So, the Great Housework Debacle of 2014 has reached a frozen denouement.  P tried valiantly to engage me in neutral conversation yesterday, followed by lots of little touches (e.g. running his hand over my lower back whenever he walked past). He fairly rapidly realised the frosties weren't going away any time soon.  This morning he said he was sorry and hugged it out, which was a bit like hugging a board, really (albeit a board with a quite a bit of excess adipose tissue - I'm squishy even when I'm cross).  While I'm pretty sure he was internally qualifying his sorry six ways from Sunday - just saying it to get the fight finished and to appease me before announcing we've got dinner with the in-laws tonight, a fact he'd previously neglected to mention - I think I'm going to magnanimously accept the gesture and move on.  I'm usually the one who'll do anything for the sake of peace, so I think that's probably fair. Also, he's kind of nice when he's not being a dick.

Kitten update, you say? OH GO ON THEN I WILL. 

Timothy: not his usual shining self, Timothy has been hiding under the bed and feeling a bit under the weather, I think.  He has also point blank refused how to learn to use the cat door properly and insists that we open it for him.  Wee Tim is no longer so wee; he's starting to grow into his enormous paws.  He's no longer chewing wires (whew).  He loves to sleep between P and I and press his face into ours with purring sound effects as he resettles in the night.  I love it. 

Tabitha: a wicked, naughty bundle of fun.  She's brilliant and I love her.  She knows how to use the cat door but only when she feels like it.  We've taken to naming all the cat toys variations on 'Tabby's baby': Tabby's mouse baby, Tabby's crack baby (the latter being a catnip mouse that sends her crazy - one minute she's snuggling, the next she's savaging her baby like she desperately needs to get at the good stuff inside). She sleeps under the bed or in the spare room, leaping up at about 6am to see if I'm awake enough to get her biscuits yet.

I'm fully aware, thank you, that I sound hormonal, obssessive and just a touch pathetic when I talk about my cats.  In all honesty, I probably am hormonal, obssessive and just a touch pathetic when it comes to my cats.  At least I'm frank with my weblog?

(Except when I'm not.  I'm partial to a bit of revisionist history, from time to time.)

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