So school started this week, but I'm tired and the position of the cat on my lap makes it hard to type, so instead I will write briefly about my cats and my newly acquired propensity for breaking shit.
Cats. I like having them a lot. The two of them were the cats of a friend, but he has two other 14-year-old cats, and needed to clear the house a bit. I brought Penny home last Thursday, and she settled virtually instantly. A few hours of hiding, and then she was wandering all over us at 3 am wanting to be petted. (We now keep the cats out of the bedroom.) She's basically my ideal cat - very affectionate, likes to sit on your lap and be petted, but stops short of annoying. I was worried at first, but apparently only because I knew nothing about cats.
Polo, the other cat, came home on Thursday. His actions seem more typical of cats in general from what I've heard - lots of hiding and hissing. But every day he makes demonstrable progress - less hissing, less hiding. Still, his agenda from living with us reads something like this:
Day One: hiding in office closet and hissing hysterically when approached.
Day Two: hiding in closet, followed by cautious prowling around the office after his previous owner visited him.
Day Three: Hiding in closet, then an evening of slow wandering around the living room after being shut out of the office.
Day Four: Hiding behind the TV and under the bed, then some living room wandering, then hiding behind a row of books on a bottom shelf.
But every day he's out more, and I know that in general he's just a moody cat - some days as affectionate as a happy baby, other days as angry as a spinster aunt.
...oh man. I'm already a Cat Lady in the making.
As far as the breakage thing goes...I have no idea what's going on. In my first year in Madison, I think I *maybe* broke one drinking glass. Maybe. In my last apartment, that whole year, I broke two wine glasses and another drinking glass. (Give or take maybe one glass.)
Since moving into this apartment on August 15th, not even three weeks ago, I have broken *five* wine glasses. Five. For two of them I was admittedly a bit under the influence, but still...I drink no more here than at the last place, probably demonstrably less. That doesn't explain the increase. And then how do you account for the other three? The one I accidentally hit with the edge of the blanket I was wrapped in? The one that was standing in the sink and that I nudged a little with the plate I was washing, making it fall and shatter? The one I was *putting away* and accidentally bumped the edge against the shelf above just hard enough to crack it? At first I was just amusedly annoyed at myself, but it's getting to the point where it's like WTF. Three matching wine glasses is my happy minimum, and despite buying a new set two weeks ago, I am not at this stage. Why is this? No clue. I could blame shoddy American workmanship, but that seems uncharitble given the current economic climate. But I don't feel I've grown appreciably clumsier since a month ago, so...who knows. Maybe the place is haunted by a ghost who vents his pent-up anger at living women by causing them to break their own glasswork.
If you've got an alternate theory, feel free to submit it. (Except you, Andy.)
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