her able hands

We’re having one of those Sunday’s that feels like the clock is moving double-time, and the work week looms just the other side of a too-short sleep. It’s the fourth day in a row where things are conspiring against us, and the cranky level of the two adults in the house is pushing against the ceiling.

A short list of things:

• Lila is getting sick again.
• I have a toothache.
• The cats are revolting against something (?) and have so far pooped on the rug three times, and peed on a pair of Chris’ work pants, instead of using one of the two perfectly useable boxes in the basement.
• I discovered right after I found the most recent tower of poop on the living room floor, that last weekend when we fell asleep without blowing out the votive candle on top of the piano (dumbasses), that we’re damned lucky we didn’t burn the house down. The glass charred a circle in the veneer on the top of the hundred year-old Baldwin.
• I left a glass sweating on the piano bench and it now has a hideous yellow ring.
• The leaves are still in huge piles on the lawn, smothering it to death, I’m sure, but it’s too wet to rake them.

See? It’s all just minor crap, but for some reason it’s not rolling off of us. Chris and I are at each other’s throats. I guess we’re once again facing the avalanche of evidence in favor of the fact that we’re not in control of very much.

I think we should all get kitty-fur-lined mittens for Christmas.

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