Nunya greeted me for my third smoke signal with angry yelling. She did not appreciate my desperate hug. So I gave her the precious wet food I save for special occasions and now she's hiding under the futon. Wait, no she snuck out to eat some more. Wait, no, I don't know who that was. Ply is in my bedroom and Nunya is still cowering by the futon.
I had been worried that I hadn't left enough food, forgetting that they've recently started going on hunger strikes when I leave.
Now there's either a third cat somewhere crying like a ghost, or Nunya is still bursting into tears when I'm not looking. The house fan is on to get rid of the stuffiness and I can't figure out where the sound is coming from. It's not Ply as she came back to collect on her back pay of scritchies.
How much do I love that "scritchies" is part of auto detect spelling?
ETA that I'm still not ruling out a guest of the corporeal or incorporeal kind, but also cats are really fast, right? RIGHT?
My stupid cat really wants me up at 6. I prefer 6:45! I actually think it was earlier when the days were longer, so am hoping this will stop as we move toward winter....
My stupid cat really wants me up at 6.
Cats are gonna cat, man.
I am in a cab to the airport!
I do want to let anyone know who thinks their animal is crying for their breakfast early: I only free-feed dry food. So it's not that! She's just an asshole sometimes!
Loki's falling down on the job of poking me in the face when the alarm goes off. Has taken to just sitting on my head. Scrambling more to get to work when I want to this week.
The Happy Cat gets a can of wet food in the evening when I come home. He thinks if he cries enough when I get up that I'll forget that it's not evening.
Sometimes cats just want company. They're up, why aren't you up? It's the best part of the day! Being crepuscular rocks!
Pixie will sometimes come and yowl at me early in the morning until I wake up enough to pet her a little. Then she'll curl up next to me and go to sleep and then complain when I get up a little while later (when I am supposed to get up) because I am disturbing her. She is a pretty pretty princess, though.
Today I woke up at 4 for no apparent reason, but it did give me more BOOK READING TIME so YAY. And I'm ready for work a little early, even, which does not usually work out when I get up that early - I have so much time I end up running late somehow.
Stupid work. My boss, I guess, asked these people from corporate to come out and do a training. We have 1 new employee who needs it. I do not remember him ever talking to me about it, but an invitation was sent which I missed. In fact, 5 of the 6 people it was sent to missed it. ONLY 1 person replied. No follow up, but 2 people are here to train is today. If I sent an invitation and only 1 person responded I would not think the training was happening and I sure as hell would have followed up.
I hate people being here. I hate attending training sessions on stuff I already know how to do. I hate bad communication. I hate everything.
My cat was pretty yowly last night, but she was apparently really thirsty! She tries very hard to get me up on time but a) I can pretty much ignore the meows and b) I can pet her while sleeping.
A little Ryan talk. This year I've joined the office footy tipping competition. I've avoided it for my first four years here, because it's an Aussie rules comp. Australia, despite having fewer people than Texas, nonetheless manages to have two major football codes - rugby league and Aussie rules (comps run by the NRL and AFL respectively). We also find room for Rugby union and soccer. I follow League, as Canberra (from whence I hail) has an NRL team but no AFL team. However, my new home of Melbourne is Rules central, with nine AFL teams (half the comp) and just one NRL team.
I have therefore avoided being sucked into the office tipping, until this year. The reason is Ryan, of course. My boy attends school in Melbourne and I have been unable to shield him from learning a thing or two about aerial ping-pong. (He still tells me he prefers rugby league; so I think he's already staked out one battleground for his teenage rebellion years. Ah well, as long as he still thinks echidnas are cool.)
Every week, then, Ryan and I peruse the fixtures for that week and make our tips. By which I mean his tips. I have mentored him in reading the ladder, bookies' odds, tipping stats etc. but every tip has been his. (He gets really into it, and is disappointed that I won't spend my entire weekend refreshing the live scores every three minutes.)
From the very first week, the leader of the competition has been one of the principals of the firm, George. He's led by a varying margin week after week, right up until the last weekend, when that changed. As of this week, the leader of my office competition (by 1 point) is Ryan. There is one week left to go.
Ryan is thrilled, and pretty excited for this weekend. Before he did his tips for last weekend, I explained the situation. "The competition's almost over, and you've done very well. You're in third place. YOu can play it safe and protect that; but if you want to try to win, you'll need to take a risk. What would you like to do?"
Ryan decided to go hard or go home. Only he didn't say that, because he is six years old and unfamiliar with cliches. His daddy knows his cliches, however, and after his first upset pick had paid off and his second upset pick was leading with about 20 minutes to go, I shared one with him: "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched". He quizzed me on its meaning, why it matters, and why anyone would want to count chickens in the first place; and he seemed satisfied.
Ten minutes before full time, when his upset pick had extended its lead, he turned to me with a big grin and said, "Daddy, I'm counting my chickens before they're hatched!" My boy now knows cliches. One day he may use this power for good. This is not that day.
