Having cats in the house can make raising potted plants a bit challenging.
My cats liked to eat and/or play with house plants. Their favorite targets were peace lilies and violets but any old kind of plant would do in a pinch. They did not, however, mess with ficus, which is why I have two 7-foot-tall beauties, grown from sprouts. Any other kind of plant, though, was fair game.
Both Ollie and Emily passed in the last couple of years. I adored them (even when they were being evil) and miss them terribly.
The house felt kind of empty without them (I’m just not ready for more lovable furry creatures) so I decided to get a peace lily. That led to a finger leaf philodendren, which led to a croton, then a spider plant.
I think it’s beginning to get out of hand
They’re all here in my home office, keeping me company on the days I work at home—and not making a single mess anywhere.
No more drifts of fuzzy hair under the furniture, no spills around the water bowl, no water bowl. Ah, the joys of no litter box.
On the flip side, there’s also no snuggling or purring or leg rubbing.
I recently passed the 5th module in my quest for CCP (Certified Compensation Professional) via WorldatWork’s certification program. Past the halfway mark, with the toughest ones out-of-the-way, I can focus on the fun stuff like job analysis, documentation, and evaluation. Yippee!
I am not being sarcastic. I enjoy this stuff. Really.
What I don’t enjoy is cleaning house. Which is obvious to anyone who steps in the door.
Dust is my friend, dust is my friend, dust is my friend …
Last summer—in a moment of insanity—I bought new bedroom furniture. The insane part wasn’t buying the furniture because I’d had the same stuff for about 30 years and new furniture was way overdue.
The craziness was buying mahogany furniture with a black stain. Every, and I mean every, fleck of dust shows on every surface.
This stuff starts showing dust on the end of the dresser I just dusted by the time I get to the other end. And, I always know when my cat, Emily, walked across it because she leaves a trail of paw prints.
I could have bought the same set in white but was afraid it would show dirt too easily given Emily’s penchant for walking all over furniture.
So, in the spirit of “if you can’t beat ’em join ’em” I’ve decided I can live with shades of gray.
I draw the line, though, when it starts looking like it’s been sprinkled with baby powder. Dirty snow is not a good look.
I stopped by the grocery store in a rush a few days ago to pick up a few necessities. You know, eggs, bread, milk, the usual stuff.
This morning, I finished the last of the milk (the milk I already had) and reached in the fridge for the new milk, ripped the top off, and poured it right into the almost-full glass I already had.
Before I go any further with this narrative let me just say that I LOVE milk. A day without milk is like a day without sunshine in my book (sorry orange juice marketers) and breakfast without milk just isn’t right. It would be like crackers without cheese, a movie without popcorn, CSNY without Y. (It’s been years and I’m still not over that one.)
Next, I took a big gulp of my beloved milk and what to my wondering taste buds did appear?
I HATE buttermilk! Except in biscuits, of course. And, ranch dressing.
So, to the twit that stuck a jug of buttermilk in with the sweet acidophilus …
Very bad move.
On the brighter side, breakfast with Dr. Pepper ain’t too shabby.
But, what the heck am I going to do with a gallon of buttermilk?