So, Peter and I are wrapping our fifth day alone in the house together, while Karry and Emma are away doing a national dance thingy in New Orleans.
Conditions are relatively and surprisingly stable here on the home front.
Of course I trained hard for this. Translation: I listened to a podcast on the Donner Party on Saturday morning (true story). As a result I feel pretty prepped in the what-not-to-do-department if things go really sideways. Just in case, I think we have enough tiny cans of cat food to keep cannibalism from becoming a serious consideration until the girls return.
Among the many things I’ve learned this week is that tiny cans of cat food are ridiculously adorable. I’ve been using a tiny spoon to scoop their tiny food into their tiny bowls. And I’ve found that it’s impossible to resist talking to cats as if they are human babies when one is using a tiny spoon to scoop tiny food from tiny cans into tiny bowls. Is Mistow Viktow hungwee?
Incidentally (again), this week has marked the first time in the year-plus that they’ve been living with us that Viktor Kitty and Roman Kitty have acknowledged my presence in the house. Although technically speaking, they’ve really only acknowledged the tiny food I’ve placed in their tiny food bowls. The first full day the girls were away, Viktor slept for like 12 hours straight in my downstairs office chair. I think he was trying to hibernate until the girls returned.
But that’s just the tip of the freakish occurrence iceberg. A few other unprecedented highlights:
- Peter and I actually survived each other making a grocery run on Saturday, after he literally begged me not to make him go. Aside from us loudly arguing in front of the checkout lady at Giant Eagle, and almost coming to blows over chocolate milk at the Aldi, the excursion was virtually incident-free, except for all the sh*t he tried tossing in the cart that was not on the Official List.
- Complicating this week’s proceedings … on Saturday, I picked up the season’s first batch of veggies from our CSA subscription. And get this, I executed a roasted kohlrabi recipe the other night that didn’t taste like punishment. #dadsonfire
- When I came home from work Monday night, Peter had dinner ready. He’d set the table, had steaks on the grill, corn on the stove, and potatoes in the oven. Not only that, we had delightful conversation at the table. I’m not exaggerating, the conversation was friggin’ delightful.
- Needless to say, I’ve upped my laundry game to a whole new level. Pouring bleach in the bleach hole, sorting like a sumbitch, turning the knobby thingies like a Boss. Evidently, my enthusiasm is infectious. Peter actually offered to wash, dry and fold clothes the other night. ‘Bout shat my pants. I’m seriously considering adopting him.
I will acknowledge that we’ve, um, ‘adjusted’ the standards that Karry typically holds the house accountable to … but so far, we’re keeping each other reasonably clean, fed and dressed.
Though we’re still not past the ½ point of Survival Week.
According to my training, as long as we don’t follow bad advice to take a non-existent shortcut across treacherous terrain in the middle of a horrendous winter, we should steer reasonably clear of having to ask Google how to tenderize human flesh.
Plus, we’ve got all that adorable tiny cat food.
Just to be safe, prayers por favor.