Roomie has been absent from the apartment for nearly a week, leaving me with the furball whose ownership she technically has. (It’s debatable in winter–depending on whose covers she’s burrowing under for warmth.) Dinah has decided that this means my lap is always at her disposal. Other than the occasional choking inhalation of excess fur, this has worked out pretty congenially. Until about five minutes ago….
I just got back from the nail salon. In a not completely vain attempt to get my nails looking like something other than chewed off disasters, I’m back on my every-other-week manicure regimen. I can’t fully explain it but if others paint my nails for me, I don’t chew them. If I paint my nails or if I leave my nails unpainted, commence nibbling. It keeps me healthier (less germs directly in the mouth) and my hands certainly look better–so it was off to the nail salon.
I arrived home, sat down to determine when the-boy-dating-Roomie is swinging past to fix my desktop computer, and Dinah hopped up on my lap. I start scritching her under the chin and….are my nails totally dry????
Whew–apparently dry enough to pay attention to the purring long hair that’s now just gotten comfortable. So I won’t look at the dishes for a while and I should probably avoid the cat brush with all of it’s little prickles, but we’re safe for the moment.