I moved a lot of stuff this weekend, wearing nothing when I should probably have invested 1.5 seconds putting work gloves on. My hands are a mess of nicks, scratches and splinters in need of pulling. Still, looking haggard in my hands doesn't bug me as long as you leave alone my pretty, pretty face.
That ended last night.
We went to bed early, around 9:30, still groggy from weekend drama. The cats, as usual, found warm spots on top of the covers and we cuddled up. Rio, our orange demon furball, sometimes feels unsatisfied with the top of the covers, and will climb underneath in order to snuggle closer to our--to her--giant, warm, pillow soft and pajama-clad bodies. Most nights, it's like wrapping your arms around the ideal stuffed animal. She goes to sleep. We go to sleep. At some point in the night, she gets hungry, bored or rolled-over, and clambers out with tabby stealth. Not last night. Something in our configuration upset the cat, and she climbed out hastily, pausing to land a back claw directly in my temple.
"Are you okay?" Brandi asked.
"I think I'm bleeding," I said. Awake, now, and no longer warmly cradled in the arms of sleep, I went to the bathroom and peroxided my face. It could have been worse and no malice was intended, so I shrugged it off and went back to bed. It took another 45 minutes to get to sleep, then my dreams were weird, and I got up very early in the morning to eat Girl Scout cookies. I wish they had healing properties. If I'm 50 pounds too heavy to run the marathon in May, Thin Mints are to blame.
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