This week is a little bit crazy, and we are trying with only moderate success to entertain our out-of-town guests. Oddly, they have decided to stay around longer than originally planned. Maybe they hope that if they wait long enough, we will be magically transformed into someone more useful. Their optimism, I fear, is unlikely to be borne out by reality. Meanwhile, Steve has to steal time from the evening to get his work done, I have a talk to give tomorrow, we won't get any weekend, I'm behind on laundry, the cat pissed on the sofa, and we have fleas. FLEAS. I think they arrived via the Thing That Scrabbled Under the Floor.
(Last week, we heard an alarming scrabbling sound under the floor. It fortunately has not returned since then, but Steve and I both reacted to it the same way, which was to daintily pull up our feet in alarm. You can perhaps imagine the scene. Very practical and butch, both of us. Despite this, and the fleas, and the cat piss, I swear to you that we appear to live in a fairly clean and charming little house, not a depressing shithole. It doesn't feel that way at the moment, however.)
We dosed the cat and I just did an elaborate and dusty nontoxic thing that is supposed to suffocate any flea eggs lurking around while leaving all the other living things in the house unscathed. But Jesus Christ. Please send cake.