That’s not entirely fair. Actually, I like my new job. Actually, I can’t even really call it new anymore, considering that I’ve been there for almost two months. So, no, I haven’t just forgotten to update my blog in a really long time. It’s just that after you stare at not one, but two computer screens for eight hours of the day, it’s hard to come home and stare at your laptop screen, at least more than the time it takes to update Facebook so that your mother doesn’t think you’re dead.
What am I doing? Well, I am working in the installations department of a large, successful company that manufactures vehicle tracking devices. And I like it. I do. There is always work, so the day flies by and I can return home to my husband and my kitty. Oh yeah, that’s right. We got a kitty.
We adopted her in September from the RSPCA and she has almost completely taken over our house. We keep her out of the bedrooms and the kitchen for the sake of my allergies, but other than that, there is no carpet, blanket or chair in our home that is not covered in cat fur. And we love it. She is a total snuggle bug; all she wants, besides food, is to be held and cuddled. Unfortunately, that need usually arises at five a.m. when she stands outside the bedroom door and serenades us with a tragic aria worthy of Maria Callas. I’m not even certain she knows that her name is Ginny; I think she might think it’s ‘brat-cat’ or ‘shhh’ or ‘oh my god please let me pee in peace.’
Paul and I made the decision to keep her as a indoor kitty and so far she has shown no signs that she wants to be anywhere else. The vet seemed a little judgmental, like we were denying her some inalienable kitty right to run around outside with the foxes, badgers, and drivers who take the bend in our road at 60 mph, but I stick to our choice. She’s already six years old, maybe even more like eight, and there is no reason why she shouldn’t live the rest of her life in comfort and warmth and safety inside a two-story, multi-roomed house. So there.
Of course, being responsible for a little furry life has made us start to think about being responsible for another human life. Babies have been on the discussion board since the wedding, but only in a ‘someday, when we’re more financially secure’ way. Well, now we are more financially secure. And I am staring down my 35th birthday next March. If not now, when? Still, it’s a huge thing. Would we be doing it because we really, truly want to be parents, with all of the mess and sleep depravity and loss of freedom that go with it, or are there other factors pressuring us down the baby path? Do we just want it because we are conditioned to want it?
I don’t know yet. But I am glad to have Paul making these decisions with me. Maybe it’s his Britishness. He’s just so much more practical than I am. Yet I have a feeling he wants a little person in our lives, too, and not just so he can play with their train sets and racing cars after they’re sent to bed. I guess we’ll wait and see what happens. However, being parents to Ginny has taught us a few things.
- Baby poop can’t be any worse than a kitty’s litter box after a weekend away.
- We love to spike the kitty’s fur into crazy patterns, so we will probably be those parents who draw comical eyebrows on our baby’s face and post pics online. (We’ll use non-toxic marker, of course; we’re not barbarians.)
- Considering how fast we fell in love with her, any kids of ours will never lack for affection.
In the meantime, I will be at work, saving up money for said potential little person by figuring out what the engineers from Scotland are trying to say when they call up with installation issues. Doctor Who and Downton Abbey didn’t prepare me for this…