Last night, Guinness woke me up with a sneezing fit that lasted far longer than I would have thought a four pound cat capable of; ten or more sneezes in a row. Of course, I immediately diagnosed him with some fatal cat respiratory disease and then I tossed and turned with worry, preventing me from falling back to sleep for at least an hour, although it felt like ten.
In the light of day, he appears healthy enough, so, I probably need not have worried quite so much.
In other news of my neurosis, The Hallmark Channel is showing schmaltzy Christmas movies 24/7; I may-or may not-have already cried over sappy romances, toddlers in plaid holiday pajamas, puppies gifted in shiny boxes on Christmas day, and/or the inevitable "I do believe in Santa" moment inherent in each and every one of those stupid ass movies.
Hey, I said I may have.
I may have also come thisclose to losing my composure when driving the Man-Cub back from his doctor's appointment in Neighboring City last week; we were chatting about Christmases when he and QB were young, and, for just a second, I pictured them both so clearly (in plaid holiday pajamas, pulling the lid off a shiny blue box in which sat a plump and squirmy Baby Rowdie), that it took my breath away for a second. Then, something totally got in my eye, and I had to take a moment to recover.
Or, so I told the Cub; I don't think he bought it.
I am assuming that all of this weepiness is a symptom of The Change, although, I have continued to entertain Aunt Flo on a monthly basis (too much information? Sorry!), so, what the hell do I know?
I might just be getting soft in my old age. I guess that beats crazy, right?
That was a rhetorical question.