Gnash Gnash

Balls.  I was just getting into bed when I remembered my self-imposed Blogvember.   And the only people I feel more sorry for than myself is you lot, because I have nothing to write worth reading this evening.  (Off to bed with the lot of you.) 

I am thinking, however, that while cats are vastly less trouble than children, they are just as expensive  (no one told me about the cost of kitty litter – especially if said kitty has quite disgusting exploding bottom; I might as well just roll up $2 bills into small balls and line the cat box with them), and quite a bit less interesting.  Not that my children are terribly interesting, but at least they do more than sit under the sofa all day, glaring at me.  (Although I’m sure they would, if they thought they could fit.)  Meanwhile, the Baby –  for whose enjoyment the cats were really acquired – shows as much interest in them as they do in her (namely:  none) and the Boy is sulking because I won’t him hug a kitten to death sleep. 

In other, much more exciting news, I am spending tomorrow (and the following 8 months or so) chasing my lost youth – THE BRACES HAVE ARRIVED FROM AMERICA.  Getting them organised has been a torturous process involving multiple scans and appointments and information given and promptly disregarded, and two months - TWO MONTHS! - has passed from me handing over my money and them doing anything to halt the slow, but inevitable, slide of my teeth across my palate and down my throat.  But tomorrow is. the. day.  (As with the kittens, it was something I thought was a great idea a while ago, and now that it’s upon me, I regret it unequivocally.) 

Still tho.  Straight teeth will be nice.  Torn, shredded mouth, ulcers and a temporary lisp?  Perhaps not so much.