I think about blogging way more than I actually blog. Does that count for anything? No? Well, that's why I won't be at BlogHer. Well, not the only reason. I'm not sure I'd be qualified (or invited?) to attend - what with the whole not blogging on a regular basis, or having a large number of followers - and you know, not being "in it to win it" and all that. But if I were those things, and if I wasn't so anxiety-ridden about being in new uncomfortable situations, it would be pretty cool to go - especially to this one, since Chicago is probably the closest anyone will come to my area. Heh, my area. I am apparently good at thinking about blogging and being a fan of other bloggers (and babbling to J about them) so uh, I'll just do that from home.
So, I lost my glasses. Which is fine, because I wear contacts. And these glasses were probably 15 years old, hella thick even though the prescription isn't even as strong as what I'd need now, and under no circumstances could be worn outside the house. I accused J of "accidentally" disposing of my fugly glasses, but I don't think he's ever even touched the things. No big loss, I guess. But it kinda sucks to depend on wearing contacts all the time. I tend to stumble around more blindly than usual in the morning. Which brings me to an incident in which glasses would've been helpful.
Arlo was all wound up and playful the other morning, which means he's either been: chasing Gracie, entertaining himself with his toys, biting the feet of whichever groggy unfortunate person is trying to use the toilet, or getting into some kind of trouble. While I'm in the bathroom I hear him messing with the door to the linen closet (the cats just cannot abide a closed door), reaching under it and thwapping around, making a bunch of noise. I open the door so he can retrieve whatever toy he probably pushed under the door in the first place, and he brings it out. I go to pick up his mousie toy and toss it down the hallway for him to fetch so I can close the closet door, and I realize this mousie sure has a lot of spit on it, enough that it feels pretty squishy and gross. Ew. I drop it on the floor. "Um, honey?" I call to Justin "Can you come here and tell me if this is a toy mouse or a REAL mouse?" (Blind, remember) And of course - it was real, and I guess I'm thankful that it was already dead and not - ugh - partially eaten or suffering or something. (Poor mousie - these two probably just annoyed him to death.) But yeah. Gack! Washed my hands several times and made a mental note to both get glasses and to stop buying toy mice that look so damn REAL! (Oh, and I suppose it would help to find out whether there are more. Eek.)
I guess adding this picture of Arlo with his toy doesn't help my story of how "real" the mice look. But again, BLIND! Ass from a hole in the ground? Without my contacts, who knows?