Just A Bit Tired

I'm still here, on the edges of the blogosphere. I seem to be drowning in things to do and stuff that requires my attention and I'm finding myself increasingly tired and irritable.

Skimming through blogs, having a quick read and feeling guilty when I haven't posted anything noteworthy in what feels like ages. Work is quite stressful at the moment and it's definitely taking its toll. I work, I come home, I eat and go to bed. Repeat times 4. Days off are equally packed with things. I don't know how I have so many things to do but alas, it seems to be the case.

So I am letting you know I'm still here and I have jotted down a good few ideas for upcoming posts. All I need now is time to sit down and make them comprehensible to the rest to you. Mr S. is taking me out for some quality time together today. Might even go to the cinema or something else normal people do on their days off. Having said that, we'd both be quite happy to vegetate on the couch while watching some so-bad-it's-good-telly. But it'll be nice to get out of the house, won't it?

How to Bathe a Cat

I came home from work on Saturday and I was absolutely freezing. Not sure why, but I find that once I catch a chill, it's very hard to get rid of it. Gulping down two mugs of Earl Grey did nothing to warm me up and I could've given a limb or two in exchange for half an hour in a proper, Finnish sauna. Opting for the next best thing, I drew myself a very hot bath. The kind where you get out of it lobster red and glowing. After adding enough Radox to knock out a hippo, I slipped in.

Submerged in the bubbly tub, I started to thaw out. I was quite relaxed as it was, but had prepared to get even more relaxed by bringing in a glass of wine and some quality reading material (Donald Duck). I knew I had left the bathroom door ajar, because after about 10 minutes of blissful bopping about a little furry face appeared beside my head. Our cat Lily had decided to come and see what was taking me so long.

Two little paws on the edge of the tub she reached in to sniff the bubbles. She looked at them and then at me, perplexed. She's more used to sitting in the empty tub, staring at the tap, waiting for me to turn it on so she can drink from it while I brush my teeth in the mornings. After another brief glance, Lily sauntered out of the bathroom.

About fifteen minutes later she was back. Again, staring at me, trying to figure out what it was that I was doing. And, more importantly, why wasn't she included in this activity. She jumped on the side of the bath and went sniffing the bubbles again. By now, she had become to ta conclusion that the tub was, in fact a new bed, and the bubbles had to be my new duvet. She decided to jump in.

Needless to say, the realisation that she had in fact jumped into a bathtub full of water, resulted in the cat shooting out of the bath and the bathroom faster than anything on four legs I've seen before. I swiftly followed, seeing as a dripping wet cat roaming around in a house full of gadgets isn't an appealing idea. I followed thw wet paw prints into the kitchen and onwards to the living room, where there was a cat-shaped puddle in the middle of the carpet. She had continued onto out bed, which had a puddle in the middle of it now, before proceeding to nurse her bruised kitty ego under the bed.

Sulky cat

She looked well and truly pathetic, trying to lick herself dry. In one quick manoeuvre I had the car wrapped in a towel and firmly in place between my knees. Towel-drying a cat is harder than you'd think, so I had to bring out the hair dryer. After a while Lily seemed to be almost enjoying the experience. In the middle of it all I burst out laughing at the thought of someone seeing me sat in the middle of our bedroom floor, the drenched cat wedged between my knees, giving her a blow dry. You couldn't make it up.

Mr. S seemed to think Lily was extremely well styled and felt softer after the ordeal. The week didn't necessarily improve for poor Lily, as she too great exception to being de-wormed. At least I didn't have to shove tablets down the cats' throats as I opted for the de-wormer that you squirt onto the nape of their necks. Tom is always an easy patient, just purring away to himself when I treat him. Lily on the other hand, usually tries to make a break for it which is why she gets wrapped into a towel before the procedure. The things I do for them. Madness.

Pyjama Botherers

This story by the Irish Times had made it into the papers in Finland, too. Yup. The dole office in question had felt is necessary to point out to its customers that pyjamas aren't appropriate clothing to wear while visiting their establishment. I had a moment of quiet desperation. They had to point it out. The people showing up to supposedly apply for jobs, wearing their pyjamas, had to be told to smarten up a bit. Oh, mercy!

I can't really say that I'm surprised, to be honest. I've seen girls (yes, it's almost always girls) slouching about in the supermarket in their pyjama bottoms, hoodies and Uggs. (I hate Uggs, too.) It makes me wonder at what stage do you stop caring about your appearance in public? The contradiction here is, that these same girls will more than likely spend the best part of two hours getting ready for a night out; choosing their clothes, doing their hair and make-up.

Maybe it's a cultural difference, with me having been brought up in Finland, where especially this time of year going outside in anything less than four layers of thermals is simply unheard of. Was I to meet someone in their pyjamas walking down the street in Finland, my first reaction would be to check all the psychiatric wards in the vicinity to see if they were missing someone in their latest head count. Maybe I'm just unable to appreciate the freedom that comes with not caring what people may think of you when you're walking down the shops in your Primark finest. Bulls**t.

The thing is, I bloody love pyjamas. I have dozens. In different colours, materials, sleeve lengths. Dress ones, short ones, long ones, full ones, sets and singles. I have them all and I love wearing them. At home. Indoors. On the couch watching telly. In bed. The most fresh air my pyjamas get, is if I'm putting a bin out in the morning, and even then I reach out the back door and drop the bag in the bin just outside the back door. I may be seen by an occasional sheep and sometimes my next door neighbour. She is more than likely to be in her pyjamas, putting out her bin at that hour, too.

Yes, pyjamas are infinitely more comfortable than most appropriate day wear. They're built for comfort, not for style. Saying that, I am currently sporting quite fetching pyjama bottoms in grey and white checked pattern teamed with a t-shirt. I'm half dressed, but then I am at home, not out and about. Farhad Manjoo wrote about why he loves staying in pyjamas for the whole day. That's fine, you work from home! I'm pretty sure I'd be given my P45 as soon as I stepped my slippered foot in through the doors of my workplace.

And while I'm ranting, let's hear something about the dreaded onesie. It's what babies wear, right? No. There are grown people, all over the world wearing these hideous garments as pyjamas, or "loungewear", as they're being marketed. I think you could give up on normal life the moment you find yourself inside a onesie. The first time I saw one, was on Scrubs. I thought it to be an entirely fictional piece of clothing. How wrong was I? I shudder, they're horrid, and I can only imagine the stink inside one of them after you've spent a day (and a night, and a day) in one. Yuck.

Rant over. As you were.

Onesie photo from here

Scrubs photo from here