I should never leave blog writing until Sunday afternoon. I always — with good reason — get nervous about ideas coming and words following. I’m sure some of my least inspired blogs were written on Sunday afternoons. I should do a little review of my posts and see if that’s true. But, be that as it may, boring or not, words must be written because I don’t want to miss a week. If I could manage writing with a broken wrist and balancing the computer and Harriet on a pile of pillows, I can write something today.
My problem is, I’m in a particular time crunch this Sunday. For the first time in a very long time, I have folks coming to dinner in a few hours. But, it seems this muse of writing couldn’t care less that I have set a time limit on when and what will be written this Sunday. It wouldn’t matter so much except this dinner is mine and Harriet’s Thank-You to Margaret for all she did for us those four months ago in those early days of healing. I know it’s long overdue, but I just haven’t felt up to that level of entertaining. All I’ve managed have been the occasional, last-minute, “Hey, why don’t you come on over and eat?” kind of dinner invites to dear Len next door. He is like my family so while the food is always — or nearly always — excellent, the “presentation” may lack some of the finesse that a “dinner party” demands, eh? Tonight has to be a shade fancier and more put together — like I have to take this laptop off the table for one thing and remove at least one layer of cat hair from the couch so folks don’t have to wear souvenirs of the cats home afterwards.
But the biggest problem isn’t preparing the food or dessert or getting this place in some kind of order for guests or even writing this blog. No, the hardest thing is convincing — once again — the cats to STAY OFF THE TABLE. It’s my own fault, really. I haven’t been strict enough with them. I haven’t had the spray water bottle handy 24-7 to zap them if they even thought about getting up here. No, they have no manners whatsoever. When Len’s here, they know that he won’t be too strict with them unless they try to steal meat right off his plate (which they have been known to do). But the folks coming tonight haven’t eaten here before and, I must admit, there’s something unappealing about having a four-legged beast sitting in the middle of the table. I remember once in Spain, long before I became a slave to cats, I went to dinner at this British lady’s house. The table was beautifully set but then, one of her cats climbed up and sat right in the middle of one of the plates. I made a mental note not to sit there.
I tried talking to them nicely today and explaining why it was absolutely, positively essential that they didn’t get up on the table tonight. Rose looked at me and, defiantly, walked regally from her perch on the back of the couch and settled on top of the table and, worse yet, on the one-and-only-cat-hair-free schmata left in the house. It was intended to be put on the back of the couch tonight before guests arrived. I thought if it was folded over the back of a chair, it was safe from Hair. Unfortunately, one little piece was folded on the table and there she sat.