Family-of-Six is away for the weekend again. I suspect they will be triple-checking their engine before they return.
Meanwhile, I am sort of reluctantly bonding with the kitten. Last night didn't go so well. Today went a lot better--to the point that I had a meltdown about it, alone (except for the cat), in the kitchen. I kind of don't want it to go well, because apart from the fact that my brother and his family will be here over Christmas and apparently he is violently allergic to cats, I have this superstitious but deep-seated fear that having a cat will be the death knell to all my marital hopes and aspirations. I fear that I am just a couple of months away from becoming The Cat Lady.
The fact that I just forked over a large sum of money (nevertheless at a seemingly divinely orchestrated discount price) for a twin mattress set was already giving me ominous intimations of such things, but if I end up getting a cat without even trying, it really feels to me like someone is saying, "Since you are going to be alone for the rest of your life, here is a companion. You're already well on the way to eccentric."
On the other hand, if someone steps forward and says they are just dying to have a cat and they would love to take this kitten off my hands, then I will feel like I am just a way-station for living beings; I provide friendship or housing for people--and now, apparently, animals--for as long as they need it, and then they move on to whatever they're really supposed to be doing with their lives.
Sometimes my reasoning gets a little fuzzy. But that might be the presence of kitten-fur all of a sudden.
The Milk Guy (to whom I did not relate any of this angst) says I should lighten up and watch the Simpsons. Which is on in two minutes. So for once I'm going to take his advice, and do it.