daily things

There are some things I do, daily, like the rest of humanity - roll over and hit the snooze button, brush my teeth, breathe.

Recently I've drunk lots of coffee and tea, with milk, thanks. There's one particular mug that my brother and I both like to run out the door with, and though we don't fight over it, it rarely sits in the cabinet. Large enough to have a handle I don't have to jam my fingers through, interesting and detalied enough design to be an aesthetic delight, pale gray-blue and brown enough to be a respectable mug, stable enough not to tip over in the car. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure it's home in the dishwasher as I type.

I've been eating breakfast in the car, since I often ride to work with my mom and manage to be running behind schedule. Yesterday, to my chagrin, I left my plate of toast on top of the car. It shattered beatifully on the pavement as we crossed the railroad tracks in front of our house. Oh, to be a morning person, with a head on my shoulders before noon.

Our huge fluffy orange cat, Micawber (fom Dickens' David Copperfield), has gotten used to me being home again, and is constantly underfoot, meowing. I know he just wants some love and attention, but what's a girl to do when she notices a direct correlation between amount of time spent petting the cat and number of kleenexes hitting the trashcan?