The circumstances under which I had come to live with Hubs as his roomie were not exactly pleasant ones. I had entered into a sort of rough patch and was desperate to escape everything I knew in order to collect myself. Hubs had offered me a little corner of his bachelor pad, provided I paid my way with the ever-coveted back scratches for him and his buddies. Pretty good deal, I'd say. They'd sit there and drink and noisily battle in rock band, and I'd have my wine and draw pictures in the wrinkles of their shirts with my claws. It worked out well for everyone, and we were a popular hang out spot for quite some time.
One night, while Hubs was off at the Hoe Show filling ice coolers, I had decided I was going to use the opportunity to show my appreciation while the house was relatively quiet. I was going to tidy.
I'm not very good at tidying.
Hubs, in a sign of true friendship, had bought me a cute little stuffed puppy to try and ease the pain of being alone on Valentine's Day. I named him Scruffy. Well, Scruffy happened to be lying on the floor in a kind of not tidy way. So I reached down to pick him up and put him somewhere a little more convenient. Like atop the beautiful black corner table with the glass top.
Maybe I had a little too much wine. Maybe I don't know my own strength. Maybe Scruffy just hated that table. My goal was to set the stuffed toy down. What happened was that I set the stuffed toy down...on the floor. Because my entire arm had gone through the top of the table.
I had shattered it into a million little pieces. And of course the first thought through my head was, "That table looked like something my grandmother would have had in her condo. Oh my God! What if his grandmother gave him that?! What if it's all he has left of his sweet little granny! Oh what have I done!!!" (Note: Hubs's granny is alive and well, as I came to learn in the following months.)
Terrified that I was about to lose my only sanctuary, I frantically dialed Hubs's cell and explained to him what had happened. It was bad enough that I was scared out of my wits and felt horribly guilty. But then he started to laugh at me.
The table had cost him five dollars at a thrift store.
I didn't bother cleaning after that.
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