Never work with animals or children

So this week has been… hectic.

And we're only half way through.

HUMP DAY!!! Woot woot!

I love that commercial. It never fails to make me giggle hysterically.

Anyhoodle, as I've mentioned before, I'm severely lacking in the motivation department with regards to school. Half way through week 2, and it's not getting much better.

Part of it stems from the fact that we are supposed to hear back from the underwriter today on whether or not our docs are approved. While she said that everything should be fine, and despite the fact that our credit is really good and we have a substantial down payment and we've given them every single piece of OCD-level documentation they've asked for (I'm almost expecting a request for organ tissue samples at this point), I'm still nervous. Because you never know.

The other part of my distraction stems from the fact that it is uncomfortable for me to type, properly hold a text book, or basically function like a regular human being on account of the vicious assault I suffered Monday night.

Yes, it hurt. And yes, I have a forearm tattoo. It's Anglo-Saxon and Norse runes. It translates into "Fate is wholly inexorable". 

Yeah. Courtesy of my cat. Little bastard.

So, I mentioned before about how he is a Long-Haired Asian, and so without regular trimmings, he can sometimes get poop on himself if he doesn't position himself properly in the litter box. It's gross, but it's something I just know will occasionally happen.

Well, it happened again Monday night. He just got a little bit on himself; better than usual, no biggie right? 

Wrong.

So wrong.

I'm right in the middle of making dinner when this happens, so of course it was super awesome timing.

So I stop what I'm doing, carry him to the bathroom, and clean his bum fir with baby wipes. I then discover he had also gotten some on his tummy as well, probably while attempting to clean the first mess. It becomes clear that he just needs a bath; baby wipes won't be enough in this situation.

We confine him to the bathroom while we eat, and then I start gathering the supplies for bath time. 

Well my daughter accidentally let the cat out of the bathroom at this point, and seeing as how he was already stressed about me cleaning him and pissed that I locked him in the bathroom when there was food smells he desperately needed to investigate, he bolted into the bedroom and tried to hide under my daughter's bed. I grabbed him and gingerly carried him back out, trying not to touch the still-stinky parts of his tummy.

And this is when he flipped the eff out and ripped my arm open*.

Let me tell you, it hurt. A lot.

And it bled. A lot.

To the point that I had to bust out the family pack of paper towels because the first-aid kit was too far away.

So I clean my arm and wrap it in gauze, and The Husband taped me up, and we proceeded to trim the cat's excessive fur and give him a good bath.

It didn't go well.

Lots of growling and angry mewing and escape attempts.

And of course, being that I was newly injured, I was only slightly helpful in the whole process. And a little jumpy about more potential attacks.

But we got him clean, we got him somewhat trimmed, and I kept my distance from him for the rest of the night.

All I can say is he's lucky I am morally opposed to de-clawing and find it utterly cruel; and he's lucky that I understand he was stressed and pissed about being cleaned; and he's lucky I understand that he hates being in the confined space of an apartment. He never used to act like this in our old house, so once we're in the new house (knock on wood) I'm hoping his attitude gets better.

Post-bath look of shame… or hatred...

Cute, fluffy, evil bastard.

*You know my priorities are a little screwy when my first thought was not "oh crap I'm bleeding profusely", it was "oh no my tattoo!"