As usual in my life, I do everything (big) backwards. Instead of saving a downpayment and then buying a house, I bought the house with a 100% mortgage (right before the massive changes in mortgages happened) and then started saving.
And here, instead of exercising and eating right to lose weight, I lost the weight first and then started eating right, and then it occurred to me that having begun to eat all this protein, I might as well try to do something useful with it (like build muscle).
A gym membership was just going to be a waste of money. Just imagine my sensory issues combined with the sounds of all those different machines, the movement and smells of all those different people, and the sounds and echos of the people talking and grunting and ... makes me shudder just thinking about it.
I have a small house, so space is kind of at a premium, but I found a semi-recumbent exercise bike that was really quiet and had a fully enclosed flywheel, so the only motion is the bike pedals. (Which Thimble still got his face thumped by, twice, but that's just Thimble. He's a scientist. If something happens once he has to investigate it and see if it'll happen again. If it does, then he stops doing that thing. Thus the getting thumped twice by the pedals while I was using the bike).
I've been doing this on a daily basis, riding the bike after work. The cats have mostly just abandoned the room I'm in. I'm not going anywhere so there's no point in keeping an eye on me, and I'm not in a useful petting or cuddling position so as far as they're concerned, they might as well be watching the kitty tv out the window.
Thimble will come in about half an hour into my forty-five minute ride and hang out on the back of the sofa, but that's so that when I'm done and come collapse on the sofa, he's in a good position to come curl up on my lap. Or sprawl across it, depending on his mood.
I was playing phone games while riding the bike yesterday, and didn't even realize that Colby was in the room, with all my attention focused on the game.
All of the sudden with no sound, and no warning, my arms were filled with fifteen plus pounds of black fur and the phone had vanished (under all the fur) and Colby's back foot was on my hip, with every intention of settling on my lap and forcing me to stop peddling.
Well, hello, Colby.
I put the phone aside after extracting it and pausing the game, and then gathered Colby up into my arms and turned him upside-down like holding a human baby--this way I can support his weight with both arms and I can hold him longer.
He's perfectly happy this way. He was held like this a lot as a small kitten so he's not only content with such a cuddle hold, he's actually happy with it. So I held him as long as I could but my arms started screaming mercy at me far sooner than Colby would like, and when I managed to put him down without dumping him into the pedal area (not as easy as I thought it would be) he turned right back around and threatened to jump up into my arms again.
I had to beg him not to. Literally, I said, out-loud, in English, "I would love to Colby but my arms can't hold your weight that long and I'm afraid I'll drop you if you come up again."
And he gave an exasperated sigh, leaped up on the sofa (it's right next to the bike) and curled up on the cushion to sleep. Thimble wasn't in the room yet, and also, Thimble's spot is up on the back of the head rest, not on the seat cushions.
When I finished my ride Colby was still there so I sat down beside him and woke him up by gently tugging him onto my lap and cuddling him, so that made him happy.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Sunday, April 10, 2016
A Prince of a Plumber
If you read about my pants shopping expedition, you know that I'm willing to put up with quite a lot of inconvenience to avoid doing something I hate.
It won't come as a surprise to you then that I'm willing to put up with a good deal more to avoid doing something I'm afraid of.
And when you have social anxiety, one thing that is more dreadful than anything else, socially speaking, is having a stranger in your house. I have anxiety problems having one or two friends in my house. I have anxiety problems having my parents in my house. Much less a total stranger. My house is my sanctuary; my escape from the outside world, the world that constantly proves itself to be a frightening, damaging place.
When I moved into this house, the shower diverter in the tub didn't work properly. You'd get about 10% water through the shower and the rest of it stubbornly poured out the faucet like you hadn't done anything. That was nine years ago. I used a "attach it to the faucet flexible shower head to wash pets and babies with" thing to take showers, holding it over my head the entire time. This was exhausting, by the way.
The tub faucets started slowly leaking when they were turned "off" about four or five years ago.
The flip switch to keep the water in or let the water out started being really difficult to move about three years ago.
A few weeks ago, the faucets on the sink in that bathroom also started leaking from around the base, a slow leak that was difficult to even pinpoint the source (for a while I thought it was just the water that dripped from my hand as I adjusted the temperature distribution of the water).
It was becoming apparent that I really needed to get a plumber in. Unfortunately, most plumbers, or other household type technicians, have a tendency to be larger than life kind of people who have huge personality spreads and make me feel like I'm being shoved out of the room physically just being near them. They talk too loud and move too quick and I just can't deal with it all.
After watching several posts on my neighborhood facebook type group asking for recommendations for this and that, I had an idea. A brilliant idea. I asked for a recommendation for a plumber, but also listed that I was autistic and I needed more than just someone who knew what they were doing and wouldn't overcharge me, and I described what I needed, more or less concisely. (Yes, I can be more or less concise. More than my rambling here anyway!)
I got two recommendations. I looked them both up on the web and found an old webpage with a photo of the one guy. He looked like someone I could deal with. So Friday (the same friday as the pants alteration debacle), I had him come over to diagnose the issues and tell me how much it would cost and maybe fix them then or later; I don't know how that all works, really.
I say "I had him come over" without telling you of the agony of dread and fear that it takes to call a stranger. Sometimes I'll stare at the phone for ages before pressing the "call" button and sometimes I'll just put it away without calling. Most of the time I simply "don't have time" to make the call. But obviously I managed it this time.
He was great. I felt instantly okay with him there. He reminded me of my uncles--none in particular, just that he would have fit well with the family. (I found out why during the return visit to actually fix stuff; he's from Germany like my family's background. Same way--his ancestors are from Germany).
The cats, on the other hand, saw a total stranger and hid. Colby tried to be friendly but the plumber likes cats and tried to pet him, and Colby had to flee and hide too.
When he came back the next Thursday to fix stuff, Colby again tried to be brave. While the plumber was messing about in the bathroom (which is halfway through the house), Colby was in the kitchen, looking out. What he didn't realize was that, due to the age of my bathtub, the manufacturer was unidentifiable and meant that the plumber had to get the stem out, take it to the store where he buys stuff, and match it rather than having the new pieces when he got here. So halfway through the process, he walks back through the house and out the kitchen door, scaring Colby so bad that Colby joined the other two boys under the couch for the remainder of the plumber's visit.
They actually did both come out while he was off shopping for parts; Thimble climbed in my lap to be reassured and Colby was hanging out the way cats do. He wasn't gone long enough for Apricot to emerge.
And when he came back, they were horrified and both dived for the room with the sofa. It got worse because he then spent quite a bit of time fighting with the tub faucets and the diverter. He had to replace the showerhead as well to get it to work, and of course the equipment was apparently as old as the house so there was a liberal amount of rust not lubricating everything.
But when he left, the tub faucets weren't leaking, the shower diverter worked completely, the in-and-out water lever worked much smoother (when I took a shower that night I forgot he worked on it and used my normal amount of force and startled myself about the same as you do when you shut a car door that weighs a third of what you're used to). The other plumbing problems were all fixed as well.
Even better, next time I have a plumbing problem go haywire in my house, I have someone I can get to come fix it that I'm okay with. It'd be nice if the cats were okay with him, but they do emerge eventually and go back to normal, even Apricot, so having things fixed in the house doesn't scar them for life.
It won't come as a surprise to you then that I'm willing to put up with a good deal more to avoid doing something I'm afraid of.
And when you have social anxiety, one thing that is more dreadful than anything else, socially speaking, is having a stranger in your house. I have anxiety problems having one or two friends in my house. I have anxiety problems having my parents in my house. Much less a total stranger. My house is my sanctuary; my escape from the outside world, the world that constantly proves itself to be a frightening, damaging place.
When I moved into this house, the shower diverter in the tub didn't work properly. You'd get about 10% water through the shower and the rest of it stubbornly poured out the faucet like you hadn't done anything. That was nine years ago. I used a "attach it to the faucet flexible shower head to wash pets and babies with" thing to take showers, holding it over my head the entire time. This was exhausting, by the way.
The tub faucets started slowly leaking when they were turned "off" about four or five years ago.
The flip switch to keep the water in or let the water out started being really difficult to move about three years ago.
A few weeks ago, the faucets on the sink in that bathroom also started leaking from around the base, a slow leak that was difficult to even pinpoint the source (for a while I thought it was just the water that dripped from my hand as I adjusted the temperature distribution of the water).
It was becoming apparent that I really needed to get a plumber in. Unfortunately, most plumbers, or other household type technicians, have a tendency to be larger than life kind of people who have huge personality spreads and make me feel like I'm being shoved out of the room physically just being near them. They talk too loud and move too quick and I just can't deal with it all.
After watching several posts on my neighborhood facebook type group asking for recommendations for this and that, I had an idea. A brilliant idea. I asked for a recommendation for a plumber, but also listed that I was autistic and I needed more than just someone who knew what they were doing and wouldn't overcharge me, and I described what I needed, more or less concisely. (Yes, I can be more or less concise. More than my rambling here anyway!)
I got two recommendations. I looked them both up on the web and found an old webpage with a photo of the one guy. He looked like someone I could deal with. So Friday (the same friday as the pants alteration debacle), I had him come over to diagnose the issues and tell me how much it would cost and maybe fix them then or later; I don't know how that all works, really.
I say "I had him come over" without telling you of the agony of dread and fear that it takes to call a stranger. Sometimes I'll stare at the phone for ages before pressing the "call" button and sometimes I'll just put it away without calling. Most of the time I simply "don't have time" to make the call. But obviously I managed it this time.
He was great. I felt instantly okay with him there. He reminded me of my uncles--none in particular, just that he would have fit well with the family. (I found out why during the return visit to actually fix stuff; he's from Germany like my family's background. Same way--his ancestors are from Germany).
The cats, on the other hand, saw a total stranger and hid. Colby tried to be friendly but the plumber likes cats and tried to pet him, and Colby had to flee and hide too.
When he came back the next Thursday to fix stuff, Colby again tried to be brave. While the plumber was messing about in the bathroom (which is halfway through the house), Colby was in the kitchen, looking out. What he didn't realize was that, due to the age of my bathtub, the manufacturer was unidentifiable and meant that the plumber had to get the stem out, take it to the store where he buys stuff, and match it rather than having the new pieces when he got here. So halfway through the process, he walks back through the house and out the kitchen door, scaring Colby so bad that Colby joined the other two boys under the couch for the remainder of the plumber's visit.
They actually did both come out while he was off shopping for parts; Thimble climbed in my lap to be reassured and Colby was hanging out the way cats do. He wasn't gone long enough for Apricot to emerge.
And when he came back, they were horrified and both dived for the room with the sofa. It got worse because he then spent quite a bit of time fighting with the tub faucets and the diverter. He had to replace the showerhead as well to get it to work, and of course the equipment was apparently as old as the house so there was a liberal amount of rust not lubricating everything.
But when he left, the tub faucets weren't leaking, the shower diverter worked completely, the in-and-out water lever worked much smoother (when I took a shower that night I forgot he worked on it and used my normal amount of force and startled myself about the same as you do when you shut a car door that weighs a third of what you're used to). The other plumbing problems were all fixed as well.
Even better, next time I have a plumbing problem go haywire in my house, I have someone I can get to come fix it that I'm okay with. It'd be nice if the cats were okay with him, but they do emerge eventually and go back to normal, even Apricot, so having things fixed in the house doesn't scar them for life.
Pants, Pockets, and Frustration
Okay, so I hate to shop for clothes. There are several reasons. I react to the finishing chemicals on most new clothing, so I can only try on clothes for a short period of time before I end up starting to develop a rash and I have to quit.
I hate dealing with salespeople because I know their pay depends on what they can sell me, and I feel guilty if I can't find anything I like.
I hate the whole exhausting process of getting undressed, dressed in the new clothing, trying to figure out in a few minutes if this is going to work for a whole day at a time, and then getting undressed and dressed again.
And I really hate shopping for clothes that aren't the same size from one color to another or one style to another or one manufacturer to another. (That is why women take so long to shop for clothes, in case you wondered. You can't go buy a "this inch" waist and "this inch" inseam and walk out with it--you have to try the stupid size "this" on to see if this is the size you need in this style or if you need to move up or down a size.)
So, I lost weight, and my pants, the ones I wear to work every day, don't fit anymore. I had inexpertly taken in the waist in order for them to not fall off, but this ended up in pads of heavy material resting on my hips and making them hurt all day. Plus, as I had lost more weight after the initial sewing, I still needed a safety pin to take the waist in the rest of the way.
Point being, I needed new pants. Really. I put up with this situation for over a year before finally coming to a conclusion that I also needed help to get new pants. Sophia knows clothes (or more than I do) so when she came to visit I asked her help to go buy new pants.
We went shopping together, which is always better since I don't have to do all the fetching of the next size up/down myself, and I don't have to do all of the dealing with the salespeople, and so on and so forth.
I think it took us four hours all told, and it was exhausting. I discovered a dreadful fact--manufacturers seem to think that if you are a smaller person, weight-wise, you don't need the same size pockets as the same pants in a bigger size.
Um, nobody issues us miniature house keys, car keys, or tiny credit cards to match our size, people. Everybody's pocket stuff is the same size, whether you're wearing size 2 or size 12. Also, manufacturers apparently think most women don't use their pockets for anything, but that's stupid--don't put the pockets in the pants in the first place if you're not going to make them useable.
Sophia was the one that found out that not only do different manufacturers and different styles mean different sizes, it can also be different colors. She found (was handed by a salesperson) a pair of black dress pants that looked stunning on her (even I could tell, and I'm not good with clothes, if you hadn't gotten that idea by now) and since she actually did need new dress pants, she decided to try on a different color in the same style and size to see if those would work too. It was a lovely color, but they just looked wrong. Something in the hang or the fit or something. She tried the next size up but that was wrong in a different way. But the black pants, and another color of that same style/size of pant, looked just fine. Is it any wonder we hate shopping for clothes? (She hates it as much as I do, but two people meant it wasn't quite as dreadful for either of us.)
Finally I found a pair that my phone fit in the pocket, as well as the pants fitting on me. I bought two sets, we went home, and the next day I wore a pair to work.
And discovered that the phone barely fitting in the pocket wasn't enough to work for a whole day of wearing them. It fell out a few times (luckily no damage) but the pocket kept the phone so tightly suspended against the pant material that it couldn't register my leg movement, which meant the pedometer function only sporadically worked.
I found this out at home, and kind of had a minor meltdown about it. If I don't know how much food to eat back to counter my activity level, I'm going to keep losing weight or compensate too hard the other way and gain it. The app I'm using to calorie-count and exercise-count is the only way I feel I can maintain my weight. Which is kind of important to me. Very important.
Okay, fine. I've been reading about women from the Victorian age and such-like, and they always seem to be letting out dresses and re-sewing dresses and altering clothes and if they can do it, pants can be altered, and if you can alter one part of pants, you can alter the pockets to make them bigger.
A woman in my neighborhood had posted on our neighborhood facebook type group that she did alterations so I called her and took them over on Friday, which we had off due to my company trying to give us Easter Friday off and missing by a week. (To be fair, it's just weird having Easter in March.)
Her place smelled intensely of smoke but she insisted that she herself didn't smoke and didn't let her nephew smoke in the house now that it wasn't winter and I felt bad having bothered her for nothing so I let the pants there with instructions to keep them in a secure plastic bag unless actually working on them. I got home, turned around at my driveway, and went back.
It took an incredible amount of courage to knock on her door again and explain that I changed my mind and wanted them back but she didn't seem upset. I'm glad I did. In the five-ten minutes it took me to drive home and drive back, the pants were already beginning to smell of cigarette smoke.
So I was out, going to get these pants altered if it killed me, so I randomly, without researching it first, chose the nearest alteration place from a google map search and let Siri take me there. Turns out I've driven past it probably my whole life. I remember the sign and the location like other people would remember the face of a childhood friend. I'd never gone in there. Just driven past it a lot. I reasoned if it had been there for that long, they probably knew what they were doing.
It was one of those sewing alteration places run by people who barely spoke English (I'm guessing Polish or another East Europe country from the accents) but they had all kinds of clothes hanging up to be altered or picked up, including some gorgeous prom dresses. I believe altering a pocket was almost an insulting request, for how simple it would be (not that they, the wife and husband, behaved that way!) I had brought the old big pants with me, to show what size pocket worked, and I'm glad I did, since my knowledge of the language they spoke was zero and their knowledge of English was less than optimum and complicated by my inability to hear the words properly due to their accents and my hearing processing delay disorder.
But we got it worked out, and they said they'd have the pants by next Tuesday. I picked them up that next Tuesday, and now my phone fits in my pocket. My left pocket, to be precise. Alteration is expensive work, and I didn't see any point in altering the pocket that I don't keep the phone in. (Now you know which side of me to pick-pocket if you're trying to steal my phone!)
Phew. I hope these pants last for a long time, because I don't want to have to go shopping for pants anytime soon.
I hate dealing with salespeople because I know their pay depends on what they can sell me, and I feel guilty if I can't find anything I like.
I hate the whole exhausting process of getting undressed, dressed in the new clothing, trying to figure out in a few minutes if this is going to work for a whole day at a time, and then getting undressed and dressed again.
And I really hate shopping for clothes that aren't the same size from one color to another or one style to another or one manufacturer to another. (That is why women take so long to shop for clothes, in case you wondered. You can't go buy a "this inch" waist and "this inch" inseam and walk out with it--you have to try the stupid size "this" on to see if this is the size you need in this style or if you need to move up or down a size.)
So, I lost weight, and my pants, the ones I wear to work every day, don't fit anymore. I had inexpertly taken in the waist in order for them to not fall off, but this ended up in pads of heavy material resting on my hips and making them hurt all day. Plus, as I had lost more weight after the initial sewing, I still needed a safety pin to take the waist in the rest of the way.
Point being, I needed new pants. Really. I put up with this situation for over a year before finally coming to a conclusion that I also needed help to get new pants. Sophia knows clothes (or more than I do) so when she came to visit I asked her help to go buy new pants.
We went shopping together, which is always better since I don't have to do all the fetching of the next size up/down myself, and I don't have to do all of the dealing with the salespeople, and so on and so forth.
I think it took us four hours all told, and it was exhausting. I discovered a dreadful fact--manufacturers seem to think that if you are a smaller person, weight-wise, you don't need the same size pockets as the same pants in a bigger size.
Um, nobody issues us miniature house keys, car keys, or tiny credit cards to match our size, people. Everybody's pocket stuff is the same size, whether you're wearing size 2 or size 12. Also, manufacturers apparently think most women don't use their pockets for anything, but that's stupid--don't put the pockets in the pants in the first place if you're not going to make them useable.
Sophia was the one that found out that not only do different manufacturers and different styles mean different sizes, it can also be different colors. She found (was handed by a salesperson) a pair of black dress pants that looked stunning on her (even I could tell, and I'm not good with clothes, if you hadn't gotten that idea by now) and since she actually did need new dress pants, she decided to try on a different color in the same style and size to see if those would work too. It was a lovely color, but they just looked wrong. Something in the hang or the fit or something. She tried the next size up but that was wrong in a different way. But the black pants, and another color of that same style/size of pant, looked just fine. Is it any wonder we hate shopping for clothes? (She hates it as much as I do, but two people meant it wasn't quite as dreadful for either of us.)
Finally I found a pair that my phone fit in the pocket, as well as the pants fitting on me. I bought two sets, we went home, and the next day I wore a pair to work.
And discovered that the phone barely fitting in the pocket wasn't enough to work for a whole day of wearing them. It fell out a few times (luckily no damage) but the pocket kept the phone so tightly suspended against the pant material that it couldn't register my leg movement, which meant the pedometer function only sporadically worked.
I found this out at home, and kind of had a minor meltdown about it. If I don't know how much food to eat back to counter my activity level, I'm going to keep losing weight or compensate too hard the other way and gain it. The app I'm using to calorie-count and exercise-count is the only way I feel I can maintain my weight. Which is kind of important to me. Very important.
Okay, fine. I've been reading about women from the Victorian age and such-like, and they always seem to be letting out dresses and re-sewing dresses and altering clothes and if they can do it, pants can be altered, and if you can alter one part of pants, you can alter the pockets to make them bigger.
A woman in my neighborhood had posted on our neighborhood facebook type group that she did alterations so I called her and took them over on Friday, which we had off due to my company trying to give us Easter Friday off and missing by a week. (To be fair, it's just weird having Easter in March.)
Her place smelled intensely of smoke but she insisted that she herself didn't smoke and didn't let her nephew smoke in the house now that it wasn't winter and I felt bad having bothered her for nothing so I let the pants there with instructions to keep them in a secure plastic bag unless actually working on them. I got home, turned around at my driveway, and went back.
It took an incredible amount of courage to knock on her door again and explain that I changed my mind and wanted them back but she didn't seem upset. I'm glad I did. In the five-ten minutes it took me to drive home and drive back, the pants were already beginning to smell of cigarette smoke.
So I was out, going to get these pants altered if it killed me, so I randomly, without researching it first, chose the nearest alteration place from a google map search and let Siri take me there. Turns out I've driven past it probably my whole life. I remember the sign and the location like other people would remember the face of a childhood friend. I'd never gone in there. Just driven past it a lot. I reasoned if it had been there for that long, they probably knew what they were doing.
It was one of those sewing alteration places run by people who barely spoke English (I'm guessing Polish or another East Europe country from the accents) but they had all kinds of clothes hanging up to be altered or picked up, including some gorgeous prom dresses. I believe altering a pocket was almost an insulting request, for how simple it would be (not that they, the wife and husband, behaved that way!) I had brought the old big pants with me, to show what size pocket worked, and I'm glad I did, since my knowledge of the language they spoke was zero and their knowledge of English was less than optimum and complicated by my inability to hear the words properly due to their accents and my hearing processing delay disorder.
But we got it worked out, and they said they'd have the pants by next Tuesday. I picked them up that next Tuesday, and now my phone fits in my pocket. My left pocket, to be precise. Alteration is expensive work, and I didn't see any point in altering the pocket that I don't keep the phone in. (Now you know which side of me to pick-pocket if you're trying to steal my phone!)
Phew. I hope these pants last for a long time, because I don't want to have to go shopping for pants anytime soon.
Sophia's Spring Visit
Sophia came for her spring visit the last week of March. We were very interested to see how Apricot would react, since last time he actually accepted her presence and came out and was social the last night she was here.
It took him a night to get used to her being there again, but after that he was fine. Sophia might debate that, as he did spend a lot of time under the sofa.
But that's part of anxiety. Even after you are okay with something, sometimes it's just too overwhelming to have that something be there. So he would retreat to his quiet place when he got overwhelmed. But he wasn't scared. It's not like he'd suddenly run for the hills. Just a calm, walking down the hall and into the tv room where he'd be under the sofa if anybody was looking for him.
The weird part of her visit was poor Thimble. He found himself quite scared of her. And he was distressed because he didn't understand why he was scared. He kept trying and trying, but she'd move after having been still for a while (like at the dinner table) and he'd leap up and run, having both a puzzled and a frightened expression at the same time.
I'm not sure what was going on there either. After she'd been here two days he finally calmed down enough to be okay as long as she wasn't getting too close. But it seems my brave boy has finally broken through his bravado to realize that bravery isn't not being afraid of something--bravery is being afraid and facing it anyway. And he's never had any practice in true bravery.
Colby, meanwhile, was his usual phlegmatic self. He hung out around whoever was being the most interesting or the calmest, depending on if he wanted to nap or not. While I rode my exercise bike, for instance, she was playing with her ipad in her room, lying on the bed resting. So he went in there and curled up against her legs and took a nap.
She said that first he tried being on her chest but to her relief that didn't last long. A cat of Colby's weight combined with someone who has asthma isn't a good idea.
So now Colby's my brave boy when it comes to new humans, and even he's gone skittish. I think Apricot is rubbing off on them entirely the wrong way!
It took him a night to get used to her being there again, but after that he was fine. Sophia might debate that, as he did spend a lot of time under the sofa.
But that's part of anxiety. Even after you are okay with something, sometimes it's just too overwhelming to have that something be there. So he would retreat to his quiet place when he got overwhelmed. But he wasn't scared. It's not like he'd suddenly run for the hills. Just a calm, walking down the hall and into the tv room where he'd be under the sofa if anybody was looking for him.
The weird part of her visit was poor Thimble. He found himself quite scared of her. And he was distressed because he didn't understand why he was scared. He kept trying and trying, but she'd move after having been still for a while (like at the dinner table) and he'd leap up and run, having both a puzzled and a frightened expression at the same time.
I'm not sure what was going on there either. After she'd been here two days he finally calmed down enough to be okay as long as she wasn't getting too close. But it seems my brave boy has finally broken through his bravado to realize that bravery isn't not being afraid of something--bravery is being afraid and facing it anyway. And he's never had any practice in true bravery.
Colby, meanwhile, was his usual phlegmatic self. He hung out around whoever was being the most interesting or the calmest, depending on if he wanted to nap or not. While I rode my exercise bike, for instance, she was playing with her ipad in her room, lying on the bed resting. So he went in there and curled up against her legs and took a nap.
She said that first he tried being on her chest but to her relief that didn't last long. A cat of Colby's weight combined with someone who has asthma isn't a good idea.
So now Colby's my brave boy when it comes to new humans, and even he's gone skittish. I think Apricot is rubbing off on them entirely the wrong way!
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