For those of y'all out there wondering what the hell I am doing whilst waiting to get my hands on a classroom, let me tell you:

Matching wits with a cat.

Now, as I am sure you have ascertained (because you, YOU! are smart! and I! I am blonde!) I'm not very housewifely. Housewife-ish. Housewived? Past tense, already married? So imagine my delight and surprise at the prospect of cleaning up fecal matter every day! It's like having my own little Keebler elves in the house - except they leave poop, not cookies.

In my scheming way, I have tried to negotiate with these feline fuhrers. Maybe if I take the top off the box, he'll poop in it?

I was actually excited to get up this morning, thinking that perhaps YES! he'd accomodate me and use the litter, not the tile. My machination was in vain. POOP. OUTSIDE. THE. BOX. Is he mocking me?

In clear indication that I have been left to my own devices for far too long, I sympathize with the cat, the squeamish pooper. After all, I am the girl who would suffer colonically rather than use the facilities in the dorm. Somebody could be in there! Pooping is bad (Note to self: Upon event of childbirth and subsequent toilet training, tell child that pooping is good! thus saving them from the trauma of your own pooping career)! Maybe the box is too public for the cat?

Plan of Action II: Construct private toilet for the squeamish pooper.

Score to Date:

TSP: 1
TCWH: 0