Animal House

I'll restrain myself from a major rant about American healthcare.  Let's just put it this way: I had a check-up this morning and Look! It's already almost 1pm.  (I thought the expense, paperwork and convolutions were supposed to mean excellent service for those of us with the privilege to afford health care?  And then there's the "if we don't call, your tests were fine" policy which works great  until you find out that last year's tests went missing so they may or may not have been fine.)

Moving on: it's 1 pm and at 2 pm I have a meeting with my writing buddy at a cafe nearer home than work, so I'm here, home, in the middle of the day.  The ac has been turned to a low setting, so it's hot. The blinds are all drawn to keep the sun out, so it's dark.  The kids are not home, so it's quiet.

Quiet but for the whimpering of Hardie, who keeps circling anxiously ("Where's the kids?  Where's the kids?  Where's the kids?").

Calm but for the intrusions of Pepita (whose ass is on this keyboard more often than my fingers are).

I realize that the three animals I have been responsible for bringing into our home (Hardie, Pumpkin, Pepita--though I generally blame Winton for having brought her home) all feature exactly the same shade of orange fur (Pepita on her chest, Hardie on his head, Pumpkin all over).  And they all follow me around when I am home alone.

I'm tired, so this all seems like it should be loaded with significance.  (Why so tired? Well, there was this morning, about which I already ranted despite saying I wouldn't, and last night, during which Pepita repeatedly attacked my hair and earlobes.  I could shut her on the other side of my bedroom door, but then she'd shove Clara and Winton's door open to hassle them.  It's better she hassle me.)

So.  And off to talk writing soon.  I can recommend having a writing buddy, by the way.  We exchange work (she reads my literary criticism, I read her fiction--clearly I have the better deal there as reading fiction is actually fun). It keeps me going to know I have to produce something for her.  Also: we meet at a congenial Baltimore cafe (go away Pepita's ass, I'm trying to type) so there's a social component.  As the months have gone on, I've started to rely on my writing buddy for therapy as well as advice regarding structure and clarity.

Pepita is prising apart the blinds now.  Must go.