Cats have perched about me and the Sunday paper is unread. I basically did nothing today. Well, I wrote poetry and a student eval and I told someone who I was considering hiring that I withdrew my offer.
I've stopped panicking when I consider two midwives instead of three in my practice. Someday I'll retire and this will all be a memory. But. I have a time getting up at night and a bigger time recovering from an all-nighter. Sleeping for 14 hours seems to cure the fatigue.
I fear I've become a misanthrope. Clues: I'd rather stay home than go to the Nick Cave exhibit at SAM. I hang out in my garden A LOT. I wander around and pick weeds without gloves on. Then my hands have that moth-bitten look. I hide in my house if someone comes to the door unless I'm sure who they are. I'd rather spend time with my cats than almost anyone. Sometimes I go dancing and it feels great until I remember that I don't really like people. Well, I like some people. I like my clients. I think women in labor are amazing. Then I think I could be spending all my time reading and writing and playing the piano and painting and lying on the couch doing fuck-all....
It's happened. Sean and Henry came over today and ripped off the rest of the deck. It was truly rotten, I mean rotten. Thankful no one died out there putting their foot through a rotten board. Now when you open the back door, it's a five foot drop. And I wouldn't bounce. I would break all my bones. Plus be pierced by many rusty nails. The cats are behaving predictably bitchy. They have taken to sharpening their claws on the screen door in the front. Creatures of habit. Their cat door is in the basement, darlings. Nothing has happened to your cat door.