Every day, it seems, I leave work and think I'm going to go home and do some writing. And then I get home and clean up the kitchen and start dinner and go outside to pull some bindweed and dandelions and then one of my sisters calls and I pour a glass of wine and pull the roast from the oven and dangle a scrap of paper for the cat and check the mail and all the time laughing and listening with the phone pressed so close to my ear that I end up muting it with my ear.
Tonight after work I picked up a prescription and then waited in the library parking lot for a parking space then waited in line to get a copy of my library card then browsed the non-fiction shelves, thinking to pick up anything anything learn something new, ending up with two CD's by Mulatu Astatque and a Mary Oliver collection and two books with titles like 101 Hikes To Somewhere thinking what I need to do is get out of this city.
Then I went to Home Depot and bought a new dishwasher spending money like I have it. For a month I thought I could get along just fine without a dishwasher but damn, I like to cook and entertain (=lots of dishes) and damn, I like to put dishes in the dishwasher and enjoy the convenience of forgetting they're there.
The salesman was 102 years old and had breath that could fell an army. And wanted to talk. I mean, I like to talk but this guy — Don — liked to talk. Yowza. I slunk away inch by inch to his receding sentence. Bye now! Bye bye!!
And then home, well past 8pm, and dinner and a bit more of the Sunday NYTimes (I ration it day by day) and then another phone call, more cat time, check facebook, check email, check checking checkity check.
How in god's name did it get to be 10:21?