My husband told a joke at the dinner table and I spit out my salad from laughing and looked up trying to swallow and there was an amber stripe on the ceiling from a leak in the teen’s bathroom upstairs (teens shower often, as you might know, and, because Teens, may not offer information, such as, water-spray-puddling-on-bathroom-floor for weeks) and plumbers arrived the day after we rescued a puppy and our house became the part in the movie “E.T.” when the government takes over with plastic sheeting and scary equipment and the cats are sequestered to the guest room and I am sequestered in a main bedroom with the puppy, my desk and electronic crucials as 6 fans blow 24hrs upstairs and down and it’s like living inside a DC6 and I keep thinking I’m going to write and I do but I’m also teaching the puppy how to sit and confirming vet appointments and puppy pre-school appointments and browsing CHEWY and adding to the puppy’s file titled: BEAR and I’m making breakfasts and lunches and dinners and strategic visits to the grocery store when puppy is passed out from over-loading on newness and I’m working hard on not stressing on ANY of it–this home’s bones on display; pink wall-stuffings blowing around the house like tumbleweeds; how much the cats hate everything. Yet: polite meltdown with the plumber this morning when he said he’d need to turn the water off for 6 hours. He. Found. Another. Solution.

Yours in Om’s,

PB