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I was dreaming about something beautiful. I could probably describe it if I had not staggered into the den, faster than my wits would allow, stubbing my toe on the exercise bike/clotheshorse on my way to the front door, on which my beloved nephew was knocking.
It was about 6:30. I had already awakened briefly at 5:30, wondering when he would be over this morning, and then I had decided, well, hell, I might as well pee, so I did so, and unplugged the iPhone and even had the presence of mind to unlock the door lest I somehow fall back to sleep.
When my nephew was banging on the door, he didn’t think to see if it was open. He came over at 6:30 because he lives at my mother’s house, and her water heater is out, and I’ve been running the family non-profit, the Bath House Foundation, for over a week now.
The entire, extended family is being held hostage, the ransom being in the form of income-tax refunds. Refunds – mine, Mom’s, sister’s, pets posing as humans — are supposed to be electronically deposited any time now, and, fortunately, I won’t have all that money (electronically) lying around because it will be quickly redirected (electronically) to other, more prominent accounts.
Now today I only have to write a chapter of fiction, decide which bills I can afford to pay, sign up for Obamacare, and see if I can get the Council of Ecoomic Advisers together for lunch at the Chinese buffet.
Piece of cake (though it is often a tad dry at the Chinese joint).
On the flip side, it may make the day’s tasks more difficult that the quarterfinals of the Major Colleges You Never Heard Of women’s basketball tournament begins on Fox Sports 7 in an hour and fifteen minutes.