Any way, I'm reading one of those books that has decided it owns me. I seldom read fiction, but this is a novel. This morning I decided I may as well concede to the winner of the battle for my time and attention, finish the book and be done with it. Then I can move on with my life.
I really only intended to read until it was time to go do barn chores, but grabbed the book after and thought I'd just read through breakfast. Well ... maybe I could read until I had to walk Tuck at 10:00. After the walk in the bitterly face-freezing wind, I decided I deserved a little time by the fire with the book.
I was interrupted by a phone call. From the Fixerman coming IN FIVE MINUTES to figure out why my internet service doesn't work properly. The ISP is the phone company here, so why couldn't he splurge with a long-distance call when he left the office this morning, to give me fair warning? (Do they even charge people for long-distance calls nowadays?)
Last night's dishes were in the sink; puddly paw prints from the dog on the dining room floor; scraps from yesterday's quilting still strewn in the LR. A layer of dust on my desk thick enough to write your name in, if you could find it under the mountains of paperwork waiting to be dealt with. Need I go on?
With the force of a tornado, I grabbed everything not nailed down and put it behind a closed door. I combed my hair and slipped on some clean jeans, with 30 seconds to spare before he pulled into the driveway. When he came in through the kitchen door, I was casually pouring myself a cup of coffee as if panic never crossed my mind. I'm sure he didn't notice that the dishwasher door was ajar because so much had been jammed in there in great haste that it could not be closed properly. I often curse that machine for leaving crumbs in the coffee cups, but in times like this, it's a great repository for evidence of my slothfulness, and for that I am grateful.
So Mr. Fixit determined that my modem was fried. Seems the off-again-on-again power struggle on Friday was enough to send it into a tailspin. It has been replaced. Now everything under the desk matches -- shiny black with eerie-green lights. Like creatures with glaring eyes in some horror movie. (Where did THAT come from? I do not know. Go ask your Mom. -- Sorry Dr. Seuss.)
I'll wipe up the enormous puddle Mr. Fixit left under the desk from his boots traipsing in through the snow. Then I'll go tidy up the kitchen, and get to work. But maybe just one more chapter first?