It's 5:15 AM, really. Too early in the morning to make sense of much and far too early to be writing coherently. It is more polite to call it very early than insanely late, even though I haven't been to sleep yet. Thank The Cat, or blame The Cat.
Poor little furry nine-lived thing. She takes the blame for almost everything off-kilter in our lives, chin up, head held high, as if she knows that it is not at all her fault. Milk in fridge go a bit stale? Blame The Cat. Wrists aching from typing all night on projects that may never see human eyes or the light of day? Blame The Cat. Missed a publication deadline completely because the page in your calendar is illegible from repeatedly having spilled coffee wiped off its thin paper pages? Blame The Cat.
Ok. That one is real, and is a legitimate blaming. The calendar would not have had coffee on it in the first place if said coffee had not already been on her foot when she stomped across my desk and planted her dainty toes square on the post-it-du-jour that was standing in for my lost calendar and acting as my list of things I absolutely positively without-fail-must-get-done today.
Ok. So the coffee would not have been on her foot if she hadn't stepped in the mishapen ring of coffee drool that this particular cup leaves behind every time it gets picked up and put down elsewhere. I can't throw this coffee cup out. It has cats on it.
So maybe it's not that legitimate of a blaming. I withdraw the complaint, officer.
And there she sits, posed like the angelic thing that she is, infuriatingly focused as she perches on my ankles and watches my fingers move across the keyboard in very mouselike dartings. Zen and the Art of Being a Cat. So calm. Like she doesn't know it's 5:30 in the dang morning and I've just spent most of the night catching up on the things I didn't get done for the want of a post-it nail to keep me on track.
The Cat yawns, pirouettes in place and flumps down into fuzzy black rag doll position on my outstretched legs. I take a sip of nice cold coffee after brushing the teensiest bit of fur from the lip of the cup. The one with the cats on it. I reach for my wireless keyboard, once again wishing I had one of those new nifty neat-o Bluetooth laser virtual keyboards (*purrs in happy dreams of this ultimate keyboard technology*) and stretch it out across my knees, just out of reach of the calmly flipping tail, and get to work.
The Cat yawns, stretches out a paw and pats my hand as I type. I melt, put the keyboard back over on the desk, and pencil in some quality cat cuddle time, effective immediately. My blood pressure drops, my work pressure drops; we both smile. And that is the best time management method I've ever found.
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