I wake up. It’s seven thirty. My God. Too early. Shut eyes and concentrate on sleep, dammit.

Nine. Ok, then. Stumble down the stairs. Make a bowl of nuts and seeds. Really, this paleo thing kind of stinks. Add blueberries and one drop of vanilla. No sugar, because PALEO. But pour on some heavy cream. Oh, yeah—paleo doesn’t always suck (the cream may not be Paleo but Atkins. Who knows. All that matters is the low carbs and high fat). Make a flat white. Carry it upstairs.

Get in bed, balancing the nut mixture on chest. Eat drippingly onto chest while reading the NYTimes app on phone. Lots of drippy scrolling. My God. The news is always so bad. So move over to Huffington post. Finish nuts. Move onto coffee.

Push cats off chest, spilling a little coffee on brand new pjs. No matter; they all end up stained and tattered anyway. Continue to push cats off chest, then finally give up and lie back down, balancing coffee cup amidst purring and mucho cat hair. Sneeze a few times.

Get up. Get dressed. Walk the dog. This is exhilarating. We go for an hour, but arrive home with the dog raring to go. But I need a rest. So watch three episodes of House Hunters. Scorn all the young couples who think that all kitchens must have granite countertops and huge islands. Yawn.

Make lunch on Formica countertop. Share with dog.

Sit down to write another chapter of new book. Dog whining is distracting.

Decide to lie down with dog and cuddle for five minutes. Wake up an hour later.

Realize with a start that dinner is in two hours. You got nothing. Google “easy meals with less than four ingredients.” Decide that scrambled eggs is perhaps ok just this once. Look in fridge. Whew. There are six eggs. Oh, no. Well, we will just have to have toasted loaf ends. Put bread on grocery list.

Take a nap, for God’s sake.

Wake with bleary eyes thirty minutes later to the dog staring at you whining. Oh no, she didn’t poop on the walk. Scramble to feet, rush to get the leash. Walk her around the yard, where she tangles the leash in the yew bushes three times, nearly chokes herself trying to murder a squirrel,  painfully pulling that rotator cuff you have been meaning to go see the doc about. But she does not have a poop in her. Sigh and go back in.

Set table. Scramble those eggs. Throw in some shredded cheddar for piquance. Make the paltry pieces of toast. Serve dubious husband, but assure him that there is ice cream in the freezer.

Watch an episode of something British, with bicyles, tea, scones, and one vicar who seems to have many women in love with him. Wish that you had a fireplace in every room in your house, and maybe more wall sconces.

Brush teeth. Wish you had a silken pair of women’s pjs (see British dramas, above). Fall into bed, exhausted. Four wide awake hours later, go downstairs for an orange and write: a blog post, two chapters of your next novel, an email to your daughter telling her that she should try making this great paleo recipe you discovered, or a few Tweets that you know you will regret in the morning. Stagger blearily up to bed.

Wake up and start all over.

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