An Unsuitable Job for a Woman is playing on the public television channel behind me, the umpteenth and I think last chapter of a mystery program involving an almost nine months pregnant private detective chasing after a killer. It turns out, in the end, the killer is pregnant as well. This is maybe too much.

Mr. Wuss spent two hours this evening meowing for something to eat before he finally gave in and finished the doctor approved cat food in his dish. He eats enough of it, pooping up his kitty litter box like a good cat, but I think being locked up in an apartment all day with nothing but nasty food on his plate is making him crazy and out of sorts, much as I might be crazy and out of sorts if I were locked up in a cell with a fork, three tons of cabbage and a water bucket. Were I truly synched into this life I'm living, were I truly at peace with my art and my life and my work, I'd be sitting here watching the nine month pregnant detective chasing after the three month pregnant killer, a cup of tea near at hand on the desk, nodding my head in perpetual stupendous amazement. Perhaps there's a lesson here, but I'm not sure what it is. They tell you to be here now, to take this life as it comes, napkin ready, knife and fork at hand. But cabbage. Why does it have to be cabbage? And why does my cat have to be sick?