GET OUT OF MY LIFE, NEIL SIMON

Clownpaws. I was out for several hours, as I will be tomorrow. Relative isolation gets Emmylou fairly aggressive, so no one is happy for awhile. Cooder would like to say hello to me in her own quiet amd somewhat stanoffish way. Emmy will have none of that. She chases Cooder, bats at her, and in general behaves quite thuggishly. AND I did not check the food bowl before I left. 'Twas thoroughly empty.

As I was chopping onions for tomorrow's fig cornbread stuffing, Tim kept teasing me about crying, all of my tears. "You ain't seen nothin'," I thought to myself as I continued to chop. I felt as if I cried a good portion of the day. Not that crying is anything particularly new. I am quite spent and wrung out, not very chipper, hopeful, or philosophical.

I suppose you could say that I am at a loss.

The day very nearly got away from me. But another load of laundry was completed. Shopping was done. And my mien was reasonable as Tim and I made pies and planned the rest of tomorrow's meal.

I tried taking a relaxing bath to soothe away some sorrow. Now the bath tub won't drain. And plunging it didn't help either. Am I stuck in a Neil Simon play (I was going to write a bad Neil Simon play but they are all bad).