Crazytown

Got up at 4:30 this morning and staggered to the bathroom to stop up the sink and open the taps for our old cat Abe who works up a powerful thirst doing nothing all night. Left the water on to form a nice pool for him since he has trouble twisting and lowering his head enough to get that little Velcro tongue under the faucet these days. Wandered into the guest bathroom to make the coffee, and, while waiting for it to brew, lurched over into my writing room  where I opened the package from Macy’s that came last night to see that I’ve managed to order only HALF a bathing suit, just a cute pair of ruffly bottoms.  “Oh well,” I thought and sat down to finish a letter of recommendation for a friend, not remembering anything about a faucet left on all this time – until I remembered about it. I TORE back into our bathroom to find the place flooded and everything in the cabinets below the sink swimming in three inches of water, fish-oil capsules orbiting like tiny canoes. I spent 40 minutes swabbing, sponging and bailing and I know have to go downstairs now and see if the rooms below have become a rain forest, my big potted palms all happy under the lushly dripping canopy that is the kitchen ceiling. “Jeez T!” I said to myself and looked in the mirror – and saw that my fine silk nightie is not even on my body but is sort of dripping out of one arm of this ratty old bathrobe. Should I go back to bed now and pull the covers over my head or should I simply welcome a day rife with comic possibility?