Don’t those guys at that other table know that this is MY cafe? How dare they spread their stuff all over the place and push their loud voices into every square inch of this cafe? They’re so arrogant assuming that it’s ok to do this. I can’t help but overhear what they’re up to. They’re in sales — cooking up schemes to lure customers to their products. Maybe they’re good products but do they have to be so loud about it? Do they even see me over here — just, perhaps, wonder if they might be disturbing me from my own important work? I doubt it. “Yoo-hoo, folks, over here in the corner, thought you’d want to know that I’m sharing this space with you — air space included.” They should have known, after all, I, have that ubiquitous symbol of “I’m Working” — the little silver Mac — sitting on the table in front of me. However, I’m sure they can tell — if they ever looked this way — that mine isn’t a Pro, isn’t sleek like theirs. How can I be taken seriously, after all, if I haven’t updated my “tools”? Whatever! (Gads, I hate when people use that dismissive term — including me.) It’s just not fair. Yeah, I know this is a public spot and they did, at least, buy a coffee each. But, hey, this little table, tucked behind the coat rack, is my office away from home. I laid claim to this spot over four years ago when I started writing the book. I need this retreat!
I can’t go home. For one thing, I haven’t changed my procrastinating ways. In fact, I’ve added to them! Now I don’t only have Free Cell to lure me away from self-publishing research, blog writing, Spanish homework, putting my tax material together and starting to read some of the 40 stories I’m supposed to have finished by Tuesday — NOW, I have all those games on Lumosity. It’s too tempting. I never ever play them here or in the library or when I used to go to work (sigh). If I can be that disciplined, why can’t I at least half my addiction when I’m home and get things done? Just because! That argument never worked when I was a kid and certainly sounds even weaker now.
Then there’s the cats — that’s the other reason I can’t go home. The furry beasts are still royally upset with me because of yesterday. They didn’t have to get up at 5:30 a.m. when the alarm went off. I even tried my best to slide my body out from between them so as not to disturb their sleep. It didn’t work. Rose’s loud protest meow said it all. “For God’s sakes, Ann, it’s still dark outside. What the hell are you doing? Go back to sleep!” Nick never is verbal in his protest — he just go up and started kneading me and staring me in the face. It was very disconcerting at 5:30 a.m. — and a little scary. I would have loved to accommodate them and go back to sleep but I promised myself that I would be at St. Michael’s Cathedral for that 7 a.m. service to give my own final farewells to Mike.
It didn’t matter to them what promises I made. But, with much grumbling, they did get up and made their way downstairs. I could have pointed out to them that they, unlike me, could go back to sleep, but I know better than to rationalize with cats when they’re in this mood. I fed them instead. But then, after a short return home, I left again and didn’t come back home until after 7 p.m. missing their feeding time by 2 hours. They were really not happy about that end of things either. So, today, when I tried to work at home, Nick sat on the computer and Rose climbed on my lap and stood staring at me. They were waiting for me to move to the kitchen and open that treat drawer — yet again. Their actions told me that they thought they deserved treats every hour on the hour to soften the trauma that they had gone through yesterday. I had no choice but to leave or they’d be even fatter than they are.
So here I am for the day. The loud sales folks have moved on to grab some unsuspecting customers and the lunch crowd is starting to arrive. I figure if I stay here until 4 p.m. I’ll get at least 8 of those 40 stories read and the cats will have cooled off enough to welcome me back — in time for their dinner.