I'm writing. I'm washing linens. Thanks to modern technology these things are not mutually exclusive. I am glad for living in a world where I can push a button and let domesticity run its course. Let a robot scrub my sheets. Let the coffeemaker brew my breakfast. Let the computer count my words and tsk-tsk-tsk me with a line graph when I fail to reach a target.
Awhile ago, a kitten curled up in my lap. She is warm and mewls if I try to move her. So now I have to choose between moving the sheets to the dryer or living this moment, with a black ball of fluff on my legs, the gentle hum of the heater serenade, the trees swaying in the wind, the rain-soaked yard deepening the contrast with greener greens and browner browns, and the soupy stew of a wool gray sky.