The last couple of days have been crazy. I've been battling a flea infestation (the result of a warm winter and my no longer being as vigilant because I only have cats now instead of cats and a dog; Lucy died last March). The cats haven't even been outdoors (much) in over two weeks.
For those of you who've never had them, fleas are insidious, nasty little buggers. Yahweh should have added them to the list of plagues he sent the Egyptians. Fleas beat frogs and gnats--hands down. The Egyptians would have surrendered, and Yahweh wouldn't have had to bring in all those messy boils and noisy locusts.
My first warning of the impending plague (which I completely misread--so much for my powers of observation) was when the cats began climbing higher. I noticed Tribble on top of the television and Bobbin on top of the etagere and wrote it off as them playing "power games." More fool me. They were trying to stay off the flea-infested carpet. By the time the fleas began to bite my ankles, we were deep in an infestation.
In the middle of this week, I got word that St. Martin's Press is interested in the story that Jacky submitted to them. They want some changes to that manuscript and proposals for two more stories.
Terror set in. It's taken me two full days to calm down enough to think.
Fortunately, Jacky is calm and stable and encouraging. She's turned down two of my proposed plotlines, but agreed to a third. That means I still need one more plotline.
I can do it. Yes, I can. Of course, I can. Oh, God, I'm really sorry for all the swearing I did about the fleas. I promise I'll do better the next time you visit plagues on my household. Just give me some help here. PLEASE!