Chick Wit: Nestled into sublime insanity

In most jurisdictions, state law forbids what's going on in my bedroom.

No, not that, silly. I'm not talking the Vice Squad.

I'm talking Animal Control.

Or you could say, Fifty Shades of Puppy.

Let me paint you a picture.

On the left side of my bedroom is something called an ex-pen. No, it's not something you put your ex in.

That would be Hell. As in, rot in.

Handcuffs, of course, would be involved, but used for their intended purpose. Whips would be nice, and so would chains.

That's the kind of sex fantasy I have.

Fantasies where bad things happen to people I've had sex with.

But to stay on point, the ex-pen on the left side of my bedroom holds my dog Peach's three puppies, who are predictably adorable and spend their day engaging in a variety of puppylike activities, including peeing and nursing, in a continuous loop.

If you carry a water bottle around with you all day, you know these things are related.

But if you don't carry a water bottle around but are a middle-aged woman, you know these things aren't necessarily related.

Fifty Shades of Gray Hair.

On the right side of my bedroom sits another ex-pen containing Little Tony, who is recuperating from shoulder surgery. He's on pain meds, antibiotics, cold compresses, and restricted activity, which means he isn't allowed to run, play, jump, or have any fun for the next three months.

I carry him upstairs and down to take him out to the bathroom, and at this point, I do everything but go to the bathroom for him, though I probably could.

You may recall that he lacks a foreskin.

Coincidentally, so do I.

In between the two ex-pens, I've shoved my desk, a chair, and a computer, because I have a deadline for a new novel at the end of October. I can't walk around my bedroom, because there's no room left.

By the way, in case you were wondering, Ruby the Crazy Corgi watches this insanity from the threshold to the bedroom, held at bay by a gate. And Spunky the Cat, whom you may remember I adopted after my neighbor Harry passed away, is hanging out down the hall in Francesca's bedroom, behind a gate of his own.

Bottom line, we're all in lockdown except my cats Mimi and Vivi, who have complete run of the entire house, both day and night.

Anybody who owns cats will surmise immediately, and probably correctly, that Mimi and Vivi designed this plan.

At night I think I hear them downstairs, laughing and drinking beer.

Still, I'm not complaining about any of this, because as it turns out, I'm having the time of my life.

People say I must be getting no work done, but on the contrary, I've written more words more quickly than I ever have before. A writer's job is to sit in a chair and write, and so I do, except for breaks when I go cuddle something furry.

Freud wondered what women want, but he should've asked me, because the answer is:

Something to cuddle!

And a job!

So I'm hoping I can't be the only person on earth who plans their life this badly and creates this many of their own problems, yet somehow everything turns out not only all right, but awesome.

Surely there has been a time in your life when you shouldn't have been happy, but you were.

When everyone thought you were nuts, but you felt the sanest ever?

Because some plot twists are for the better, and some endings are not only happy, but a surprise.