Why I May Never Have Children

Amid slacker flourishes (sleeping something liek 22 hours between Thursday and Friday nights) and suggestions of tremendous dedication (putting in nearly nine hours in the office yesterday, then going home and reading briefs for another two-plus hours to prepare for a little thing I had to do at a law school this morning), somehow I managed not to buy myself food this weekend, despite a desperate need.

This is okay. I starve myself sometimes. It's good for the soul (if not for the body), and I don't mind being hungry.

What's not okay is that I failed to buy a new bag of cat food for my two furry family members. My roommates. The slightly melodramatic married couple who live under my roof and play out their tawdry soap opera on the floors and under the furniture of our shared apartment for my entertainment.

This morning, that is to say, I was barely able to give them enough food to get through the day. Thankfully, the old wife didn't notice, since she decided unusually to sleep in until I shoo'd her out of the bedroom when it was time to leave. But the wiry, ever-hungry hubby sure did. He came in immediately upon the sound of food falling into the bowl, looked at it, then looked at me as if to say, "Are you serious?"

Sadly, I was.