I have a long list of things to do, and yet none of them really sing out to me.

"Oh, duty, duty—
Why hast thou not the visage of a sweetie, or a cutie?"

—Ogden Nash

Of course, I was genuinely under the weather for a few days. But still . . .

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"Of course," he replies. "I might bail on my own party, and decide to shadow you instead."

"That's fine," I tell him as I put on mascara. "Did you want to verify that the guys I'll be talking to at the party are gay?"

"Of course. I might just emerge from the shadows and demand that they sing show tunes. Just to be safe."

"Fair enough." And I put on my lipstick.

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he informs me. "And we'll have latkes. My mother makes excellent latkes."

"Will you be eating beef brisket?" I ask.

There is a pause. Then he remarks, "you must know a lot of Jews."

"Define 'a lot,'" I request.

And he has no answer.

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That wasn't my original plan, but that's what I did. Unless one wants to credit me for the housework I did, or classify the mysteries I read as "research," or characterize exercise as being work, or give me the benefit of a doubt and assume I'll be productive during the night tonight.

Which is possible. But I don't care much. Because I'm grabbing more reading material, and going back to bed. Please don't bug me unless the house is burning down, okay?

See you tomorrow. It's been an intense several weeks.

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. . . is finally over. I had a three-week cycle to put together the newsletter for my non-profit, so the art director and I had to crank to make that happen. Meanwhile, both the Chair and the Vice Chair of the organization were out, so I had to chair both the big meetings this past Saturday.

Meanwhile, last week was also the "on" week for my daytime proofreading job, and I was still getting over that wacky virus as the week started out.

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Pretending to be half asleep, hoping to fend off an attack? And knowing that if there were one, you could "come to life" suddenly and hold your own?

Do you remember how it never quite worked out, though logic dictated that it would?

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1 This would make a great metaphor for something else in life. Now, if there only was a link...

Posted by: Darrell at December 10, 2006 01:38 PM (O4TxY)

2 No link. I drank too much, and the monsters started coming out from under my psychic bed. Which is fine: at least I know how to banish them again.

Posted by: Attila Girl at December 11, 2006 04:11 AM (zxOEV)

3 At least you don't have friendly, well-meaning commenters that suggest putting together a Gin Registry so that generous readers can fuel this process. The trick is to make that space under your psychic bed so damned comfy that the monsters never want to come out. Except when you face a life-threatening situation, of course.

Posted by: Darrell at December 11, 2006 09:29 AM (zH3l4)

4 I keep the monsters around for literary purposes only. They are actually pretty domisticated, at this point.

Posted by: Attila Girl at December 11, 2006 01:16 PM (zxOEV)

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