I dreamt that as a sort of surprise, my husband had decided to create another funny little indie movie.

The problem was, I could not decide whether or not I was dreaming, and I did feel that if it were the real thing, I ought to be on my best behavior. After all, his friends were around—and one was never certain when the cameras were rolling.

Certainly there were things that appeared dreamlike about the experience, but I just wasn't certain. I kept trying to reason it out, though I believe I was aware that one's analytical abilities are never quite up to snuff in these situations.

But I tried. For instance, I looked at my watch, and was able to determine that we had been shooting all day. Dreams, I knew, are over very quickly, so that seemed to argue for it being real. Also, who thinks to check their watch in a dream? It had to be real, which was a shame, because I was having a good time, and there were all kinds of things I could have done (besides taking a bath, on-camera, with people coming in and talking to me as part of the setup) that I could have done, had I known for sure.

I was a tad skeptical about the trip to Ireland, because I rather doubted we could afford that right now, but who knows? It hardly seemed like a deal-breaker: perhaps A the H had made a calculated risk, and felt that the income from the film would make it worth the investment. After all, there's a lot of free publicity available in The Age of YouTube. Also, the fact that we were going to the Emerald Isle cut in the other direction: if this were my brainchild to begin with, it would have been England.

Above all, the whole thing was terribly funny, and my dreams never feature humor. So it seemed authentic.

I tried to smile a lot, be pleasant, do something funny when it was my turn, and take it easy on the gin. (Gin was available in those fountains one gets Coca-Cola from in fast-food joints. In retrospect, this strikes me as a bit suspicious, but it felt natural enough at the time.)

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. . . when Hell Week in my volunteer life corresponds with paid assignments from my clients. Because I'm not in a position to turn down paying jobs, but of course I can't let my brethren down in the nonprofit.

So sleep is sometimes the first thing to go.

Thank goodness my mother is starting to feel capable of taking on little tasks around the house: I'll stay there tomorrow night, but I'm not going to be much good around the house. I'll probably arrive late, and then leave early Saturday morning for double-meeting day.

Please remember the take-home lessons, here: 1) don't have mothers; their backs may give out on them at some point. If this approach to life is unwieldy, then 2) don't have volunteer commitments. You'll just end up working your butt off, and people will be there to "helpfully" tell you how you could have done everything so much better.

Stick with clients. We like clients, because we send them these things called "invoices," and then later on they give us "checks," which make life better.

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But just barely. It isn't just maintaining a household along with 2-3 jobs. It's also this business with my mother.

One doesn't just go over and fetch her mail and do her shopping. One also hears sort of a lot of, um, verbalizing. It's more or less nonstop, except when she's in so much pain she can't speak, which is even more stressful, though in a different way.

In between muscle spasms, though, there's this wall of advice. And anecdotes. And specific directions on how to do the things I'm doing for her. And helpful guidance when I'm doing it incorrectly. And admonitions that I shouldn't do more than is absolutely necessary. And polite requests to do one more teensy little thing, please.

I was all set to come home and eat my gun, but it turns out my check showed up from the premier client today, so I'll leave the firearms alone and read myself to sleep instead. Because what's more full of good cheer than money?

At some point, however, I do plan to once more become an Actual Blogger. I (almost) promise.

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My mother still needs lots of help, so I'll have to stop over there tomorrow and at least walk the dog.

Federal Express and/or our landlords messed up a shipment, so there's nothing to sell in my nonprofit/retail/office management job. And the Treasurer there is creating various pressures that I don't think I need.

My cousins were nice about staying here in Paper City, but one always feels icky about having been a poor hostess. They're young, though: they might not have noticed.

Someone damaged my car very slightly yesterday, and I went off on him. Very thoroughly. I know this person, so I probably owe him an amends, but . . . it can probably wait a bit. It was my car.

I remain imperfect.

There's a lot to be said for food and sleep.

I've decided that I should probably balance my checking account and work on my budget about as often as I do laundry—which means almost every day. Therefore, having just performed this grisly task, I am now aware that (my clients being late with my payments), I have $70 to get through next week with.

So: who votes for food? And who thinks it should be gasoline?

But I have plenty of leftovers in the fridge, and two billable assignments to get through the week. And for my birthday the husband got me books and copper pearl earrings.

I got myself two Ellery Queen mysteries and a John Coltrane album. All in all, quite a good haul.

So, you know: nothing to complain about, really.

I've decided that I deserve an iTunes binge. And—possibly a little gin.

I need external speakers for my Mac notebook, though. (I have ex-boyfriend who used to maintain that I blur the want/need distinction. This is not correct: I simply do not admit that it exists whatsoever.)

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The bad news:

1) Urgent Care was closed last night, and we couldn't get an appointment with her regular doctor until after 2:00 p.m. today. I went ahead and crashed there last night, not knowing when she'd be able to go—and wanting to make sure she got a ride there.

2) Because she's unable to host our out-of-town cousins due to this illness, I'm doing it;

3) I have the messiest, dirtiest house in the history of cluttered houses, and only had about an hour today to try to fix that;

4) I only slept 2-3 hours last night, and got in maybe a 45-minute nap today;

5) Did I mention that our house is dirty and messy?

The adrenaline is wearing off (or maybe the tranqs are kicking in). And yet I'm almost afraid to go to sleep: there's this fear that I won't wake up for days.

Also, I need to go clean some spoons off; what if everyone wants cereal for breakfast this morning? Jeez; I must be insane.

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