I came down with an acute case of clientitis—that blessed, blessed disease.

And I spent two consecutive weekends on the couch, alternating between Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and the latest issue of The Atlantic.

It wasn't the actual hours I put in this past week and the week before: it was a question of trying to figure out how to use a limited amount of time most effectively, and being as useful to the client as possible, when one of the pivotal players there was in a rather difficult position. I had to make continuous judgement calls regarding what matters he would or would not want brought to his attention.

Total mess. Knocked the stuffing out of me. Plus, my battery problems make it harder for me to work on the laptop from the living room. So, Dead Tree Media seemed like the obvious choice when it was time to go into nervous collapse.

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are the result of grotesque hyperbole.

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So, after the meeting I'm putting something away and I overhear this priceless tidbit:

A: "I can't believe we gave that project such a good sendoff."

B: "But—Holy Crap!—what a lot of work. I told Ms. Subcomittee Chair that after that many months of us busting our butts, she owes me either a dry martini, or one really big joint."

A: "Get her to cough up both. I'll meet you two at your place next Friday; you take the joint, and I'll have the martini. With a little luck, she can pay it all off in one night."

They say that if you really want to get to know yourself, you should work in a nonprofit for a while . . .

As for me, I think I wasted my time on the wrong subcommittee.

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I'm in San Diego, where the people are nice but the internet connections can be spotty.

Having a great time nerd-watching, socializing, and (let's be honest) reading the last Harry Potter book.

This, of course, is all exhausting. There's little time to blog.

Furthermore, one cannot write brilliant entries from the lobby of a Holiday Inn—I saw that written down somewhere, but I've forgotten where.

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"Yes," I respond. "When I got my first account and asked you how to keep it straight, you replied that the secret was to have two accounts, and use them alternately.

But I never had trouble with the 'running balance' thing. It was trying to reconcile them against the statements that always made me crazy."

"I can't even spell 'reconcile,'" my father replies.

This is the same guy who criticized me in college for not taking enough courses in "the natural sciences." (I used to wonder what unnatural sciences would be, but I never bothered to ask.)

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