The trek that all real Northern Californians make regularly and nonchalantly summer and winter (I like to think of it as the West Coast Jersey Shore, except with fewer grotesque, tatoo-covered people) has never become a reality for me. I've been whining constantly for the past three years: "A., you should take me." To which he always replies, "Yes, we should go up some weekend."

But going to Tahoe, it seems, always involves elaborate plans. It starts as an idea for the two of us to drive up for a couple of days, hang out, do some easy hikes. Then we become more ambitious. "It would be more fun with a group of people," we muse. We begin to ask around. People (drunk) validate the goodness of our idea. We start to look into cabins. It all starts to take shape.

Then our friends, who have become even more flaky than usual as of late, start deconstructing the various reasons they could never leave town for a weekend of fun.

Work. Weddings. The AIDS Marathon. To hell with all you hyper-responsible people. My hubby and I are going without you.

We're staying at Caeser's. I have never gambled before (beyond slots, which I hate) and am fully intending to win a big ol' down payment for our first house. Hooray! Good thing I recently finished watching Lost in America, so that I fully understand the pitfalls.

:::

Speaking of earning a down payment for a house, today I committed to writing another book for the Publisher.

I am possibly sick in the head, or maybe just going through post-wedding insanity withdrawal. Either way, I can't believe I've actually committed to doing another one on top of a full-time job.

When I first moved to California in 2000, I was approached by Publisher to write a book on magazine design. It was a topic I loved (since I hold a degree in magazine journalism) and thought it would be very cool to write a book, espeically because I wasn't any closer to that novel I've always dreamed of crafting.

It was total hell. I cried. I procrastinated. I pulled all-nighters and gained tons of weight. It did not help that shortly after I signed the contract, I started seeing A., who saw new lows for me on the self-esteem scale while the thing was happening.

Long story short, I pulled through. The payment was measly, but I paid off some debt and had a book under my belt — an accomplishment which has done wonders for my career.

Three years later, I am a different person. I have excellent project management skills (which I never had before). I'm more confident and understand the process. I know the pitfalls to look out for. And I have true free time now — I'm settled, I'm not spending every weekend trying to pack in every minute with a new boyfriend, I have a steady job, and I've learned how to manage my anxiety levels so that I'm balancing a healthy approach to work with the fun things that make me happy.

So why am I so nervous about making this commitment? It's going to be a fun topic — packaging redesign, which is something I've watched transpire at my current job (we just redesigned our private brand packaging), and one of my favorite topics to write about is artists' process (possibly because I relate to it as a writer, and possibly because I'm such a wannabe visual artist). Yet inside I'm really fighting it. I like my current laziness. I've finally found a groove and am writing some of the best fiction of my life, I think. I'm reading again, and just bought a stack of used books that I can't wait to plow through. Will I have to give that all up?

Yet look at my evening tonight. Got home. Tried to figure out how to cook a baked potato in the microwave. Ate dinner, washed dishes, watched the VH1 documentary on Warren Zevon, fucked around with the DSL modem, wrestled with A. to procrastinate going to the gym, went to the gym, waited in line at Safeway to buy Dran-o for our kitchen sink ... YAWN. It's fun at the time, but I have moments when I miss have something to work towards, having something to pour my creative energy into.