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1�0�101010�0�1 2003-10-02, 4:37 p.m.

2 doo


I just got off the phone with my husband. Around 4:30 each afternoon, I get super-charged about the impending state of not-being-in-office and start becoming insatiably curious about how A. plans to entertain me for the evening.

We just got caller ID at home, so he answers the phone:

"Hi."

"Hi! How are you! How's your afternoon going? What's new?"

"Working."

"What'd you have for lunch? Do you miss B-dog (the dog we were sitting the past few nights)? Is our landlady making lots of noise? What are you wearing, sexy boy?"

"Fine. Yeah. I'm kind of busy."

"What do you want to do tonight?"

At which point (because when A. is confronted with the prospect of inventing a to-do list, he begins to salivate), he starts to rattle off a list of gargantuan tasks that nobody who has worked a long, bullshit-laden day should attempt to accomplish in a single evening.

According to A., tonight we needed to eat dinner, go to the laundromat, price all the items for our garage sale on Saturday, invent and implement strategies for promoting said garage sale, call our friends to gather every bit of wisdom they possess on home ownership, and go to the gym for at least a half hour.

"Survivor," I regret to inform you, did not make the cut. Neither did "colddigits work-on-the-book time."

I believe I might have to start being a little stronger if I actually plan to write this book.

Argh. I'd rather go shoe-shopping at Nordstrom, I think.



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