Friday: get to work. have 2 green-clad 10 year olds meet me at the front door where merciless, lephrecaun-esque pinching - although not altogether painful, due to small digits - ensues immediately due to my having unobserved st. patty's green-garb demand.
my boss, irrate and insane due to wandering through an alternate universe of her own creation for hours on end, as writers tend to do, demands that i understand, share, and resolve her pain, without articulating the problem.
then she needs immediate research, such as yesterday...'HEIDI! I need a funky quote about making your fortune in the gold rush said by an eccentric 1850's character.' the considerably adept google meets his match in her, on a regular basis.
and i get stuck in the middle.
then she gets all cute and sweet, and we laugh alot and go hiking or eat some gourmet spread her italian husband stirs up, and i'm like, 'i have the best job ever.'
Weekend: meet my latest hottie-hot-hotboy at 5pm...drive 4 hours to big bear, stay in a hot-tub/fireplace cabin, wake up early, go snowboarding all day, drive back down to go to a rave that starts at midnight (actually a very radio-station official kind of thing, with the best electronic musicians around - like, 10 peeps are coming down from SF for it), stay till 6am (maybe), go sleep in echo park house 5 mins. away, in my room under the stairs, wake up to celebrate abigail's 21st, then meet this producer that night, to get the tapes of a beastie boy interview whose memoir i am writing the first 2 chapters of.
go to sleep.
Monday: wake up, go to work, and feel inexplicably lonely, cracked out, and sorry for himself. drink lots of coffee. smoke cigarettes.
guilt-trip myself at night for not writing and skipping spanish class, while i drink wine, watch american idol on TiVo, and take up perfunctory home improvement projects right when i'm actually about to sit down and write.
repeat until friday.
get older.