So, Just a Short Post Tonight

. . . even though my readership is dropping like a . . . like a gravity-bound thing that's plummeting to the earth.

I went over to Little Mr. Mahatma's this afternoon. Scanmaster joined us, and we had dinner with Mrs. Mahatma and the Mahatma kids ("the monsters," Mr. M calls them). Then the others swam while I lay by the side of the pool and soaked up the heat the concrete had absorbed during the day, as the monsters splashed me and their mother chided them for so doing. We were in the San Fernando Valley, so it didn't get chilly as it would have on the Westside after dark. Not even after my clothes were all wet from the stray water that had landed in my "dry zone."

"I have a sore throat," I kept announcing, to explain why I had to leave soon. But I didn't leave until 9:30 p.m.

I came home slightly on the defensive, ready to point out to my spouse that I was in my client's office into the afternoon today, working sick, and that it wasn't as if my friends and I were loafing around this evening—heaven forfend. No; we had figured out how a particular game of telephone—a piece of gossip rather juicy in its day—had travelled from person to person one summer when we were 16 and 17. We were solving problems, like the brilliant people we are.

I returned full of this accomplishment, and my husband was so sweet that I immediately felt guilty and defensive. So tomorrow—along with catching up on my finances, some phone calls and the housework—I need to finish the plot synopsis for my fiction project, along with the book proposal that will accompany it out into the cold, cruel world. (I'll dress it first in a little sunsuit from Gap Kids, and put Water Babies sunblock on the pages. I try to be a good mom.)

If only Attila the Hub had criticized me for taking several hours off while he was slaving away in his office, pedal to the metal. But no: he had to be sweet and loving. So instead of being able to have a quick row in which I would cleverly deflect the subject to the issue of his deficiencies (real/imagined), I'm now left with one viable option: I need to catch up on all my outstanding projects tomorrow, sometime between my acupuncture treatment (9:00 a.m.) and T'ai Chi class (6:30 p.m.). All because I've been outflanked, denied the moral high ground by the master military strategist I live with.

I'm behind in the arms race of household accomplishment. But that's easy to fix: factory production will soon spike, and . . . I'll bury him. In kisses, support for his endeavors, completion on my own appointed tasks, fun snuggling, and cheap-yet-tasty dinners on Sunday nights.

Attila Girl is re-arming.

(You people have figured out the reality, right?—when I feel like this, it's never because my husband is mad at me for my indolence. He's usually just tired and preoccupied with his own work. I just like to externalize my guilt, projecting it onto him. The next day I remember that if I feel like he's mad at me, it's generally because I'm mad at myself. He has nothing to do with it at all.)

I'm such a head case.