i'm home.
Punkin is sound asleep. el Jefe' went back into work tonight. he needs to work this weekend. he feels guilty. i guess i can understand it from the male ego perspective, and he not only cares about his job outside the home, he enjoys it. (novel concept!) seems like we live our lives in shifts. certainly a schedule, but not one of our own. he'll work, i'll do laundry, we'll get groceries, and it's time once again to open the Klampett family salon (for el Jefe')!
i've tried to be a little introspective, but i didn't discover any answers. i'm not the happiest person, never was. i share lack of happiness, low self esteem and depression with the best of them. is this the commonality shared by tortured writers? and how dare i even consider myself among a category of women, moms, writers? i have a uterus, a kid, and a baby blog, but i work full time outside the home, haven't taken meds in 10 years or been counseled in 5, and haven't had the nerve to post a photo in my profile or register my blog. i don't even have a flickr account. loser!
but i post pretty regularly, despite six planes, two hotels and three time zones this week. that's gotta count for something.
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