My Dog is Chelsea

Went to work. Came home at 5:45. Mopped up two puddles of urine, collected the chesnuts scattered on the kitchen floor and fed the dog. Played fetch briefly in the courtyard.

At 6:15, I sat down to finish up some edits on a piece for work. At 7, I took Calla for a walk. Got home at 7:30—the time I was supposed to be at my student’s house. At 7:37, she called to see where I was. At 7:41, I finally managed to trick Calla into letting me out the door. At 7:45, I arrived at her house.

We did some practice with the past tense—reading and writing. We went over some forms she got in the mail. We were about to move onto typing when I realized it was 9:05.

“I have to go. It’s after 9.” It was late and I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything since the pathetic bowl of instant soup I’d had for lunch.

“You’re not even here an hour!” she protested.

“I’ve been here since before 8,” I said.

“But I need more time!” DON’T WE ALL. “Next week you come at 5.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t come that early. I’m still at work at 5. I can try for 7, but now that I have the dog it’s a little tough to get here any earlier than 7:30.”

She kept pleading. “Maybe another day then?”

“Maybe Saturday afternoon.” Then I realized that I’m busy the next 3 Saturdays. “No—Thursday is the only day.”

I got home around 9:15. I ate dinner at 9:45. And now it’s time for bed.

I know I shouldn’t complain. But if there’s one thing on this planet that REALLY gets my goat, it’s people pressuring me for MORE TIME. And I especially don’t like bargaining for my own time when I don’t even have enough of it to EAT. I give a lot of my time—to work, to my volunteer activities, to the things I don’t want to do but have to. Last Friday I went from working at my job straight to working on the neighborhood newsletter—which meant that from 8 am until midnight I was giving my time to someone else. That will likely happen again tomorrow—and if I work on the paper during every “free” moment between now and the publication date, we may just get the newspaper done—on time.

Sometimes I dream about cutting the cord on every after-work activity. It would be freaking awesome to come home, every single night, knowing that the only thing I need to do is cook dinner, play with the dog, read the zillion magazines and newspapers that currently make the sad journey from mailbox to recycling bin without so much as a scan—and then just go to sleep.

Anyway. Calla is at my feet snoring louder than the buzzing of prop jet engine at close range. Reminds me that I’m tired. No more time for blogging.