[Recently, at the Ministry of Silly Hats]

I have Sunday evening quick-onset dysthymia. Shut up, it’s in the DSM-IV. Symptoms include having snippets of that “Always on Sunday” song that was used in an HBO promo severeal years ago stuck in one’s head. Ooooon Sunday. Ooooon Sunday, the prospect of a week alone all day wrangling a baby stretches before one**. It’s a delicate tightrope act performed while juggling a bear, er, the needs of a tiny human, housework, and work work all at the same time! I’ve totally caught ADD. Perhaps it is the fault of television? Fold laundry for three minutes, jiggle baby, check email, change diaper, back to laundry, empty dishwasher, dance with baby, prep file for press, bastardize Tears for Fears lyrics by using them in a humorous manner incorporating the actions of a baby, take call and explain that the background noises are an infant, not a kidnapped drifter, pee if I’m lucky…. You get the idea.

Mr. H and little H and I had a loverly three-day weekend, wherein we saw many friends and enjoyed a homecooked meal from his ancestral abode. Mr. H has a new job, and I am already scheming to get him to abuse working from home. Maybe that way we can both get nothing done! I was born to do nothing. I shouldn’t complain.

*Should I retitle this “Dumber than a Boston-area book report? Because that was just so hilarious on Family Guy.

**OK, mainly wrangling a baby between the witching hours of 5-6pm are the issue. She is soothed by speakerphone. Don’t be surprised if you get a call.