Sigh

I am so tired. I told my husband on Monday night that I have reached capacity--I just can't do one more thing. I am overextended and fatigued and overwhelmed and why, oh why, is the Leaning Tower of Laundry in my bedroom?

Then my sometimes-boss (the private investigator) called and asked if I'd like to do some transcription for him. I asked about the deadline and how much typing would be involved and he assured me I could do as much or little as I wanted. Deadline would be Wednesday at 8 a.m.

I said, "Fine."

My husband thinks I've lost my mind. But I could not turn down an easy $20 an hour. Christmas is coming. Ho-ho-ho. (Pass me a bottle of rum.)

I typed 27 pages, which translates into two and a half hours of work and fifty-four buckaroos. Now, I'm heading to bed, where I will finish my latest book about the Cambodian refugee.

I'm worried that Thanksgiving is coming too quickly, and Christmas will be holding hands with Thanksgiving, pushing through the front door without even politely knocking. There is no possible way I will ever be ready for Christmas.

Then again, ready or not, it comes and goes. "This, too, shall pass." That's the good news--and bad news--for the day.