I just typed this email and am uncontrollably laughing. Not sure why:

i started laughing here just now thinking about that trip to the berks and how our return flight didnt leave until like super late. and we were soooooooooo tired but kicked out of granny's pee-stained hotel room, and we had that biggol minivan and we were so tired. didnt we like almost take down a mailbox or something?

"How are things?"
"Busy, man."
"Yeah, me too."

Doesn't it seem everyone says the same thing?

I woke up in the middle of the night last night, my arm thoroughly asleep, heart racing. The lighting in the bedroom was blue. Throwing back the covers, I stumbled into the bathroom and flipped on the light, blinking into the mirror.

Its like someone screwed off my head, poured a ton of new ingredients into my body, re-attached my head and rigorously shook me up for a few months. I'm trying to balance myself and something is becoming clear-- my priorities are managing to fall to the bottom, and what is rising to the top are priorities that are someone else's-- work-related. The tail is most definately wagging the dog.

Lately, I can't even tell where I am supposed to be unless I am seated in front of it. How horrifying. When seated with a client, I am immersed (as much as my brain allows) in their situation. When seated across the table from my twinkly-eyed husband, I have the urge to throw myself at his feet and apologize for being late every night and a poor conversationalist. With family-- I'm pulled to the tall sycamore trees and fresh bay air. I do manage to take time every morning to walk our old dog down street, heaving and sniffing the ground, his stiff back legs kicked out like a tripod. Dear, close friends appear repeatedly in my dreams. Rachael? Sarah? I miss you all.

I need to get in front of this. My wonderful boss recently resigned, the sort of boss that you could count on, had your back in the office, and was sincere yet dazzling with clients. I was inspired and safe. Not surprisingly, he was offered a great opportunity elsewhere. Now, I am in the front lines, buried.

I know what to do. I'm waging a war until I get help.

This may go down as the wierdest meeting. Ever.

9:00 am. I was seated on a bench next to our art director, in a client's lobby waiting for a meeting to discuss some stuff for a rather large-scale web site project. We weren't talking much, both feeling a little groggy.

As it turned out, our main contact had a conflict and couldnt make this meeting. But our trip wasn't wasted, there were a bunch of people assembled that "had a few questions to ask". I quelched my suspicion and we were led upstairs.

We walked in to find 10 or so people seated in a circle around the perimeter of the room. Two small classroom-style chairs were brought forth for the two of us to sit on. They were plopped in the middle of the circle. The air in the room was tense, I had the strange sensation of being in both nursery school and at the same time that we were about to be cross-examined.

And, oh, was I right. I scanned the room-- they were all very young staffers and interns, some with mousey demeanors and others with spikey hair. They raised their hands. Questions came at us from behind, from the left and the right.

I began to notice a pattern: I was saying the same responses over and over again. Somehow it wasnt sinking in or they werent listening. Some of them were giggling.

One intern in particular kept asking for something that we don't know the answer to yet. I literally had to hold up a peice of paper and exasperately stated: "THIS IS ALL WE ARE FOCUSING ON NOW". Then the same question was fired at me again. That intern grew angry that he wasnt getting his answer and rolled his eyes, snorted and started making wisecracks.

Anarchy Nursery School. No one was in control, yet, still, this group did represent our client who is paying us a not small amount for this project.

The requests started pouring in, crazy, large-cost requests that were not part of the our contract. Nursery School for Rotten LIttle Kids. The exchanges bascially went something like this:

Kid: I WANT A PONY.
Me: Well, I am not sure Mommy will let you have a pony.
I SAID, I WANT A PONY.
We also need to know if you yard is big enough to have a pony.
WHEN DO I GET MY PONY?
Um, let's put the pony on hold for now.
WHAT COLOR WILL MY PONY BE?
...
HOW ARE YOU GOING TO GET MY PONY?
...
WHY WONT YOU TELL ME ABOUT MY PONY!?!

New Rule: I only go to these meetings with my nice, sane client.

When folks come to visit, Fells Point is the natural destination. With its cobblestone streets, old colonial shops & and endless string of pubs overlooking the water--its a sure thing.

Which is why when Scott's chum came to town on business, we met up at an old, creeky joint in Fells.

Coming straight from work, I found them clustered at the end of the long bar, talking animatedly. I hugged the old friend and shook hands with his boss, who apparently was to join us for our night on the town. He was tall, fit and attractive-- with an emphasis on well-groomed.

While the old friends caught up on barstools, the bossman and I got aquainted. Or, I should say, I quickly became acquainted with the following:

He knew he wanted to make "six figures before he was thirty". He didnt look much older than thirty. His children are the smartest in the world. He runs 5 miles every morning. He eats better than anyone. He and his wife are incredibly in love and he surprised her with getting re-married in Martha's Vineyard this past summer. Life, for this young bossman, was in every way, shape and form perfect. I think I told him that I went to Martha's Vineyard once, but I'm not sure he listened.

We trundled down to a great old restaurant and settled in for the predictable crab bonanza. Wine was ordered. Bossman, I noticed, was getting a little loopy. More crab treats and more wine. His otherwise perfectly perpendicular disposition became more, well, diagonal. He told us about his very Republican affiliation.

Plates were cleared and after dinner drinks were served, and I noticed his arm sliding somewhat behind my chair. Scott, seated across from me, looked slightly bewildered, I shot him a reassuring look and squelched a laugh. I felt bossman's bispeckled eyes on me, and the moment I turned my head, he was poised and ready. His big, clean-cut head all zoomed in close like a large moon. He leaned in and said "I can't stop thinking about you."

Coffee nearly splattered across my plate, as I thought about it. Can't stop-- as in, over the past hour? Now, in all truth, it was flattering, even coming from a guy who probably didnt even retain my name.

It only got worse, Mr. Perfecto would take a long swill of his drink and wait for the perfect moment to slur flatteries in my general direction. He grew somber and heavy, the guys went to get the check. He leaned towards me, trying to stare intensely, saying nothing and all at once omitted the most colossal fart. I almost choked. The guys returned, Scott sat down and was about to say something-- but was physcially jarred. I shuddered, trying not to laugh. It was a perfect moment.