(no subject)

This is the official beginning of my week of poverty. It's the one week that I didn't account for when it came to planning for all 52.

By the 14th, of course, I get my bonus, and then I'll be in good shape for at least six months, since I'll also get paid for the play in June. I really don't know about taxes this year, so I don't want to think about that, but that will happen after bonus time, anyway, so it's not a big deal. Or, gulp. Not that big.

But this week, everything's falling short. I've already paid the mortgage and our credit cards and our car insurance, and it kind of left a negative balance, but I had known that was going to happen, so I had set aside some money from the paycheck before that. But I've still got rent to pay, and even with what I set aside, I'm about $50 short.

I've got a few options that I'm kicking around, but the first thing I'm going to do is to double check when the bonus comes in. Maybe it's earlier than I'm thinking. Let's hope--I have Tiger's birthday on the 10th, and there's no way I'm going to let the little guy down.

Last night, I planned set with my designer. I was in the company of men: Pete, and his brother Bob, and Tony, the conductor. The talked sports, women, old hijinks. They laughed loudly and belched. I returned home with at least four beers in my belly and a feeling that I was kind of drunk. On only four beers, can you believe it? Where has my stamina gone?

As I was telling Corb last night, I still feel that my confidence isn't exactly where it used to be. I stumble over words, act shy. I smile and nod when I have nothing else to offer. Not during discussions of the set, mind you. On subjects such as that, I make my point, although even then, I sometimes get stuck on certain things, like temporarily forgetting the names of things like "wagon" or "porch." I'll replace porch with "Eller's house," so I can get the message across quickly. I have this sense of unease, even though I know that these guys are trying to make me feel as welcome and as accepted as they possibly can.

I think it's stress, the weight of so many things. But I really want to set aside some of my bonus and do something for just me, when these next few months are over.

One night.

I'm just sitting around, typing away on the computer.

Ashley's sprawled out by the TV, playing Sims.

Corb's working away in the kitchen, making cookies with Tiger.

(I never can get head shots of Corbie...you'll need to setle for his backside...)



I get up off my lazy cybergeek butt and walk into the kitchen. Tiger's in the process of squishing cookie dough between his fingers, rolling it into a ball. Beside him is the tray, half filled with varying sizes of cookie dough.

As I enter, the dough falls out of his hands and on to the floor, squishing into a pasty mess that resembles worm guts. Without thinking, I say, "Tiger, watch out for your balls!"

Corb seems to find that amusing. Egad.

(Here's a picture of our balls...don't say I never gave you anything...)



Anyway, the cookies smell really good right now, baking in the oven. Tiger and Corb are watching TV behind me, looking for a little glass heart in an "I Spy" book, with Avitar playing on the telly.

Ashley's still playing Sims.

I'm called over to help with I Spy, to find the letter B in a pile of jewelry. Pretty soon Ashley's in the room, too, and we're all searching.

The buzzer goes of. It's cookie time. Corb rises to open up the oven.

It's a good night.