Reading Grouse's diary has made me think about how I've let my work ethic go to hell lately (Grouse being an example of good work ethics). I used to be the person who stayed late to make sure everything got done and done well. In this new job, the workload is maybe a quarter of what I used to do, and I've been lulled into complacency with all this free time.

I should be spending my extra minutes learning more about our profession, searching for new artists, increasing my technical knowledge. Instead I've been thinking up funny lines for Diaryland or reading other people's diaries.

Don't have a heart attack. I'm not quitting the diary. Writing is as much a part of my job as anything, and this journal has been the most sustained and enjoyable writing practice I've ever had. I may just have to take my D-land activities from my private and not my work hours.

I really, really like my job. And I certainly want to be worth what they pay me. If I write evening entries instead of morning ones, I may lose a few readers, but so be it. Lunch hour entries are okay, too, as long as I keep it to the lunch hour.

Tonight Sara and I get to watch the episodes of "Boot Camp" that we've been taping. I don't know if we will be able to, or will want to, watch all three hours. That's a lot o' "BC". But I sure am looking forward to it.

Deb mentioned tonight's plans at the dinner table last night, and it turns out nobody had bothered to tell Sara about it.

That happens sometimes. You get tired of walking up to a family member and saying, "Oooh, oooh, *fill in something you're really excited to spread the news about here*," and having that family member tell you, "Oh, yeah. X already told me." Takes the wind right out of your sails.

Well, I figure that's happening so often nowadays that we're starting to assume that the lighting-fast Rancho Lesbiano Information Hotline will automatically take care of spreading news and sharing plans so we don't have to.

And speaking of plans, there's going to be three days in May when Sara and I have the Ranch all to ourselves again. *Badsnake grins from ear-to-ear* I'll try not to cause any infections this time. I'm really going to miss Deb while she's out of town. *Can't ... stop ... grinning *

And while we're talking about how fabulous my wife is, I realized that I haven't written down a family dinner menu lately.

Last night was a succulent chicken fricasee, pan cooked with tomatoes, white wine, mushrooms, and butter. On the side was spinach and parmesan cous cous with a touch of olive oil. Num.

In the dishing out process, I happened to find that I was sitting on the end of the table opposite the chicken, which had so much tomato sauce stuff in the platter that it couldn't be passed around. Sara could reach it. Deb could reach it. Jake could reach it. They were taaaaalking. Taking their tiiiiiime. Caaaarefully picking out a few mushrooms to put on their plate. I sat there with my serving of cous cous. Waiting ... waiting ...

I must've looked like Julie Andrews in "Victor/Victoria" when she's starving and staring into the restaurant window, watching the fat bald man eat a pastry. Jake interrupted the languid serving process (imagine if old people served food as slowly as they drive and that's what this dishing out was like) and said� with not a little insistance�"Would someone please put a piece of chicken on Badsnake's plate so she can eat."

Oh dear god in heaven, and Jake, thank you! Whew.

Jake probably noticed my muscles tensing with the effort not to spring up and across the table and start shoving meat into my mouth with both hands. She notices little shit like that.

When I sit down to dinner, I'm usually sitting down hungry. I don't want to chat; I want to start eating whatever has been making the house smell so good for the last hour or so.

The whole table erupted in ummy noises when everyone was finally served. Actually, I started off the ummy noises, because I'm not polite enough to wait until everyone else gets served before I start to eat. At least not when it's just us. They understand. They're my family.