My boss brought her son to the office, then went off to a meeting. He’s a very sweet, charming little boy, don’t get me wrong, but having a doughnut-amped 5-year-old running around my desk severely limits my productivity, even if the VP of marketing is entertaining him. Hence, this.

I’ve embodied slack lately in my blogduties. Not so good. I’ve been maybe a tad depressed lately. Might be PMS, might be that I miss D., might be the war, might be the intermittent claudication that’s been jabbing my legs every damn morning when I walk from the T station to the office. (Never happens at any other time of the day — hell, D. and I took a wicked long walk Saturday with nary a stabbing pain.) I’m seeing my doctor today — taking half a personal day, which is kinda great.

Last night I enjoyed a decadent evening of wine and a DVD — Igby Goes Down, which was all right though not earth-shattering. It felt like a lot of the themes had been done to death before. For some reason, despite having seen the trailer at least twice in theaters, I’d thought it was a Britfilm and was surprised to hear American accents when the boys are trying to kill their mother.

Work has embodied a weird, accordionlike flow lately — whole days with absolutely nothing to do followed by incredibly busy ones. Gina and I have established sort of a quiet détente. I still need to find a better job. I was working on my resume the other day (which I hadn’t touched since I started working here, how fucked up is that?), but it got to be depressing, recalling stuff I’ve worked on over the years, and I had to stop.

I’m not sure what to do this weekend. The miniature angel on my shoulder says I should clean the house top to bottom — including the refrigerator, yuck — and the devil on my other shoulder is keeping any ideas for debauch close to his vest for now. The only planned activity is seeing Calexico tomorrow night.