The table during the day.
Lately, I've been freelancing. From home.
This means that I'm doing everything from our big table - cold calling, producing radio, rewriting copy and doing conference calls - while Heather is in the house.
Theoretically, this should be fine, but occasionally, as happened today, she'll ask me question like, "What would you like for dinner?" and I'm in the middle of doing something else - editing, whatever.
At the moment, I'm not interested in being pampered.
So my answer is a little petulant. And non-committal: I don't know. What do you want?
Today, she interpreted it as resentment that she hasn't found work. She's worried about people not calling her back. She's feeling trapped by the apartment. By our always narrow circumstances. By her pregnancy - our pregnancy.
Of course, I don't mean to do this. I'm stressed out too. About all the same things. And my answer isn't to place my energy where she does - but elsewhere. Which is easier for me since I'm a writer. I can write whether or not someone hires me. I can always work on the script a little longer, a little harder.
Acting isn't so easy. And even less so when you're pregnant.
Last night, we played tennis and went for a drive along Mulholland. But we can't do that every night.
What to do... What to do.... besides give up and become a lawyer.
No one said it would be easy, but it's these little stubs that worry me the most.
ps. this is amazingly COOL.