Writing Weekend

Intend to spend entire weekend, (naturally minus time for sleeping and eating and time in bathroom) working on revision, and at end of both days reward self with hearty dinners: Saturday, spicy turkey sausages, aesthetically unsuccessful Rosti--do not understand how one is to flip large pancake made of grated potatoes--feel that there must be a trick--and pea shoot salad--all from neighborhood Greenmarket--and beers, from deli; on Sunday, roast a chicken, carve, and then serve on bed of croutons, currants, pine nuts and greens, a la the Zuni Cafe of San Francisco--eat with sufficient amounts of white wine. But today, suffer painful realization that rewards perhaps larger than efforts demanded as audit of time actually spent writing yields distressing results. For example, on Sunday wear Jenny out with all the walking and in the afternoon Dave finds me underneath bed with rag scrubbing away all dust even in the little grooves between the floorboards. What are you doing? He asks. Writing, I say testily. On Sunday, spend five solid hours staring out window at scaffolding around church before realize what am doing. Thus, when go into work today, am secretly glad to be leaving the so-called writing behind. Arrive before Oliver. When he comes, have written up list of tasks. Remember from own recent life as secretary that one doesn't like to have this kind of a list sprung on one, especially the first thing on Monday morning, so get busy on own portion of tasks and decide to wait for Oliver to ask what there is that needs to be done. Watch through open office dooras Oliver put his head down on his arms. He yawns and picks up the phone. He has an exhausted sounding conversation in which he uses the word Dude a lot. Remind self that other people aren't mind readers and that one must ask for what one wants. Leave office and ask--very nicely, much nicer than the Boss ever asked, not to mention the Vice-Boss--Oliver to do mail merge for letter to potential donors interested in The Arts. He nods in a distracted way. Go back to office. He plays a game of solitaire. He finally bestirs himself enough to folds a piece of paper into an airplane. Start to become angry, but then brain splits and am able to see both sides clearly. Can well remember the panicked existential dread that having to do mail merges gave me. Wonder, not for the first time, why it is that humans bother to work in offices. What are we doing with ourselves? Best not to let one's mind wander into those woods, though and get up out of chair. Tell Oliver that am going to get us both coffees so we can concentrate. Generous impulse ruined by Oliver's bilious request for a chai with two shots of decaf espresso in it and whipped cream on top plus some nutmeg if they have any.