I have a theory that work has been particularly trying, simply for the fact of it being tax season. And it�s not that I really have anything to do with anyone�s statements or checks, but maybe I�m just the person whose phone number and name they have; I�m the one who seems she�s lowly enough that the consequences of treating me poorly will be slight. I imagine the lines at the PO on tax day are filled with academics, who can�t be bothered with any sort of trivial detail, such as personal finances, with the end of the semester in sight. I don�t think I�ve done anything wrong, save to somehow stray onto the firing range.

From now on, I shall sign my correspondence �Anonymous.�

A girl can dream.

In the realm of dreaming, this past Sunday was a beautiful, perfect sort of day, which has merely added to the insult of somehow leading into another workweek. It was the sort of Sunday where I sleep in and cook myself a nice breakfast, where I watch CBS Sunday Morning (some sort of requirement for ages 27+) and catch a segment on A Mighty Wind, the forthcoming (to our area, at least) mockumentary from the Best in Show and Waiting for Guffman folks, which promises to be as delightful. I digress. Farmers were out plowing; the air was rich with the earthy, beetlike smell of freshly-turned earth, and the lawns and lanes were such a rich, velvety green that I wanted to abandon my morning run and roll in the grass with the dogs. Meg and I pulled my cabinet outside the woodshop, put it up on sawhorses, and stained it a lovely walnut color, which we also splattered all over ourselves, which was less lovely and more pox-like on human skin. After our hard work, she and Jodi and I lounged in the sunshine, playing with the dog and a barn cat, until we were sufficiently motivated to undertake a walk around the farm, identifying all of the types of trees (I�m best with fruit trees, naturally). Then more lounging, followed by an impromptu game of softball, using garden trowels and pinecones. By dinnertime, we cleaned up and headed back to their parents� for a big family dinner, in honor of the grandparents, who�d been checked out from the nursing home for a bit. Then a chat with Kate, a bit of lovely Amanda Davis book, and the best sleep in forever.

And then work? See, it simply does not follow. Such an unjust world.

Ah, which brings me to something Webster drew my attention to today�an article in The Nation about the potential effects of laws preventing so-called partial birth abortions, which has me worked up this morning. Since I�m a big softie for causes this week and am allocating money where I can, perhaps I�ll promise a bit more. No matter how strapped for cash I�ve felt lately, I didn�t have to think twice about heading to Planned Parenthood, forking over my $42 for a small lecture about options, 2 magic little pills and a heap of peace of mind.

Yeah, the personal slights and perceived injustices of this week pale in comparison to many things, but lest we get too heavy, there�s news of a tell-all book about the Bush family to which we can look forward.

Finally�the most pressing matter�should I go see Vic Chesnutt tomorrow night, forsaking a good night�s sleep for more cheap thrills at the new Cowboy Monkey?