On Friday night, Dan, Priscilla and I went out with the whole family (mom, dad, brother, his girlfriend, and my two nieces) to celebrate my father’s birthday at a nice restaurant near the house. We met them at 7:30, which has been my bedtime of late, given the onslaught of projects and pressure at work.

But P and me had a long talk earlier in the day and decided that, no matter how too-pooped-to-pop we felt, we’d go and make the best of it. Get all gussied up—even put on a little lipstick and that fabulous black lace duster we bought in Chicago back in July—and drag our sorry collective asses (ass?) out of the house. (But not before having a few spoonfuls of old apricot preserves I found in the vegetable bin—to which my censor-free alter-ego commented: “You’re gross” to which I said, Whatever.)

And I must say, it did feel good to leave the house (read: computer) and enjoy a little family time. Even though that can sometimes be stressful in and of itself (since the Cleaver’s we’re not), but still. It was better than having to dine au jour with Microsoft Outlook and several large piles of notes, as has become typical on the weekends.

Once there, we enjoyed a lovely meal of crab soup, salad, and Atlantic Salmon. Just delicious. And it was all perfectly normal, until the waiter asked if anybody wanted dessert. That’s when I noticed something, well, interesting about our family.

Everybody at the table looked as if we’d just been caught in a bank heist. We glanced nervously at each other with a sort of what-do-we-do-now kind of look I can only imagine bandits have as they’re discovered in the vault fondling piles of cash. I guess, after listening to my mother lecture us about the size of our respective donkeys and waists—and the do-we-really-need-that’s for, like, eternity—we’re all afraid to eat dessert in front of her.

I don’t know why this was so punctuated on Friday night. It’s not really news. And yet, it struck me as kind of odd. Like something you’d find in an Augusten Burroughs novel. Now, maybe it was my frazzled nerves and low burnt-out reserves. Maybe it was my exhausted alter-ego Priscilla on board who, especially lately, has forced me to be observant in a different way than usual.

And then, a funny thing happened in that moment: Priscilla wanted chocolate. And she would not be deterred or pushed down by my lil’ ol Jewish mother. And before I knew it, with as good a Broadway voice as I heard watching ”Wicked”, she belted out: “SURE, WE’D LOVE TO SEE THE DESSERT CART.” (Subtext: BRING IT ON.)

I was mortified (although my husband was quite amused).

But then again, you can’t silence Priscilla. I’ve learned that much in a week or so, since she burst out of my brain. And I really envy that about her. Looking on the bright side, she’s shown me that exhaustion can be quite freeing.

So, long story short, the waiter brings over a dessert cart full of uninteresting sugary items inevitably ruined by fruit—apple pie a la mode with a special crust, crème brulee with a raspberry sauce, chocolate mousse with blueberry froth, key lime something, YUCK AND YUCK—before finally getting to the good stuff. That glorious brownness that medicates sooooooooooooooooooooo well.

To which P says, “We’ll take that. One piece, with vanilla ice cream, eight spoons.”

Talk about courage. Gosh, I’m really gonna miss her once I finally get a day off and a good night’s rest.

Well, that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Do with it what you will.

Until next time.

Saturday, my husband and Steppy came back from a bike ride to find me in what’s sadly become a familiar spot: Sitting at the kitchen table, working on the computer (and wishing, deep down inside, for a break).

I haven’t had a bona fide day off in almost four weeks. That’s because it’s the busy season at my job and it’s just lil’ ol’ me and about a bazillion benefits communications. And in a less-than-fair fight, the communications are winning. In fact, they’re taking over my life.

There’s such a never-ending stream of work to be done, it’s as if I’m being hazed—dragged through some collegiate rites of passage (the kind that reminds me of the sorority experience I chose by bypass back in college) that nobody told me was coming. And I’m dealing, okay. I am. (I know this gig is going to be great in the long run!)

But not without any after effects—namely, I’m tired.  Downright bleary eyed and, as those close to me have pointed out, my words are starting to come out garbled.  Still, I’m hanging in. And since I know that everyone in my world outside of work is probably sick of hearing me complain—in the spirit of being both creative and efficient with words (but decidedly NOT psychotic, so please, no interventions)—I have decided to give my exhaustion a name.

Its name is Priscilla.

And Priscilla wants mostly sleep, a box of tissues, and ice cream.

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Last night, after we dropped Steppy off in Delaware (where we meet her mother halfway, since they live in Maryland), I promptly announced in the car that, “Priscilla wants a cookie for dinner.” To which my poor husband said, “Who the f*%k is Priscilla?” And then he promptly twisted his head to see if anybody was in the back seat.

“There’s no one here babe, Priscilla is me,”  I said. “Surprise.”  I explained how she was code for my exhaustion. “Get used to it. I mean her. I mean it.” (Pause.) “Whatever.”

Hey, at least he has some fresh new blood to you-know-what with (although Priscilla’s too tired to be all that great…).

A few things you might like to know about Priscilla going forward (since I’m sure she’ll make the occasional appearance right here):

1.       Priscilla’s in charge, at least until I can get some rest, both physically and brain-wavey.

2.       Priscilla medicates with sugar and she’s not choosy (for example, those Pop Tarts in the back of the pantry from last year and 14 tablespoons of old grape jelly will do just fine)—and she’s not all that interested in exercising either.

3.       Priscilla’s clothes are getting tighter.

4.       Priscilla has no censor. (“Maybe you should shave that beard today, Kong.” I believe that’s what she said to our handsome and saintly husband yesterday whose hotness CLEARLY didn’t deserve it.)

5.       Priscilla is moody. One minute she’s leaping around the house professing her love and amazement of the universe to the dogs (“Isn’t life precious, you guys? My little snoochie poochie babies..”) and another minute she’s curled up on the sofa in a ball, wondering why Amy Berkeley dissed her back in the 90s, and bawling. (No, wait, that’s Jill, no no, that’s Priscilla…oh, I’m confused.)

I’m sure there’s more to learn coming, since (I fear) Priscilla will be here clear through October, when the busy season eases up just a tad. So please bear with us. I have no idea who’ll be writing…(but someone will!)…

Until next time!

This week was a real turning point in the new job. Because, with one more client looking to climb onboard my already packed ship (if you will), the time had come to submit to what I could no longer ignore—an overwhelming workload, deadlines coming faster than a cartoon train, demanding clients, and too few hours in the days and even weeks to get it all done.

It was time to stand down, if you will in the face of simply too much for one.

Think a six-foot submarine sandwich, the repaving of a well-traveled interstate after a long and snowy winter, the electrical wiring of a new office complex.

Okay, well, maybe these are exaggerations, but still. It was—and is—true that I could no longer handle, without reinforcement, the 30-some communications that now needed to be written, designed, and produced in the next six weeks. And, even scarier, shuttled through a revisions process I knew would be both time consuming and, at times, call for a few Stuart-Handy affirmations.

Among other things.

And so, in the moment I realized I could no longer go it solo and do my best work, I did what any God-fearing paycheck-loving sugar-craving middle-aged woman with a good job and slightly arthritic knees would have done: I marched head first into my boss’ office (hi Bob, I know you said you never wanted to be mentioned in here, but he-ey) and, carefully, on my virtual hands and knees, corneas like spinning bulls eyes, said those three little words that don’t come easy to an overachiever like me:

“I need help.”

What is it about asking for help that’s so hard?

I mean it. What? (Tell me…be honest.)

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And while I’m at it, I have more…

Like, why can’t I keep the plants on my back deck from crumbling into brown leafy dust despite my constant attention? Why did it take me until the age of 42 to finally meet the man who would be my husband? And how is it that I can remember all the words to “I Think I Love You” (David Cassidy, yummy back then, circa 1970-something), but can’t for the LIFE of me remember where I put the car keys or whether I had carbs for breakfast.

Why did the perfectly sewn hem on the left leg of my trousers just spontaneously drop like a faulty parachute in the middle of a client meeting?

And why is it that I can’t just ease into a Lifetime Movie on the weekend anymore, without feeling guilty about not doing something more productive, like writing a newsletter, a blog, or even a note to self?

Why do they keep coming up with new social networks when most people don’t have time for the ones we already have? And why do “friends” post pictures with me in them on Facebook when I’ve made a very conscious decision not to be on Facebook and, ergo, not show my face?

Less urgently, why are all the shoes in my closet black?

And why are people in this country so angry about the proposition of healthcare reform and unable to discuss the issue like civilians? (C’MON PEOPLE. C’MON.) I mean, I don’t know about you. But making improvements to anything is up for conversation in my neck of the woods any time.

What is it about Sunday nights that make me want pizza more than any other night. And, most importantly, why do bad people get good things? (You all know who you are, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.  BTW, tell the truth, am I starting to sound crazy?)

Why am I already seeing commercials for holiday bargains when we’re barely into September?

And just one more, I promise: Why do I constantly have so many questions? I mean, I’m middle-aged now.  Now’s the time I’m supposed to have the answers. WHEN DOES THAT HAPPEN?

(Or maybe, just maybe, I’m like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. And I could find my way home anytime. Right? Is that it? I’m up. I’m clicking together the heels of my flip flops. Nothing. Nothing!)

Okay, Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel better. Until next time!!!  (And by all means, write if you have a response to any of these highly reasonable inquiries…)