Sunday night blues

It's been a busy weekend in these parts, with a few bouts of socializing interspersed with some serious time on the couch reading. Darren's still in Florida -- he comes home tomorrow night -- and I have to admit to having enjoyed my alone time. (Well, it wasn't all that alone -- this morning, for example, I had the privilege of meeting Phantom Scribbler, LG, Baby Blue and Mr. Blue, who ran his Half a Big Race in impressive time and spirits. They're all as swell as you might think from Phantom's accounts of them.)

Now it's Sunday night, the pooches are asleep on the floor at my feet (actually, that's not true -- they're monitoring my every muscle twitch in case I take a step toward the closet where their food is kept) and I'm grumpy. I'm feeling at sea about the potential for freelancing full-time; as Phantom will attest, I am capable of talking about little else at the moment. But I am also full of fear about potentially making the move; it's a tough existence, to be sure.

I was also drawn to look at the help wanted ads this morning and saw a posting that looks vaguely interesting, though it's in an area I said I don't want to pursue. Of course, I immediately looked up the organization online and spent much time on the couch daydreaming about how I could help reach its goals -- all in 35 hours a week, of course, with plentiful vacation time and no need to ever work on the weekends. Do I want to apply? I don't even know.

What I do know, though, is that all of these things combined are showing me that it is time to start figuring out the next move, whether that comes in two months or two years. That's an unsettling thought, and I think it's contributing to my habitual Sunday night malaise.

The cure? Usually some lousy TV. I don't know what's on on Sundays, but I've got some tasty eggplant-tomato-basil casserole leftover from last night, plus some coffee heath bar ice cream in the freezer. That, combined with cable TV, oughta cure what ails me, at least for the moment.