The neighbor pulled into her driveway at 3:30. My home office window faces this driveway, my peripheral vision disallowing ignorance of their comings and goings. The 3:30 arrival kicks me into gear, reminds me if I haven't showered yet that I am somewhat pathetic, that my daughter will be out of school in an hour, that I have two and a half hours left to go before I really have to stop to make dinner.

Three-thirty is often when my blood pressure starts to rise, realizing I'm not going to finish the list I made at 7:30 that morning in time for dinner.

The list isn't realistic. But that doesn't matter to the panic, and that's something I'm working on but circumstances don't always reinforce.

Sometimes I let my mind wander to my life if my workday ended at 3:30, if it were me unloading my car and following my child around in the sunshine. If it were me off in the months of summer. My neighbor to one side is a teacher, to the other a guidance counselor. Jobs fraught with their own troubles, for sure, but these don't matter when I'm stressed and daydreaming about what it would be like to be someone else, someone in the sunshine. Reality doesn't matter in daydreams. Regardless of how much you love your work, daydreams make the world go 'round.

I let my daydreams play as day continued into evening and I went back to my computer after giving the little angel a bath. Just as I used to take the Sears catalog to my room when I was a kid and circle everything I would buy if I had a million dollars, I find myself reimagining my days if I pulled into my driveway at 3:30, finished with work.

And I wonder if she looks at my darkened windows when she leaves to teach at 6:15 am and envies me, still asleep.

Really flattered by this interview with My Savvy Sisters!

I just put up a review of chocolate truffles over on my review blog. While the effort was salvaged in the end and tastes lovely, I was thoroughly annoyed by the entire experience. Here's why:

• It was pitched as easy. It was not easy. And I'm not being terribly subjective -- something easy does not take six hours in the kitchen.
• In order to make the truffles, you had to temper chocolate. There were no instructions included for how to temper chocolate. Instead, a tempering unit not included with the review materials was referenced as how to temper the chocolate. Which made me want to blow things up.
• You needed a candy thermometer to temper the chocolate. I bet it's in that tempering unit I didn't have!

The woman I worked with was thoroughly pleasant and the end result tasted great. But this was an experience that could've been so much better had more forethought gone into the level of kitchen competence of the reviewer -- and really -- the target audience. Especially after I asked about the tempering kit and was told no-go.

I take full responsibility for not thinking through -- based on the picture, despite the fact it was labeled "easy" -- whether it would be something worth my time to do. I didn't get paid for this review, and no, nice chocolate is not worth an entire Sunday in the kitchen.

The little angel had fun, so I'm happy about that, but once again, I need to really think about the value of my tiny shred of free time and how I want to spend it. I haven't reviewed food in almost two years, and I'm just mad at myself right now for taking this on.

If you're just starting out doing product reviews, please learn from my mistake. If everything you need isn't going to be included, think about what that means for you. Ask how long it takes on average to complete the task necessary to review the product. I do book reviews all the time, and I know it takes hours and hours to read a book. It's all a matter of how you want to spend your time. I've reviewed 164 things over the years, so mine was a mistake I should not have made.

There was nothing inherently wrong with the product. The publicist was nice and will most likely be mortified when she reads my review and this post. But in all honesty, this was not pitched or executed correctly, and honest feedback is the most valuable thing a reviewer can provide, to both the audience and the publicist.

And for those of you that are all, tempering chocolate? I do that in my sleep! Please try this product, because you would love it.

I just watched my manager win $15,0000 on Jeopardy.

In May 2009, I released a micro-collection of poetry to Kindle. Five poems. Just pulled them off my hard drive, put them in .rtf format, paid someone $10 to design a cover and uploaded it as a collection. It was totally fun to see them in that format. Of course, I immediately bought my own. So I kept doing it with other old poems and two short stories. They're all things that were written ten or more years ago that would otherwise be languishing unseen on my hard drive.

When I gave away the color NOOK on my review blog, the publicist suggested I try out NOOK's self-publishing platform, PubIt. I hadn't done it before because I want to say you had to have a publisher initially, though I could be wrong. Over the past month, I've been stealth uploading the exact same micro-collections for the NOOK to PubIt.

So, anyway, three  years ago I wrote:

It's hard to find a platform for the short form, whether it be short stories or poetry, but sometimes, short form totally rocks. I would love to see my fellow bloggers' short stories and poetry. It's always interesting to watch someone's voice develop. Finally, I think Kindle has yet to hit its stride -- but it will. And when it does, I'll be there.

Ereaders are indeed hitting their stride, and it's so interesting to be in the middle of it. While I don't think anyone will start making play lists of Finnegan's Wake, I could see people utilizing ereaders a lot for short form fiction, poetry, individual articles, what have you. Micropayments rock -- it's a great way to sample a writer's work. And for the writer -- the barrier to entry is ridiculously low. And now that Droid and iPhone have apps for Kindle and NOOK and you can read them on your computer, you don't actually even have to have an ereader to get ebooks. BRAVE NEW WORLD.

I haven't made a mint from Kindle, but I've received a few royalty payments already. Considering how little I make from each book, it's cool. The coolest part, though, is getting words out into the world that would've otherwise just sat in darkness.

If you're interested in my micro-collections and short stories or want to get Sleep Is for the Weak that way, check my left sidebar or the Books and Kindle tab. (Which needs to be changed but I don't know how to change it, so there).

BRAVE NEW WORLD.

---

Speaking of books -- I just gave away a copy of Let's Panic About Babies on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

As we walked through the door to the exhibit, the little angel fixated on a diamond tiara in the entryway, an enormous photo on the wall of Diana wearing a different one. More than one diamond tiara: the true mark of a real princess.

As we passed through the rooms highlighting the Spencer women and Diana's early life, Beloved showed the little angel Diana's ballet shoes. "She was a normal little girl?" asked my daughter.

Well, sort of. If being a British aristocrat is normal. But yes, sort of.

When we saw her wedding dress, the little angel noticed there was another tiara. Then the dresses. Pictures of her wearing them, doing charity work, at balls. It was in the dress room that it dawned on me that I am older than Diana was when she died.

I was most surprised by the room -- the room -- containing books of condolence from all across the world. I never understood the Diana phenomenon. I didn't stay up to watch the royal wedding. I remember not understanding what she saw in Charles, not grasping she married at nineteen, was dead by thirty-six.

And that's what the little angel clung to -- how had she died? In an car accident. Why was she being chased? People wanted to take her picture. In a car? Why would they want to take her picture in a car? If she was not smiling? Were they bad guys? Were they trying to hurt her?

No. It was an accident. They really just wanted to take her picture.

And then, it came out of my mouth: "I guess that's why we shouldn't want to be famous."

I've been turning that over in my mind since Friday when we went to Union Station. Fame, such a strange thing. The same force that begat an entire room of books of condolence, diamond tiaras and televised weddings also inspired high-speed car chases and an unfortunate and untimely death.

"But she was a real princess?"

"Yes, real princess. And now I suppose Kate Middleton will be a real princess."

Whatever that means these days.

I took Friday off. But then there was this really important call I had to be on. Approximately fifteen minutes before that call, as I was frantically cleaning because my parents were coming, the neighbor walked in. To tell me our other neighbor, who watches both our girls after school, is moving. In a month.

We talked about how we were going to squeeze through the month of May before school gets out and her daughter stays home with her (she's a teacher) and my daughter goes to already-planned summer camp.

"The thing is," I found myself saying, "say for instance she comes home and I have a really important conference call in eleven minutes," and the neighbor was all, "yeah, yeah," and I felt myself fighting tears because all this was happening and my neighbor was in my foyer and my husband and daughter were home and I really, really did have a super important conference call in eleven minutes.

I had to very rudely excuse myself to go upstairs for the conference call. And then I shoved the whole childcare problem to a back corner of my head, where it pops up from time to time like a rubber duck that refuses to stay submerged. It was there, staring at me, when I woke up this morning.

There are options, they just have to be examined. The child isn't going to like any of them that we can afford, that are practical. After a week of spring break, I could barely get her out of bed this morning. I could barely get myself out of bed this morning.

I think I need an entire day of sleeping. That would fix EVERYTHING.

She wanted a set of Dr. Seuss reward charts and stickers. They cost $4.99 and she had $3, but I decided to spot her the rest, surprised she would spend three weeks of allowance on something that seemed like work.

At home, she demanded a list, so I dutifully wrote one out, forgetting about half the things I wanted her to do every day.

Yesterday morning, I walked into her room. Her perfectly clean room. The 8,400 books that perpetually line each side of her bed were in her bookcases. Her bed made, Ski Bear and his posse carefully balanced on the edge. They were even wearing tiaras. Her snowglobe collection perfectly lined up, her desk clear. She was dressed. Her teeth were brushed.

I stared at this child in shock. Academically I realize she's almost seven. In my head, she's still two, just an extremely literate and verbal two.

Suddenly in my head she was 15, asking me to drive her to her part-time summer job at the ice cream shop.

All day, she lived to serve. She set the table, cleared the dishes, cleaned up the living room, rearranged all the magnets on the refrigerator, fed the cat. Her hands in constant motion, her eyes searching for another task to complete -- and I started to get a little nervous. She earned 24 stickers in one day, which will pan out in either 50 cents or a small shake, not to be earned more than twice in one week.

I went to bed wondering if we had created a monster.

This morning, I walked past her bedroom. The bed's not made. The breakfast dishes are still sitting on the table. The girl's on spring break, Beloved's out jogging, and I'm in my home office listening to the sound of her sacked out on the couch watching television.

Phew. She started to scare me there for a minute. I'm all for motivation, but child, you are SIX YEARS OLD.

This morning I was listening to Beloved's evil conservative radio station, which he only listens to because it's the one in Kansas City that actually has detailed traffic reports about the road he takes to work.

They had some economic blowhard on there talking about Japan.

I've tried to ignore Japan, because I got very depressed after Hurricane Katrina. If I allow myself to ponder the chaos of 10,000 lives lost instantly due to a natural disaster, I will descend back into that dark place. It sounds very selfish to say this; perhaps it is selfish to be self-protective when it comes to world events. My former therapist would tell me to analyze whether or not I could actually do anything about a situation before getting so emotionally engaged in it.

And so, I've tried to acknowledge, to pray, but not to focus.

But then there was this guy who was saying THANK GOD the only costs to the Japanese earthquake and tsunami were human. The good news -- he said -- was that the economy didn't seem to be suffering and so the American economy would not suffer as a result.

I could not believe what I was hearing.

I kept waiting for the DJ to rip the commentator to shreds. It never happened. They went on to talk about the economy.

Then -- just now -- I admit it, I was watching Dr. Phil again -- and they were talking about a guy who identified as female even though he is male and how if he ignored his feelings, that might impact his life in different ways -- and "the workplace" might be affected.

A man thinks he should really be a woman and we are worried about his ability to get a ten percent raise?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

There is more to life than money and our ability to earn it. Japan has been devastated. This man wants to be a woman.

And none of it has anything to do with money. At all.