The key to beating the traffic is to go very early. To do this, the alarm goes off at 6:30 and I lie there in pain, thinking, "Get up Trinity. Get up."

Sadly, 520 is always the better route. I hate to be one of those cars stuck on the bridge, but you know, traffic moves across that thing a lot faster than it does along alternative routes. Besides, for long stretches I get to go 80 (listening to Spahn Ranch's Missing Frame), which offsets the discomfort of being awake so damn early. Also, I like waiting in the relative serenity of the Lake Washington onramp in the morning, suspended barely above the canoers' playground and the weeping willows and lilypads. (And when it's my turn at the traffic meter light, I hear the beep, beep, beeeeep of the Pole Position at Mister C's when I was 12.)

I arrived late to work, lucky that most of the employees were stuffed into one room learning that the rest of the employees, stuffed into another smaller room, were getting canned. No one noticed (or cared) that I was late. The news killed whatever motivation people had for being productive and for a long while in the afternoon, no one assigned me any work. I gabbed on the phone to friends.

I hate seeing those wraiths in suits haunting the halls—you see them when you arrive that morning and you know people are going down. After they release a crowd into the worst job market in years, they offer empty "we care" packages, such as resume workshops and confidence-building seminars.

Editors stopped by my cube wanting to know how I've survived. So I told them about the freelancing and the contracts and where I think the jobs are and aren't. (These made a set of surreal conversations. So many people want to work as editors or writers and can't get the work, whereas I don't want to be doing this but it's the only work I can get.) I learned that I have much more and more varied experience than the people I talked to. I always think I'm a novice, or an imposter; that's not the case and it bothers me that I still think that. I am more hireable and I should be getting paid a lot more than I typically do.

An evening appointment cancelled and so I got home about seven. It's after midnight now, and it feels like I've been home a long time and accomplished many things.

The last few days I've despaired over time famine. Working so much recently has not resulted in an adequate amount of money and has confiscated any time I might have had to put toward long-term goals. (I can't get ahead of the ground that falls from under me.) Every evening contains some kind of work-related appointment or else a bike ride or tea. The weekends are all about biking. There is no room for anything else. Yet, it feels like I'm not really doing that much because I am not working on the long-term projects or even having time to read, watch movies, or write. But tonight I got home when other people get home and had time for a short nap and then spent an hour or two dinking around, another hour or two cleaning, and an hour cooking enough food to feed this army until the campaign's conclusion.

Cleaning and cooking don't seem enjoyable or relaxing, but they are restorative. Taking care of the house is taking care of you, and now tomorrow seems manageable.