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2001-10-01 | 1:12 p.m.

Well, I turned it in. Maybe it'll come back to me, maybe it won't. I won't consider it a done deal until I've turned in my invoice. And even then, the matter won't be closed until I have the check in my hand. The computer mag pays in about three weeks.

And then, what will happen? Well, probably one-third to one-half the check will go toward taxes, since I haven't paid any yet this year. I got paid once in January and then nothing until September. (Whoa.) I sound like a kept woman. Or at least a housewife. Hey 'Chel, I think I'm a housewife.

Then I'll give Duff half of whatever's left to go toward rent and bills. Then the rest will get used up on everyday life with maybe some put toward Xmas gifts. And that's the end of that.

If I were a grownup, I think, I would feel good about working hard to contribute to the household. But I don't. Instead I think like a spoiled yuppie: What's the point of working so hard if I don't even get a new pair of shoes out of it?

Last night, Frank said the next project should be a labor of love. We can work together and when one of us starts to feel down-hearted, the other will take over. So that's the plan. He is doing a construction project for a friend that just gets bigger and bigger. First he was just supposed to fix up this other guy's ramshackle garage so it could be used it as an office. Lay down a new concrete floor and run in an electrical outlet. Now, it's turned into Garage Mahal, in which Frank must tear down the whole structure and completely rebuild it in rare tropical hardwoods, requiring him to draw up blueprints, apply for umpteen permits and presumably national landmark status, consult obscure arts-and-crafts design treatises and the hand-written notes of Frank Lloyd Wright, etc.

So he's pretty burnt out on that, too.

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