Marco Pierre White, in "Why My Chef Friend Died," Guardian, February 27

I was in the middle of writing this when the shit came down and I sent that e-mail. Now I�m going to finish up today�s entry like nothing happened, as if going on a murderous summa-cum-carnage murder spree starting with Dr. Blahblah is the last thing on my mind. Then I am going to go home a bit early, host my dinner party, and make the guests say all kinds of nice things to me including That fucking bastard Dr. Blahblah, why didn�t you go on that rampage this afternoon as soon as you saw what was up? and how smart and funny and badass I am and how they sympathize with me on the Pap-smear issue, it sucks but that�s life, and that one of these days I am going to have a hell of a fine old time writing about how ridiculous the situation is and what knobs these people are � or were, because like so much else in my life that tends to chap my ass these days, it is all temporary and one day soon, this year, I will car-and-driver my badass self to a better and more hospitable place. (Hi, Vanessa! Are you taking notes?) Catharine, what do you think? Can I call you later, or maybe tomorrow?

(And isn�t it funny that this is the epigraph I�d already picked today? Isn�t it funny that I�m going to defend the act of job-bitching-about later on down this page? Life�s a gas, all right.)

Here are the other two ideas I came up with to go along with the banana and the grapefruit: weeknights, I am not allowed to drink any alcoholic beverage until after either 8 or 9 pm, I can�t decide yet; and also every weekday, I am going to try to make at least one of my trips between the commuter lot and the hospital, a mile almost exactly, on foot rather than in the van. There is of course the possibility that weekends are going to turn into bacon-loading, booze-chugging bacchanaliae of diet and fitness amnesty, and I will work on coming up with some additional rules to prevent that from happening. Rules, I like rules.

You also know how much I love liminality, and I think especially in the mornings the walk will be nice for that. I�m getting better about getting here in the general vicinity of on time. This is mostly because I�m leaving from the b.s. and going positively 23rd Street all the way. Which is because, yes, things are good in that department, things are totally copacetic. I notice myself not writing about them very often, while a certain F.A. has lately been picked apart in these pages as if by vultures on a rotting carcass � ha ha, and the fact that I didn�t write about him in the Monitor as much as he would have thought was supposed to be damning evidence of my alleged disdain; oh the irony � and my guess is that�s because of a combination of factors. One, I take it as a given and think it�s about as commentworthy as darkness at night, and two, the more dear something is to me the more private I keep it, or want to keep it, or start keeping it. Sometimes I realize that it�s been a while since I�ve said something sweet about Steve and I throw it in here even if it�s not 100% germane, and if there�s a whiff of the perfunctory about that gesture, it is secondary to my authentic wanting not to take things as a given or for granted, to appreciate them all over again as if performing a small personal devotion. Just so we�re clear on that. Also from the White article: A lot of what I did was driven by my ego and my insecurity. Which, I mean thinking about how that can happen and trying to guard against it, can be the same kind of devotion as well. And worth doing, if you ask me.

I am sorry if I gave the impression yesterday that people should shut up about work stuff in their diary entries. Hells no, Sugar! People should never shut up about work stories, or indI was referring to in-person dialogue, actually I was referring to one in particular and because I worried that the dialogger in question might one day read my diary � it�s not Steve � I tried to be all canny and oblique about it, writing instead in general terms. Naturally I failed, though maybe I can take heart in the implication that my passive-aggressiveness skills need some work. What I want to avoid, I meant, is the kind of one-sided conversation where someone is sitting across the table from you saying Oh I hate my job so much, this part sucks and that part sucks and this person takes advantage of me and oh I hate it and the copier never works and the coffee is swill and everyone is so dumb but because of blah blah blah what else am I going to do, oh I hate it so much. Because, OK: you want to be sympathetic, but this person isn�t giving you much to work with, this person is putting you in a position where all you can do is cluck yes yes yes you poor thing and repeat various inanities like "You should talk to HR about that" or "If you want, I can help you gussy up your resume and we�ll start trying to get you out of there." You may in fact have to repeat these things until your eyes glaze over because the person is less solutions oriented than whining oriented, and that�s going to make you irritable because it sure as hell is not what you came out and spent five bucks on a drink for. You are going to feel used. And then ultimately, because you are a good person, you are going to have to sympathize, because, yes, work often bites the big one and people are often backstabbing morons, and then on top of the irritation and feeling taken advantage of, a more toxic malaise will settle over you that pertains to the larger human condition, the condition of people who go to work and then go somewhere else because they need to shake that off, like a bar, how pathetic is that, and you will wonder why is it, again, that you�re not in Budapest or an operating room or anywhere else where you think you�d be less susceptible to this malaise � but then how would you know, maybe you just don�t know how to be satisfied � and, well, it�s just not a good time. And what I was saying was, let�s try, please oh please, to enjoy each other when we are out together, instead of looking for company in our misery and affirmation that we�re not the only ones who are miserable. Let�s like each other instead of seeking out the hates and pains we have in common. Again I sound corny, I know. But we have so little time to be with our friends, and know them, and have the experience of knowing them � let�s soak up as much as we can.

That is the paragraph I was in the middle of when I posted the last entry. So it didn�t end up what it was going to be when I started it. I think you see what I mean, though. And now you have also seen the extent to which I am not, after all, averse to dragging work bullshit into the diary. I think I actually like reading about other people�s workplaces � the continuity, the cast, the writerly skill of tone maintained � I mean, I like reading anything that�s written well and from an individual perspective, and frankly if that�s not there I can just skip over that part of the entry and come back in later.

Oh, whatever. Something else.

How good is that Charles Peters? I think I might have to subscribe.

Over the weekend I was starting to think that I was onto something after Friday�s entry. An approach, or a line of self-inquiry, an incipience. More about that tomorrow, maybe.

OK, Dr. Blahblah is in my office right now and I told him that I was not very interested in the clerky job description attached to the upcoming web site hooha and that it was a big surprise to me to hear myself discussed as the candidate for that one and not the other, when it�s the things like writing and research and coding and focus-grouping and data analyzing that I�ve done and am good at and that oh by the way he led me to believe I would be doing. Catharine, you would be so proud of me, I stood up for myself like a warrior, like a champ. I said: This would not be acceptable to me. He agreed, looking at both job descriptions as if he hadn�t been at the meeting and indeed had never seen our alphabet before, and said, "Huh, well then maybe you need a different job around here, maybe we need to get you in somewhere else. Do they have a department that works on that internet stuff?" He says he�s going to make some calls tomorrow. Do I believe him? I don�t know. My head hurts. I want it to be 8 pm, and I want a drink.

Also why I need a drink is that when he was in here (he's gone now), Dr. Blahblah put his hand on my back. Like that's what else I need around here.

P.S. (a few minutes later): Here's Steve on Epictetus, in case you were interested: Epictetus would say to expect less of life. You were hired as a receptionist/research assistant; that is what you are supposed to be doing during the day. What your employers think of you is beyond your control, and therefore "slavish and weak." In my own defense, I would like to point out that he is wrong about the receptionist part � she's the chick out front with the high school diploma who makes more than I do, you will recall � but as for the rest, all right, point taken. I still want a cocktail, though.