Thank God I have the dog. I think I mean that.

Dave's been incredibly busy at work; he works pretty much seven days a week, and when he's not there yet (he works second shift), he's logged onto his work e-mail or reading our Web site or e-mailing me about work. It's all work, all the time. Makes for really interesting dinner conversation. Naaaaht.

That's where I draw the line. We're not allowed to talk about That One Place when we're both at home. I see him at That One Place; I go to That One Place at 8 a.m. and he comes in at 1:30-ish and I go to bed at 10:30 and he comes home at midnight. So. See, that one hour dinner break is what keeps us related. And I mean that literally. I'd divorce him if it weren't for that.

I've noticed a few things since he's been so busy. For one, I don't see him unless it's that five-minute window between blow-drying my hair and curling it, that I yell down that hall "DAVE! Can you iron my pants?!" and then when I'm done with my hair, I yell "DAVE! Can you move your car?"; or dinner time.

For another, my life's taken on this weird college-like feel to it, in that I feel like when I come home from work, my roommate Becky should be here, and we should watch "Law & Order" and she'd be on the couch with her Notre Dame blanket and I'd be on the floor with my pile of blankets, and we'd eat Jell-o shots from ice cube trays, just like old times. Ah. Then Dave'd call when he gets done at the record store, on his way to hang out with his friend Rob at the bar. Then he'd drunk dial me at 2 a.m. Oooh, those days.

Only Becky's, like, married and in Ohio. I'm here, watching TV. Network TV. "Most Outrageous Moments" on TV. And Jell-o shots are so Christmas party. Awesome.