My Schedule is Tight. So are my Pants.

When tourist season hits D.C., it affects everything, including, it appears, my pants size. When people we love start to come to town, we show them that we love them by showing them all our favorite places to eat, including the Hebrew National stands outside of RFK. As a result, after about ten days with my inlaws and the God(ess)mama and God(ess)papa rolling in for surgery at the NIH, we're eating vastly too large quantities of fattening food. It's not that I don't know how to make good food choices in restaurants, it's that it's the Cheesecake Factory, where you celebrate not having to wait for three hours for a table by ordering 4,000 calories worth of cheesecake as your entree. Bad, bad Molly. So worth it, though, to watch Max, on the most intense sugar buzz of his short life, virtually vibrating in his booster seat while making noises usually associated with Beavis and Butthead as "Cornholio."

And this morning, an email from my mother: cousin Dan and his middle son Davey are coming into town for a little one-on-one father-son time some time this week or possibly next and would like to hook up with us. Dan's the closest cousin to me in age (9 years older than me) and now that he's cut his noxious shrew of an ex-wife loose, he's a real peach. But, this presents a couple of problems: God(ess)mama is, as I write this, probably bare-assed and prone on the altar of world-class neurosurgery with her endolymphatic sac exposed for all the world to see, looking forward to a few miserable days recovering in the MoCo before she can go home--this particular surgery will probably affect her balance, which in turn affects her tendency to throw up, and although I'm not much help to her when she's in the hospital and she gets lots of support from her rockstar husband and her mother, I feel like I should be available if they need us.

And then there's my job. Oh, my job. Morale around this place is falling like...like...falling like something that falls a lot, and around here, we demonstrate our committment and loyalty by working eighty-hour weeks. Riiiiight. Needless to say, I am not as committed as I should be, but rolling my eyes until they fall out of my butthole doesn't seem like the best way to advance up the corporate ladder. I'm feeling like I need to cowboy up around here, lest I be the next cost-cutting measure that they decide to take.

It's an embarassment of riches, really, having so many swell folks around. But I am seriously over-committed of late, and everything seems to be suffering, including my diet.

Please excuse me. I need to run over to the Giant to pick up some sort of non-threateningly low-calorie lunch to snarf down at my desk while continuing to wonder how to work a few extra hours into my day.