From the short list of topics I usually write about, I've chosen several that I don't particularly feel like discussing today.

I don't want to talk about work, because this week has been completely backward, ending today with the mother of all Mondays. Boom! Right out of the chute this morning (I could say "right out of bed," but even though that's literally true it doesn't seem like the right image for a work situation), I was on the phone with the insurance company. That's because I got a call from another contractor who owes us money but says he can't pay us until he has our insurance certificate.

My records show I asked for the certificate in August. The insurance agent's records show they issued it the next day. Since I don't have a copy in my file, it's possible they issued it but never mailed it. (It's also possible that flying monkeys stole it.) So we got that straightened out and the contractor called again. Where is the auto liability coverage, he wants to know. I got back on the phone with the agent, and since our renewal date just passed and we changed auto insurance carriers, the certificate has to be reissued. She promises to take care of it.

Then I looked through my file (again) and found the worker's compensation certificate, also issued in August. It clearly shows that it was mailed to the other contractor, leading me to believe that they're the ones with the flying monkeys. Which is a comforting feeling, knowing all this commotion isn't because of any debilitating deficiency on my part. Still, that knowledge doesn't get it resolved, and I still have to do as much work as if it all had indeed been my fault.

And that was all before ten o'clock, before the copy machine had a chance to commit ten heinous paper jams in a row. Chairs flew around the room, I can tell you, and the machine took all the punishment I dared give it. I didn't want to overreact, because that usually means it won't work at all until the repair guy can get out here. Since I can make it work without jamming if I hand-feed the paper, I withhold the death blow.

And that's not even all, but that's enough, because I don't want to talk about work.

I don't want to talk about politics or the war, because the news lately is just too depressing. I really want to believe my government is competent. I really want to think we're going to eliminate the anthrax threat without infecting any more postal workers. And I want to believe we're going to install a democratic government in Afghanistan without bombing any more hospitals. I want to believe that new tax cuts will get the economy going again, and that the secret police — uh, I mean the FBI and the CIA and whoever else now has the authority to declare anyone they don't like a terrorist and listen to their phone calls and read their email — won't abuse their newly bestowed powers.

But since the more I think about these things the less I believe them, I really don't want to talk about it.

I don't want to talk about what a bad mood I've been in lately, or how little I've been sleeping (hence the bad mood), or how I've been so lazy that it's coming up to the end of the month deadline and I still have my quarterly payroll tax reports to do before the witching hour on Halloween. I don't want to talk about how badly I need a haircut. I don't want to talk about the weather, which is suddenly turning cold and wintry, even in California.

So I guess I'll have to think of something else to talk about.