I know I should probably save my “blogging of the news” efforts for something a little more highbrow – like maybe all the amazing food policy articles that the NY Times has published in the last couple of weeks – but this one just made my little heart pitter-patter.

Best Trattoria in Rome? Let the Debate Begin

Aw man! Doesn’t the Times realize that its pages are voraciously consumed by unhappily employed people who really don’t need it rubbed in their faces that other people get to do that kind of thing for a living? “Ohhh what a controversial question. Which is the best trattoria in Rome? We investigate, pronto!”

Coveting, coveting…and only a little discouraged with my own little lot on the job front.

Without good reason, really…in this case it’s utterly self-imposed. I had to stay home with Piglet today to take her to the pediatrician and as luck would have it, a partner e-mailed me first thing in the morning looking to set up a meeting today about a brief I’m supposed to write. Keener that I am, I immediately wrote back explaining the situation and offering to call in. And then literally minutes later someone else wrote and said they couldn’t make it so we’d have to do it tomorrow. Doh! Foiled by my own lameness. But is it weird that I was so perturbed by having to write in and say I couldn’t be at the meeting? I mean, this is a super nice partner, who I’ve worked with for years, who likes me a lot (if my reviews are anything to go by anyway) and there’s absolutely no rush on this brief. And he couldn’t have been nicer in his response.

Still. I think I’m just so wound up about this endeavor – like trying to be back at work pretending that nothing’s changed and I’m still the same uber-reliable, hyper-conscientious associate that I ever was. But truth be told, things have changed – a lot. And I don’t think anyone, even at my firm (as in, not known for its warm squishy touch), would seriously expect me to put work before the needs of my sick baby. So really, I’m stressing myself out about a problem that hasn’t materialized yet. And to think I complain about motherhood in an age of anxiety.

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