I have been a busy little worker lately. I spent all weekend reviewing the hard copy of the Unix Power Tools book -- all one thousand pages of it -- looking for problems, as well as pulls for the book's web site.

I also made a stab at my first chapter for my online book, but I'm very unhappy with it. Very. The problem with reading wonderful writing by truly great authors is that my own writing suffers, dramatically, in comparison. Everything I write lately just sits on the page, flat, dejected, and suffering. If there was such a thing as a gun for words, I would shoot each of mine and give them a quick and painfree end.

I took a break from writing today to interview at two different consulting companies. If all goes well, I should be back in the land of the employed by month's end.

Between company appointments, as I was sitting at the computer trying to think of something less than dismal to write into the weblog, my cat Zoe wanted up on my lap for snuggles. Considering that I always interview in a black suit, I wasn't too happy about her jumping up and getting silvery hairs all over me. I snapped at her, yelling at her to get off my lap.

She left the room and when I went looking for her later, I found her curled up in a small, sad, hurt little ball of fur on my chair down in the living room. What does she know of work? What does she know of suits? All she knows is that I yelled at her just for coming in for snuggles. I felt like such a heel.

She's sitting on my lap now. She says Hi to everyone.