It’s supposed to get up to ninety today. I miss New York. Fuck. Should I get drunk? Should I put on different sweatpants? It’s so hot in here. What if the chest pains don’t go away? I should eat more fiber.

Deadline. Writer’s block. My wife is running in and out of the room doing things that include bed-making and baby-taking-care-of-ing. She’s so productive. What a show-off! I scrunch up my forehead so it looks like I’m thinking. I think about what I’m doing so it’s really only a white lie. She smiles at me and runs off to the kitchen to save some plates from being dirty. Her retreating sweatpants make me horny. She’s knows that I’m working! So Selfish!

Shit. Nothing. I should just submit something I’ve written before. Who’ll know? I look over the manuscript for an “urban” self-help book I’m writing called, “Dat Man Don’t Love Youse!” No good. It’s a little preachy and borders on the self-indulgent. It’s also virulently racist. I go back to the drawing board.

My wife is brushing her teeth. I think she suspects something.

“Hey are you in the middle of a thought?”
“Yes. No.”
“I’ve decided I’m going to be very specific when asking for Christmas presents this year.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I hate that your parents want me to make a list. I’ve learned I just have to be specific. I mean, right down to the fucking SKU number. So I don’t get a purple down coat like last year.”
“Ha ha.”
“I’m just asking for home stuff. Like, Blah Blah Brand sheets."
“Hm.”
“And no plastic squeaky toys for Sloane. I mean it. We don’t have the closet space.”
“Ok.”
“You’re laughing at me already.”
“No I’m not.”
“If she gets too many presents every year I’m going to make her choose some to give to charity. She’s going to give 10% of her presents to charity.”

That’s where we leave it; my baby is going to tithe. I go about writing down everything my wife said to me, about three eighths of a page worth. I wonder if I have to give her writing credit. I’d call my lawyer but he’s probably busy thinking about the Constitution. I make a mental note.

I get a glass of water and drink from it. Nothing. My chapstick makes old lady lip-prints on the glass. I’m addicted to Chapstick. Maybe I should write about that. Oh God, how hilarious would that be…

I’m addicted to Chapstick. Fuck Off.

Damn. Is it getting hot in here? I should really change my sweatpants. This glass brick really magnifies the sun. I shouldn’t write in the arboretum. I read what I’ve written so far to my wife.

“That’s funny."
“Do you want me to change the gift name?”
“Purple down coat is funny. I just hope your family doesn’t read it.”
“They won’t.”
“At least not Linda. She’s the one who got it for me.”
“She won’t.”
“Shit. Why are you having trouble writing?”
“I don’t know.”

My wife reads a magazine and I make typing noises with my mouth. She isn’t buying it. She has changed her clothes and her tits look great. She is so fucking selfish! I have a deadline! I start speaking this time. I type as I write.

“Are you working out today?”
“I don’t think so. I think today will be my day off. I haven’t had a day off all week. I may go to Santa Monica to meet Darren and Amanda”
“What else?”
“The grocery store and the Farmer’s Market”
“What else?”
“Don’t you think that’s kind of a lot? The grocery store, the Farmer’s Market and Santa Monica? I have to entertain Sloane. That’s a lot.”

Pause. Me.

“Is there anything else you want to say?”

Pause. Smile. She looks at the computer and back at me. She speaks.

“I love you.”
“Are you planting that in the story so people think you’re sensitive?”
“What? No. Why. Would. I. Do. That?”
“Are you acting right now? Why don’t you just be real?”

She just looks at me. Not amused. That didn’t go as planned.

“Oh. I have to learn how to use the Cuisinart today. There’s a DVD and a book. That’ll get a good laugh.”

I write it all down, grateful. I wonder, do I have to pay my wife for her contributions? She’ll get it all when I’m dead anyway, which will be soon if I don’t get out of these fucking sweatpants.

My wife rocks our baby. Sloane has three fingers in her mouth, only two of which are hers. Outside, the light is getting brighter. Deadline is at Bright O’Clock. Internet thermometer says it’s only seventy-two. Why can’t I think of anything? A psychiatrist would say it’s because I’m officially jobless for the first time in over five years. A pharmacist would say that all the Vicodin I’m taking is affecting my mood.

This is what I say: I moved out here and worked my ass off until last Friday so, basically, I woke up this morning and I was living in L.A. I wonder what my wife thinks.

“Do you have anything else to add?”
“I didn’t know Flora was added to the public water supply.”
“Flora AND Fauna.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Yes.”
“Well I said Fluoride.”
“Oh.”

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.