May 7 | Dallas

I'm sitting in my room at the W Hotel in Dallas, Texas. It's what you'd expect. Very chic. Very nice. Very modern. But not a lot of personality. It all seems a bit cold to me. Maybe I'm tired.

I admit, I was up a little later than I would have liked. But that's not the tired I'm talking about. I'm tired of being on all the time. Making decisions. Impressing the clients. Making other people happy. The travel is really taking its toll. I need to be home for a few days with nothing to do. The problem is, when I do get home, I really need to help Jane out around the house. She's doing it all herself and that's not fair. We need to put the air conditioners in, which I hate more than just about anything in the world. I don't know why. I just do. I really need to look into having central air installed in our 285 year old house. Sounds wrong, doesn't it?

What I really needed to do was take my vacation AFTER all of this, but it doesn't always work out that way. I don't even want to go anywhere. Truthfully, even all that "fun in the sun" can get tiresome.

I'd like a morning that lasts all day. Quiet. Maybe a little soft music. A book and my journal. Coffee. My dog at my feet. No phone.

When I was younger I was definitely a night person. Most young people are I guess. But now the time I cherish most is the morning. Maybe it's because I get so few of them that aren't complicated by work or travel.

I'm reading a book called, "A Three Dog Life". It's a memoir of a woman who's husband was hit by a car and suffered brain damage. He lives in a home and has almost no short term memory. He knows who she is and can remember things from his past, but he can stand in front of the bathroom mirror for over an hour with his toothbrush in hand because he can't remember what he's supposed to be doing.

She moved from their apartment in NYC into a small home in the country to be near him. She has three dogs (hence the name of the book). She's a wonderfully honest, funny writer.

One of the lines I wrote in my journal: "Ironically, the last several years of my life have begun to feel shapeless, like underwear with the elastic gone, the days down around my ankles."

Another was, "And what is home anyway, but what we cobble together out of our changing selves?"

I don't even know what that means but I like the sound of it.