The Irony Of Working On A Show About A Guy Living Two Lives

I'll level with you. My brain went oatmeal on me somewhere around tuesday. I haven't been sleeping alot, and there's at least ten other things I should be doing, eleven if you feel that paying your taxes is important, so you'll have to forgive me if this entry starts to feel more like a letter from a mental hospital than the work of someone paid to arrange words into sentences.

Let me just start by saying that I love my freaking job. I've never been happier to be tired. I wake up from four hours of sleep literally dying to get to work. Except for the night I had some awful Chinese food and woke up literally dying to get to the bathroom. In the past two weeks I've watched incredible actors bring characters and words to life in ways I could never have imagined, had the surreal experiencing of scouting my own hometown for locations, and been invited to a straight up HOLLYWOOD celebrityfest simply because I was dressed so poorly I made the person taking me look good by comparison. I know it's all too good to be true and too fun to last, and every day I'm surprised when I'm not hit by a bus.

However, being a weekend dad, or sometimes fraction of a weekend dad, sucks. Every time I get picked up from the airport I feel like the girls are a foot taller and less sure who I am. I get tears in my eyes when they don't want me to touch them. I get tears in my eyes when they give me a giant hug. I more or less just walk around teary eyed. I used to wonder if I would ever be able to summon the thoughts to cry on camera. Now I'm confident I could be there in about 30 seconds.

Amy has been heroic, as have our parents who now essentially live on our dining room floor. They do all of this so that I can can play pretend with an incredibly talented bunch of strangers. How do you say thanks for that? Fruit basket? Vacation home? I'll ask my assistant.

I don't really have an assistant.

Although, if anyone out there is dying to organize my taxes...