I figure about four hours a week seems about right for me. Sometimes all in a binge wallow, sometimes just in spare moments. But I figure it averages about a 1/2-hour a day.
Seeing as I’m manic depressive, it fluxuates. I can go from a week of all out pity parties to a month of depression/pity parties to a week of non-stop exuberance and back. Good luck figuring me out! 
It depends on how my kids behave on a particular week. If it’s a good week, maybe 3 hours a week. A bad one will have me in a pity party for maybe 5-6 hours.
I’d post an answer, but I just know everyone would be mean to me about it.
Very few, really. About 7 months ago, it would have been a large amount - pretty much most of the time.
Now, well I have my moments when I see all my friends getting married, and people in love and realize I’m not with someone. Then I get over it and head back to the library to study. 
About zero hours a week in self-pity. If anything, I think I am the luckiest guy in the world. I get so much more than I deserve, it’s unbelievable.
My overused emotion is a slowly smoldering anger.
Mandelise and I have that much in common…C’est la vie
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Haj
Well, I just wrote this a few hours ago.
*It’s 8:05 PM.
Friday night. I’m still at work.
Why? The Agenda from Hell. 20 items for the next Planning and Zoning Board meeting. That’s right … 20. It’s a small town, but instead of 20 subdivisions or 20 shopping centers, there’s 20 little annexations, little rezonings, little comp plan amendments. With the level of hand holding that’s involved in the mom n’ pop cases, a little special exception can suck up just as much of your time as a Mega-Lo-Mart in a large suburb.
I’m a lone planner, too. No administrative staff. On top of writing the staff reports, I have to make the files, make the copies, and do all the grunt work that administrative staff typically does in other cities.
Why so late? Because there’s no closed door policy, and anyone who wants to can just come directly into my office through the side door of Town hall, which they’ve been doing all day today, at 20 minute intervals. They’ve been doing that all week, actually, which is why I’m still here on Friday.
Someone calls. Our water clerk, who doubles as the receptionist, is out today, so the Police Department receptionist is sitting in at Town Hall. She isn’t quite sure who can answer a question about where the water lines are in a street, or when the next bus stops on the corner of Oakland and Nixon. “Maybe the planner knows …” So, every 15 or 20 minutes, on top of the visitors… RIIIING!
At 4:55, she tried to bounce a call my way. “They have a question that they really need answered.” My reponse … a loud, angry “NO!” I WAS HERE UNTIL NINE ON MONDAY, NINE ON TUESDAY, NINE ON WEDNESDAY, NINE THIRTY ON THIRSDAY, PROBABLY TWELVE TONIGHT, AND IT’S BECAUSE I CAN’T GET ANYTHING DONE BECAUSE EVERY DAMN RESIDENT OF THIS TOWN WANTS ME TO BE THEIR OWN PERSONAL CONCIERGE!
“Well, they’re going to come down anyhow.”
That’s the problem with being a small town planner, without support staff. When you’re so accessible, you become more than a planner. You’re the answer guy. The town manager … well, he’s too important. Probably have to make an appointment to see him. The finance director … probably a glorified acountant. I’ll ask the planner instead … maybe he can tell me what to do when a neighbor’s tree has a branch that’s about to fall into my yard."
I’m not a planner. I’m the goddamn town concierge. That’s why, although I’m so unsure about the future in a post-forced resignation world, I’m so damn glad to be leaving this place.
I lock the doors. Even then, from 5:00 to 6:00, about five people pulled on the handle. People still want me, after hours.
One time, in a fit of stupidity, I thought “so many people see me about dumb little things like shed setbacks and decks and whatnot, so I’ll make some brochures that explains the process.” I’ve got a series of beautifully designed handouts regarding tings like sheds … building code requirements, setbacks, easements, architectural requirements, permitting, along with all the applications." What happens? Folks come in, ask the receptionist about sheds, and she sends 'em to me. I break from whatever I’m doing, give them one of the shed handouts that are out there for her to give to people when they ask about sheds, and we have a conversation that goes something like this …
“How big can my shed be?”
Me: “It’s in the handout.”
“Where can I put it?”
Me: “It’s in the handout.”
“What about setbacks?”
Me: “It’s in the handout.”
“Where do I go for permits? Do you review them?”
Me: “I approve zoning, and Orange County issues the permit and does the inspection. It’s in the handout.”
“What do I need in the permit application?”
Me: “It’s in the handout.”
“Do I need a survey?”
Me: “Yes. It’s described in the handout.”
“Do you have a survey?”
Me: “No. You got one when you closed on your house. It’s in the handout.”
“Can I put up one of these metal pole barns like everybody’s got in Winter Garden?”
Me: “No. There’s a reason why you see 'em there, and not here. It’s in the handout.”
At this point, I get surly. I’m not surly, so when I get surly, it’s out of character, and a sign that something is really, really wrong. Two or three of these stupid shed conversations a day in person, two on the phone … at least.
Anyhow, I’ve got 15 reports done. Another five to go. I’ll return home late after midnight, to a house that my dogs probably crapped all over.
That is, if I get the copier fixed. It just broke. If not, Kinkos will be doing the copying, and I"ll be here into the wee hours of the AM.
Why bother? Because I’m still on the job, and I believe that I’m a good, ethical planner. I don’t do these piddly one page staff reports that small town planning commissioners are used to; they stuff they get at their meetings is the same quality as what you would find in the most anally managed large suburb. Rezoning, one lot, four to six pages plus exhibits. I don’t know how do do a piddly one page staff report, something like “it done look right fine … recommend approval.”
Of course, there’s the depression, the feeling that I’m still spinning my wheels. I won’t get another job … gawd, I’ve barely been at this one for a couple of years. It won’t look good to another employer. Still, though … I have a big house and a pool that I can’t enjoy. I’m in the ‘burbs. No friends locally. Hardly any dates. You know, I’d rather be in a smaller house, maybe in a more urban setting, someplace where it’s easy to meet other young professionals or offbeat bohemians or cowboy philosophers or hip graphic designer chicks, instead of the Confederate Copenhagen-spittin’ “look at the big metal toolbox in the bed of my F-350 duallie” mulletheads and big-haired Glamour Shots glurge spreading oompa-loompa Beanie Baby collectors that so dominate this part of the metro area. I had lots of friends in ******. I had lots of friends in *****. My only friends here are my dogs, Prozac, and Metadate. No, the latter doesn’t have anything to do with love or romance. Every month that goes by is another month that I’m closer to death, and my life has not gotten one iota better. I’m not one smidgen of a grin happier. I’m sad as hell in The Happiest Place on Earth.
At my next interview, whenever that will be, I have to make it clear that I’m not going to sacrifice my life for my employer. I’ll put in 40 good hours a week, with the usual night meetings. No 50 to 60 hour weeks in cockroach- and fire ant-infested Class D office space that Town workers stomp through as a shortcut, in a “historic” building where ghetto palms grow from the parapet and the running water has a smell that is reminiscent of a vegetarian farting contest, with no comp time for night meetings, no Town pool car, and no reimbursement for using your personal vehicle. No going to the office to work on Saturdays or Sundays, to get quiet time because I’m interrupted every 15 minutes during the week, by someone who wants me to do some research or write a letter or something else that will bump those staff reports and waiting phone calls and building inspections even further back, which of course causes people to complain because I promised them that I’d call them with the results of some research that day, but I couldn’t get to it because I was bouncing around taking care of other things that people stopped by the office unannounced to take care of, RIGHT NOW. No environment that makes it impossible to institute even the simplest form of time management. No homework; I’m years out of high school, college, and grad school, thank you very much. No goddamn tweeting Nextels semi-permanently anchored to the thick Wal-Mart tool belts holding up the tattered jeans of ape-draped general contractors who, after visiting me unannounced so I could explain to them for the eighth time what a vertical curve is, and why I failed yet another inspection because they didn’t incorporate it into the forms of what will be a driveway with a steep slope, make me wait while they take a Direct Connect from a co-worker, who will drone on for five minutes about “fuckin’ drywall,” Mexican sod installers, and the special on 12-packs of Natural Lite at Handy Way. *
Of course, I won’t spout a rant like what’s posted above. And no, I’m not exaggerating.*
That is wallowing, my friends.
Almost never do I spend any time with self pity.
I guess I am lucky…I just don’t ever seem to go there. Not that I don’t have my own junk…just that it never takes that particular form.
On my days off hardly any time at all but when I’m at work it’s at least an hour a day.
I’m wallowing right now. And when this happens at 2 am, when I am completely exhausted and yet unable to sleep, I begin to idly wonder where I put the large carving knife…
I stopped wallowing in self pity years ago.
Now I go straight to the psychotic acts of self destruction.
It depends . When I visit my mom its about 7 hours. If I dont, its maybe 1 hour (if that much)
Lessee…carry the two…168 hours a week, if my math is right.
Zero.
Sometimes I tend to do it in large doses, depending on how my week’s been and all of that. Average? Maybe about 5 hours a week.
F_X
Not me. I have a hard time containing my ego.
About 14 hours per week, more or less.
Probably between 5 & 30 - depending on the week.
Wow that sucks.
(and there’s another 5 minutes added on to this week, right there!)