Math has never been my bag, and so I guess it shouldn't have been terrribly shocking that a few weeks ago, I received an email at work indicating that I had an overage of carried-over vacation hours (four days worth) from 2009, which I'd lose if I didn't use by the end of January. (I don't know how I messed up that math, but really, like I said, not too surprising.) It took a few late nights, but I got everything squared away, and was able to take the days. As much as I love my job (and I do), I all but left a me-shaped hole in the door of my office, cartoon-style, as I hightailed it out of there for my sudden and plan-free time off.
I had never before in my adult life had such a length of uninterrupted time to do what I wanted during the day, without work, or anyone actively clinging to my person/relieving themselves in my vicinity. (Aside from the hobos, I mean.) It was like an episode of The Hills, only without all the backstabbing and leggings and vacant staring. Oodles of time for a pedicure! Massage! Brunch! Cozying up with a good book at a tiny book shop! Lazily strolling the aisles of Trader Joe's! And, uh, learning that the opening lyrics to Weezer's "Say It Ain't So" are "Somebody's Heine' is crowdin' my icebox/Somebody's cold one is givin' me chills." And not... "Somebody's hiding; trolling the baseboards/Somebody's Cold War is giving me chills." (Arguably, the last one is something I could've learned anytime, but it's still valuable information. And IT BLEW MY MIND, sadly.)
Of course, life must balance itself out, and so what followed my relaxing time of magical relaxation, naturally, is that J had to go to Vegas this week for a long-ass trip. Now, I know what you're thinking, and that is "naked hooker orgies!" but unless the many documents he carried with him are all part of an ingenious and elaborate ruse, it seems that things will be all business, and he shall be steering clear of the naked hooker orgies. OSTENSIBLY.
In other news, my (Mostly) Fictional People Who Need To Get Punched In The Neck list has inducted three new members this week:
Gisele Bündchen for this article (and I hasten to point out, my ire is NOT for her approach to childbirth, but for her being such a giant, sanctimonious douche. I mean, of course you should describe your own experience, but in so doing, don't not-so-subtly tick off a list of things that you didn't experience, when YOU KNOW such things are icky and painy and, well, pretty commonplace in nearly every single delivery, no matter what method).
And finally, Smuggy McLoosepants:
I've vented about her ad nauseam on Twitter, but you guys, her failure to effectively communicate with her poor tailor -- who's just trying to do her job, MY GOD -- makes me insane. Her smugness is obviously an issue, but coupled with that is her mystifying inability to: (a) simply say "I lost weight. Take in these here fatpants;" and (b) tack on the clarifying term "yogurt" when listing the dessert-y stuff she's been eating. Like that's Just A Totally Normal Thing That People Do When Talking About Their Creepy Yogurt Diet; they say the flavor, neglecting to mention what in the hell it is they're actually eating. I'M SO SURE, Smuggy McLoosepants.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go eat lemon. SMUGLY. While I'm doing that, feel free to add on to the (Mostly) Fictional People Who Need To Get Punched In The Neck list. A little venting is good for the soul!