If you’re wondering why I’ve been so quiet this week, (a) you’re a total sweetheart, and (b) you really ought to get out more. But just so you know, I’ve spent the last seven days trying to clean off my desk and tie up loose ends so I can enjoy a whirlwind, week-long vacation in Sam Clam’s Disco with the boyfriend.
It hasn’t been easy.
At work, nearly everyone else is already on vacation, meaning that I’ve been fielding phone calls and emails and attending meetings meant for them. I’ve drafted extensive update, memos, and flowcharts in the hopes that my co-workers won’t be completely lost when they return on Monday, but of course there’ll be calls. Of course there’ll be.
But that’s not all. There’s also been assloads of freelance work to polish off, a theatrical production to plan, a house to clean and organize so the house-sitter won’t get lost among the kitty litter and bank statements, and, most importantly, hounds to schlep to the kennel. And on top of all that, there’s my nascent fear of flying, which seems to have its roots in the terrifying, roller-coaster ride that Jonno and I endured back in January. Every teensy-weensy bump of turbulence on the first leg of today’s flight left my stomach in knots. I’m now 3.5 hours into my alleged vacation, and I’m a complete wreck.
I need a drink. Or better yet, a rolfing. Can anyone hook me up with a masseur in SF–the real kind? I’m too cheap and too vain to spend cash on the other kind. Yet.
sturtle [dot] com 