I'm off work for 11 days starting in roughly 120 minutes. ELEVEN days boys & girls. The shitty part about my eleven days off work is that I don't feel like I need a break from work, I feel like I need a break from life. Sitting on my couch in the post-Christmas mess for eleven days (minus the time I'll spend smoking in my garage and going to the fridge for beer) is not going to make me feel relief from the shitstorm this year turned into. The break I'm looking for goes a little like this:
Moving out of my house for eleven days and checking in to a 5-star hotel where I wouldn't cook a meal, wash or fold a load of laundry, feed a cat, fight with a 13 year old, shovel a walk, fill a dishwasher, change a garbage. Where I would get my hair and make-up done daily, and massages. Probably the type that end with sexual gratification because what kind of break would it be without that? I would pair all that with renting some fancy car whose dipstick fits in the transmission and has a thumpin stereo so I could blast Adam Lambert's Fever repeatedly and then, yes, I would keep going to work. Maybe for like, three hours a day once or twice.
Now that's a break. My eleven days off is going to look nothing like that. But hey, if nothing else, I don't have to brush my teeth or my hair until 6am January 4 if I don't want to. My kid and my cat wont judge. Ok, my smart-ass kid probably would, but she'll be punished enough as I win the fights over who gets to play on the laptop that Santa is bringing her. And does this look like the face of a judging cat?
That's all I have for today, but it felt great to get something out. I've been suffering from this blogging constipation for way too long. I'm leaving you with one of my favorite Christmas songs ... that I can sing off the top of my head and do the running man to
