I don't know what to do first!
Ok, naked cartwheels, but what about after that??
Twelve whole, wonderful, sweet days off. Twelve days that I know will go all too quickly.
January might seem an odd time for anyone to go on vacation, but for me it's the most wonderful time of the year.
I started working for my company 4 years ago in February, and I have to take my vacation time before the end of January every year. The company is actually very generous with sick time, vacation and personal days allowed, but they don't roll over into the new year worked if you miss them.
I used some for my 30th birthday extravaganza last year, but still had quite a bit left over.
Also, almost two weeks off after the Christmas rush is over? My shattered feet are singing my praises right now.
If you put your ear to my heels, you can hear tiny hallelujahs. Like shells at the beach. But weirder.
(PS: Never type 'sore feet' into Google images, you'll get 'feet with sores'. Bleurgh.)
The other nice thing about my vacation is that Chuckles is finally back to work.
Sounds mean, but it isn't. Ok, maybe a little. He was involuntarily off for two and a half weeks until a couple of days ago. It always seems to be tough for drywallers around Christmas (Chuckles and I have had 8 Christmases together), no one is building much of anything for a few weeks.
But some houses are finally ready for Sheetrock. Finally. Thank the sweet baby Jesus in the manger.
I swear, Chuckles is never allowed to retire. He was so depressed by not working, it was driving us both batshit.
He was bored, angry, bored, worried about money, and bored. I had to call him Chuck for two weeks instead of Chuckles, because it just wasn't fitting.
But he's back to work now, conveniently on a house being built just down our street. He should be popping back home for lunch any minute now.
And of course, in Kyna-fashion, I'm starting off my vacation sick. I made it through the whole Christmas season at work without getting ill, and now it's finally happened. But at least I don't have to drag my sorry, sick arse into work.
So what to do first???
I think I'm going to allow a day of sitting-on-my-ass-doing-nothing time. Drink some orange juice. Blow my nose. You know. Sexy stuff.
~Take down Christmas decorations
~Do some writing
~Clean the house
~Do Sherlocky things (The second season finale is next Sunday, and they'd better not kill him off. I'll be PISSED.)
~Go out for a night of live music...a co-worker of mine plays in a band called Valient Thorr (he's the beardless one in this picture) and they're playing at another co-worker's fundraising event this Saturday. They're actually sort of famous in Metal circles...I've heard a few people ask Bennie for his autograph while he's at work in the bookstore...very hilarious. I like to give him shit about it.
-Cook some real meals. Awesome meals. Chuckles bought me an enameled cast-iron dutch oven for Christmas, and I'd like to make a nice gumbo in it.
-Clean out my garden
-Have some more sit-on-my-ass-and-do-nothing days. Just because I can.
Oh, and I should probably make room for exercising.
Last night, the newsstand delivery guy at work asked me when I was 'due'.
I said, 'Nope. Not pregnant. Just fat.' I think he felt bad, but maybe it's for the best. Men need to learn that they shouldn't congratulate women on their pregnancies unless the woman mentions first that she is currently pregnant, or unless they are watching a baby's head pop out of a woman's vagina.
I envy girls that gain weight in their asses instead of their stomachular areas. Not only is there a male fanclub for that sort of thing, but no one's assfat has ever been mistaken for a pregnant ass.
I joke, but it really hurt. It's not the first time in my life that it's happened, and every time it does, it takes me by surprise. And makes me cry a little. Just a little. I mean, there's just something in my eye, give me a minute...
So, guess who's gonna be scheduling time for the ol' exercise bike?
But not today. I've plan on doing a lot of nothing. If anyone congratulates me on my pregnancy before I start exercising, I'll tell them it's Benedict Cumberbatch's baby. Then I'll end up on the news. And then I'll be infamous. And then when the time comes to produce a Cumberbatchling, I'll have to steal a baby.
So you see? There will be plenty of work for me to do later.
Whole. Lotta. Fucking. Nothin'.