I last had significant time off of work in June 2012, when I went back to Chicago to be with my mother as she died. That was three weeks: the dying week, the funeral week and the drive back to California with my sister and all of her possessions in a U-Haul week.
I'm on vacation this week and I'm strangely defensive about it. People ask me what my grand plan is, and I have no answer. I just kind of want to be in my house and putter. And eat cheese—good cheese, the expensive stuff, not like the fistful of discount pepper jack I just hoovered. I want to plant some plants. I have about 70 tulip bulbs that need to go in the ground, and I have an entire succulent frame that needs to be planted and hung. I want to create some art. I help create a really cool newspaper every week, but I haven't created anything using paper and paint and brushes in a long time. I want to take a few day trips. Read fiction. Go to the city council meeting for my own amusement, because they're funnier than any sitcom on TV right now. (Except Girls. Holy hell, have you seen Girls? Funniest thing going. I am fully aboard the Lena Dunham train.) I thought I might go to Chicago this week, but fuck, it's like 22-degrees there right now and according to the forecast, when it's not snowing in the next few days, there will be freezing rain. I'll wait on Chicago.
I've technically been on vacation since Friday, but it doesn't really count since the office holiday party (which always takes place about a month after the holidays) was Friday night. And even before that, during the day, my boss kept emailing me with, "Hey, I know you're on vacation, but what do you think about blah blah blah." Good party. Excellent party. I have to be drunk to dance in public and boy did I dance. Woke up Saturday and my hair hurt. Ate waffles with my husband, walked over to the homeless encampment at City Hall (or, as I like to think of it as, an object lesson in what happens when the city dismantles a homeless encampment and leaves the denizens with nowhere else to go). Last night, a cocktail party at our friend Nate's house. This morning, sleeping, reading and puttering. I puttered and Chuck made David Chang's steamed pork buns
I puttered here:
I also puttered here:
And then I puttered here too:
Puttering, for those unfamiliar, is the fine art of rearranging stuff.