VACATION

Ya know, I was about to regale you with the lyrics to the Go-Go's anthem, VACATION, but realized it had absofreakinlutely nothing to do with my life.

Really.

"Still haven't gotten over you yet?"

Pshaw. I'm over EVERYone.

It's been 16 months since I had a break. Please consult VACAY IN THE CITAY for a rehashing of the vacation in my apartment.

And for you weenies out there, no, I don't count my recent 165 day weekend in any way, shape or forum as a vacation, because...well...sistah here was looking for the work. Looking hard. Looking everywhere.

And I found it. And just worked 15 weeks straight and if you've been following the Travels and Travails of TiZ, you know I NEED A FUCKING VACATION...if only to let my body heal.

It started at 2:04 this afternoon when I finished off a previously opened bottle of wine and jumped in the pool. My brother's pool. He and his wife (officially, as of last year, my sister) graciously lent me their house for nine days as an artist's retreat. Here I will read, float in the pool, tend to R-Leigh the WonderDog, spend a birthday weekend with the Nana and hopefully write.

And as you've perhaps noticed...drink.

The vacay was supposed to start when I awakened. However, that's not what the universe had in store pour pauvre petit moi. Niggly little things cropped up and crept out and made me absofreakinlutely bonkers. A huge business mailing, emails to be returned (and returned... again), Workers' Comp crap, jewelry to be fixed, TaB to be found (I'm enjoying a frosty Cherry Diet Dr. Pepper. Quite good.), Fairfield county to be driven through (which has the worst drivers per capita in, I believe, the entire universe), travel to be arranged for my next job (Why, sweet Jesus, does management insist we get up and out there at the crack of AsS? Don't they realize we're gonna get bored, get drunk and be a mess for the first day of rehearsal? Get us there late and we'll just pass out, awakening sans hangovers. Oh, WHEN I RULE THE WORLD!)...

Wait, where was I?

Oh yes, complaining.

At 2:04 pm, I finally changed the outgoing message on my mobile, shut off the ringer, downed the wine and float (floated? floatededed?) in the pool.

And I believe Michael Chabon is a fabulous writer.

And Happy Birthday to me. Tomorrow I am old.

Hopefully I will write. I do not wish to retreat from that anymore.