Time Out.

It’s been hell this week. But not in an awful way. Just in a long way. In six days (I fought tooth and nail to get an extra day off after almost two years of working six days, and oh, how I now value that extra day) I worked 43 hours, 5 minutes and 13 seconds. Not much overtime, sure, but one of those days was my debut of putting together the papes ALL BY MY LONESOME. Be proud, peeps. Because I sure as hell am.

And, after 5 revisions, the shizz with the new coordinator is still wrong.

So, to celebrate (or separate) my day off:

Aussie and I had lunch. Sorry, no pics. Just a nice lunch outside, midday, watching the influx of tourons.

Aussie went to work. I met a friend and her hubtastic for beverages.

Upon returning home, I took the most fantastical hound ever for an amble.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then I came home, made myself an adult beverage (summah-time fave: Raspberry lemonade and vodka … also? Pretty much the only thing pink you’ll ever see in my hand),

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Curled up with guilty-pleasure reading,

Bitch has to do her research, right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And enjoyed the warm (!!!!) evening.

xoxo

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One small step …

I’ve done it. The Olympics are over. I’ve survived … with *some* of my sanity left. 

And, I’m getting a day off. Tomorrow. And Leigh isn’t working. Yay me.

But I still feel on the verge of a meltdown. Maybe it’s my perpetually filthy apartment. Maybe it’s the funk that seems to ascend — without fail — this time of year. Maybe it’s because the snow this winter hasn’t been particularly epic, despite the fact that I’ve had many an awesome Saturday on the mountain. Maybe it’s because my roommates suck. Maybe it’s that I just need more sunshine.

Things are just … off. Not with anything in particular. In fact, in the vast majority of my life, things couldn’t be better. But there is a lingering, nagging wretch on my shoulder that keeps just dragging me down further and further. And I can’t put my thumb, or the proverbial flyswatter, on it. And it’s making me grumpy.

Pffffttt.

xoxo