It Just Doesn't Get More Exciting Than This

Did you have a nice weekend? Yes, that's good. I bet you were out laughing, frolicking, and generally having a good time, indeed. Well, bully for you.

Me? Oh, why I was at work. Not just "working from the comfort of my own couch while alternately watching football" but actually AT work. Sitting at my desk. In front of my computer. For fourteen hours yesterday. It was delightful, if by delightful you mean "I'd rather like to see what the CIA is now discouraged, but not entirely prohibited, from doing to enemy combatants, because it might be more pleasant."

There's nothing worse than going to the office on a Sunday, except maybe going to work on a Sunday morning thinking that four hours is a generous timeframe in which to get your work done, and then slowly coming to the realization that, bloody hell,* you're not leaving before dark. Or before midnight, even.

Don't worry, though. Those fourteen hours at my desk were occasionally dotted with whole minutes full of excitement, like getting up to use the bathroom, or making a Diet Coke run, or eating a dinner of canned soup and microwave popcorn. (My bodily fluids can now be described as "brine.")

And, what was quite possibly the lowest point of my weekend -- and no, it wasn't that I held off on going to the grocery store** Saturday afternoon, with my logic being that it would be far less crowded at 8 p.m., nor was it that I missed what very well could be the Packers' only win this season, and certainly was Brett's best performance this year. No, the saddest moment came when I was cursing all this work because it was preventing me from doing my taxes.

In somewhat related news, can you guess what I'm doing on Wednesday? Just guess. If you said "haphazardly throwing any available clean clothes in the nearest empty suitcase, traveling to two cities in five days, attending yet another conference at which I must meet 39,062 people, all with the help of two plane tickets and one for the train," give yourself a gold star!

*No, I have no idea where these British colloquialisms came from, but I honest-to-god thought “bloody hell” last night when I figured out I wasn’t leaving any time soon.

**Apparently I am under the delusion that there's time in my schedule to cook, because my refrigerator now holds a pork roast AND A WHOLE CHICKEN. The kind you put in the oven and cook for, like, hours. And then use the leftovers to make soup, which also requires, um, hours. Those must've been "special mushrooms" I was looking at in the produce aisle...