back to work

Oh god. I've been on vacation for two months to the day. No, wait. Two months and a week. Two months, a week, and a half. I've lost track of time, which was my goal, so am feeling fairly successful. What is it about vacation anyway? When I take time off, it is my goal to seek oblivion in safer ways, non-life-threatening ways, but above all, to lose sight of the clock. And then, returning to work, they ask the inevitable question: What did you do? "Nothing. I did nothing on purpose. I had nothing planned. I planned to do nothing and did it." It isn't true, of course. During my time off, I've gotten married, changed my name, killed all manner of aquatic life and eaten them whole, painted the inside of a big house, packed, moved, unpacked, quit my job, and now, am starting a new one. I saw Van Helsing, the single worst movie to date. I've met the dali lama of Newberg, and you thought it was a Quaker town. My new job doesn't seem like a real job. It's marketing. Not the calling-people-at-dinner-time kind of marketing. Not reading from a script, paid by the word depending on how long I can keep 'em on the line. No. This is face to face telling. It goes against my grain, but I've done worse things for less money. I've done worse things for free. Shit, I've PAID to do worse. YOu get the drift.

I painted the living room a color my beloved calls "coffee with cream." He indulges me with his observations. He could give a shit less what color it is. He concerns himself with things I never think about, such as: will the paint stick to the wall? and Can we afford it? Tripe. Minutae. I was tearing off wallpaper and made a fabulous discovery. I am so excited about it. Beneath the antique paper (there was bad taste as far back as 1911) I uncovered an old plaster wall. I know I've complained about the lath and plaster, but this seems to be all plaster. I'm not going to paint over it. I'm going to decorate it. I can decorate anything. Ask anyone.