I love my job. . .I love my job. . .I...rrrr. It's not like I'm not trying, but stuck in a sterile cubicle with a boss everyone secretly calls Napoleon paroling the perimeter is hardly an atmosphere conducive to creativity. “Faster, Jillian, faster.” I’m putting big black Xs on my calendar until I leave for a whole glorious week in Door County...orange and gold leaves, the smell of wood smoke in the air, watching the boil-over at a fish boil, the Sister Bay Fall Fest, and laughter, lots of laughter. Nobody makes them laugh like Uncle Buster and his comedy troupe. And best of all—I’ll be miles and miles away from the last guy I’ll ever date.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Counting the Days
I love my job. . .I love my job. . .I...rrrr. It's not like I'm not trying, but stuck in a sterile cubicle with a boss everyone secretly calls Napoleon paroling the perimeter is hardly an atmosphere conducive to creativity. “Faster, Jillian, faster.” I’m putting big black Xs on my calendar until I leave for a whole glorious week in Door County...orange and gold leaves, the smell of wood smoke in the air, watching the boil-over at a fish boil, the Sister Bay Fall Fest, and laughter, lots of laughter. Nobody makes them laugh like Uncle Buster and his comedy troupe. And best of all—I’ll be miles and miles away from the last guy I’ll ever date.
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