And I think that's all I need to say.
This morning, it's much harder to envision a vacation from my life as an episode of a TV mashup of anything involving British castles or vampires. Today feels much more like an episode of a sitcom gone wrong. Very wrong. Spilled cereal, clothes scattered everywhere (and not in a suggestive scene in which delicate lace things are tossed coyly atop furniture. I mean Despicable Me pajamas and five rejected soccer jerseys left in a heap on the floor because they were all NOT THE RIGHT SHIRT AT ALL MOM). And an overweight, depressed-looking dog lying anywhere I might plan on walking.
I seem to be channeling a vibe straight from The Middle, as I look around the kitchen. Counter strewn with cereal boxes, dog medication, and some plastic toy which I swear I keep tossing in the trash but it always comes back the next morning. #mcdonaldstoysarepossessed.
Then I power up my laptop. I work from home Monday, which is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it means I get to "sleep in" till 630 and wear yoga pants instead of heels. A curse because my internet connection at home makes me bat @#$$ crazy and I loathe taking conference calls on my cell phone while the dog freaks out because there's a squirrel outside.
S I'm reading through the fifteen emails I missed since Friday evening, half of which are invitations to networking events, which ... please. Between work, fifteen thousand sports events and laundry, I count myself lucky to get to the grocery store. You think if I have a free evening, I'm networking? Unless that's what we're calling "binge reading murder mysteries while eating Cheez-its" or "drinking in the one room left in the house that isn't littered with soccer balls," I don't think so.
After I sift through the network spam and start responding to the emails that actually require me to do something, my phone starts making this horrible bleating noise, waking the dog. Of course. She gives me a reproachful glance, as if to say, "why can't you figure out how to turn down the damn phone?" But the truth is, no matter how many times I turn down the volume or switch the sounds, it keeps making the same noise. #mcdonaldstoyshavetakenovermyphone.
This is when I could really use some office banter from Jim and Pam to keep me sane. Hell, even Dwayne would be an improvement over my evil "smarter than me" phone. But, alas, The Office is no longer on the air. Why do the good ones go so young?
And there it is. The dreaded lunch time meeting appears on my calendar like a looming zombie apocalypse. I know it's coming, and there's nothing I can do -- but every Monday, I pretend it's not really there. I'm pretty sure that's exactly how humans dealing with zombies feel. Frankly, enough conference calls and anyone could turn zombie. The drone of someone reciting rules and procedures can turn a mind into mush faster than a mosquito bites. There's a fine line between Webex and flesh-eating, and I can't promise I won't cross it.
But -- salvation appears in snarky instant messages from co-workers similarly bemoaning our Monday fate. We will fight the good fight together, armed with sarcasm and caffeine. With a little luck, I may even sneak in a shower in between meetings. Because I can deal with zombifying conference calls and deadlines.
But not dirty hair.