Remember the old days when I used to write blog entries while I was supposed to be working? Well, due to the incremental maturity that comes with age, I put a stop to that. But that was before I had thirteen solid days of vacation (and subsequently forgot I even had a job), after which it is only fair that you’re allowed at least 48 hours to get back into the habit of actually doing work. So today, instead of responding to emails from internal clients, or reviewing copy that’s been sitting in my inbox for 2 weeks, I’m going to write all about my life as Girl Without Job.

It all started the Thursday before last when I thought it only appropriate to invite out my co-workers and a few friends to down some drinks at The Local. The thing about not having to work is that it leads to excessive drinking (see paragraphs 3 and 4).

There were a few pre-planned events happening over “Christmas Break,” as I call it, because I like to pretend I’m still in high school. One was 80’s Night at the Shouthouse the Wednesday after Christmas. Friends and coworkers showed up to sing along to Bon Jovi and WHAM! while drinking $1 red bull and vodkas. I was fine after sleeping till 10 and eating cookies for breakfast; my coworkers who arrived at work promptly at 8 Thursday morning – not so much.

Friday night we got together at the uptown VFW. More good times were had with lots of friends and lots of cute boys (little known fact: the VFW, whose reputation is based on alcoholic vets drinking scotch at the bar while muttering profanities under their breath is actually a really good place to meet young single men). The evening was a great time, until I realized the next morning that

my car was towed from in front of Dan’s apartment building. Yeah, AGAIN. Kind of like last summer, except for even more full of suck because it was winter and freezing and Lisa doesn’t have a car anymore so we had to wait at Dan’s apartment until he could come home and drive us to the impound lot. Whew…I think that sentence was four lines long. That’s gotta be a record.

Besides drinking, I did spend some quality time with family over the most festive of Christian holidays: Jesus’ Birthday.

For Christmas this year my mom bought me Seinfeld Season 9 and labeled it, “From: Grandma.” I was fairly certain my grandmother, a disabled 81-year-old who lives in a nursing home in MiddleOfNowhere USA, hadn’t jacked the Good Samaritan Center van to drive to the nearest Best Buy 200 miles away and pick up the last season of my favorite sitcom. But, you never know. Whatever the case, I’ve already watched every episode twice (welcome to not having cable), which has resulted in my incessant quoting of or interjecting phrases from Seinfeld into every conversation I have. This is bad, because it’s one of those situations where you know you’re just about to start annoying the shit out of everyone, yet you can’t stop yourself.

I also received the following gifts for Christmas:

·         A little toy Bobcat forklift. Here’s the thing. My uncle works at the Bobcat factory in Gwinner, North Dakota. You know, the one you didn’t know existed. Apparently Bobcat just opened a gift store featuring hundreds of miniature Bobcat toys, and my uncle thought that this would make the perfect gift for his 26-year-old niece. Couldn’t agree more.

·         A pizza cutter with a Bobcat logo on it (see bullet 1).

·         A metal tree decoration made out of recycled oil cans and a reusable grocery bag which can also be used for other purposes (Lisa recently discovered her inner hippie).

·         Three rolls of quarters. My mother is nothing if not practical. She gave the gift of not having to run to the bank in my pajamas minutes before closing next time I get the late-night laundry impulse.

·         Some money to put in my I’m-getting-more-nose-surgery fund. Oops, I wasn’t going to bring that up. Too late. I decided to have an actual plastic surgeon remove the residual bumps that are still on my nose that show up in pictures and occasionally in the mirror. No one else can see this except for me, and some may argue that I’m being too picky (the surgeon included). But it’s my nose and I’ll screw with it some more if I want. Go on…judge me. Just don’t come talking to me when you decide on lipo for your 40^th birthday present. 

Don’t get me wrong – I am more than grateful for the generous gifts from my family. But sometimes you just gotta laugh at a toy forklift.

And now it’s back to reality. The reality where I can’t afford to have a hangover every single day. The reality where people don’t give me presents all the time. And the reality where eating frosted sugar cookies for every meal just isn’t acceptable. How depressing. Good thing my birthday’s in a couple of weeks. More presents…and cookies.