I am on winter break. It's enough to cause my nine-to-five friends to green a bit around the gills, but I'm not so sold on this mandatory vacation business. It's nice, since I've let all manner of things go around the house, to have a few days to scale the mountain of laundry in the bedroom. It's nice to be able to lounge on the couch with the cat. It's nice to post a few thoughts to my blog. But is this what time off is for? Is this all a vacation is? Chris is busy at the gallery or slaving away in his studio, and everybody else has jobs. And I've found myself alone, faced with the dilemma of what to do with all this time: houseold projects, reading, writing, school planning, interborough adventures?
Yesterday I finished off the lychee sherbert and the rice pudding in the course of one afternoon, nosed through a few stories in the Best American Short Stories I got for Christmas and generally avoided anything productive. And watched an embarrassing amount of television.
I'm drinking a beer.
The cat is purring on my stomach.
Chris will be home soon.
Where's that book?