Elvis Has Left the Building

I'm still insisting I am on vacation, even though I'm sitting at my office at work. Well, not office. It's cube farm, and I have my own little cube. But it's a cube more like the one Ron Livingston had in Office Space, not like the one Michael Bolton and the Indian guy had. Definitely not like Milton's cube, although I do have a spiffy red Swingline stapler. Two, in fact--one still in plastic as a collector's item, and one for actual use. I don't keep them here, though. Too many people here are WAAAAAAAY into Office Space and my stapler would disappear if I brought it in. And if someone took my stapler, I swear, I'd burn the place down.

So, time for the first missive after the big vacation to Cape Cod. The problem with being on the Cape for two weeks is that after a few days, the siren song begins to drift down from Chatham and hover subconsciously around one's ears. I began to look at real estate ads, first out of curiosity, then out of real desire to move. "Look, honey! If we sank all the proceeds from our home sale as a down payment on this cottage, and got jobs that pay what we make now, maybe we could afford to live on the Cape!"

After a week, the siren song becomes more persistent, more beautiful, pulling like the tides on my soul. I begin looking at want ads, puzzling over some of the terms. "Sweetheart, they need an able-bodied relief seaman for the new ferry. Could I do that?"

By the 12th day, all thoughts of the airport and packing are stabbing little needle pains in my head. I begin to think of calling my boss and quitting, and just moving into my brother-in-law's house with my mother-in-law and waiting tables and painting watercolors of the beach, like a lot of other people do. Maybe knitting a uterus or a liver and seeing if it will sell despite the fact that I can't knit, much less crochet a simple chain. The siren song is intense and taunting, reminding me that I have few marketable or creative skills and people like me can't live in a place like this for more than a few weeks out of the year.

So here I am, back at work, catching up on email and other topics, and killing a bit of time before leaving a bit early (but not too early).

I'll expound with more detail later, but here's a snapshot of our vacation, Everett-style:

Land. Nap. Beach. Clam Chowder and bluefish. Beach. Playing with CJ in the backyard. Fried clams. Bookstore. Sudoku. Beach. Birthday dinner with sparkling Riesling and Boston Creme Pie. Sleep. Beach. Dinner out, shopping, more playing with CJ in the backyard. Bar. Sam Adams Summer Ale, stumbling a mile home in the dark. Happy birthday! Beach. Guys and Dolls. Nap. Clam chowder and more fried clams. Beach. Rain. Sudoku. Goodbyes, detours, delays, and home. Home Sweet Home.