My Life, As Told Between (Baby Cakes') Naps

I’m exhausted.  It’s been 16 hour days every day this week.  That doesn’t leave much time for anything else.  Like showering.  Or eating.  Or keeping ones’ blog updated.  Anyways, I think even my perpetual perkiness is petering out…although not my adoration of alliteration apparently.  (Ouch.  Sorry for that.) 

Heading to Chicago this weekend.  Someone please lie to me about how warm it is there… 

I had a fabulous weekend catching up with everyone.  Thanks for braving the rain to see me.  You guys are the best!  Saccharine sweetness aside, I really do appreciate the fact that you all braved the horrendous weather and drove miles out of your way (in many cases, only to be disappointed by closed restaurants – which actually happened twice – or two hour waits for a table) to see me.  I’ll be sleeping in the office for the next week to make up for all the work I didn’t do this weekend, but it was worth it.  Nothing clever, sarcastic, or whiny (gee, what else is left?) about this post.  Just a sincere (aha, I knew it was hiding inside me somewhere!) thanks.  (Um, the parentheticals didn’t ruin the sincerity, did they?)   

DP – Congrats again!  I just can’t say it enough.  =)   

I love sleep.  My many nicknames include The Napster and Koala Bear.  (FYI – Koala Bears sleep approximately 23 hours a day.  What a life.)  As a proponent of sleep (I know, I know, I’m really going out on a limb with that statement), I found this particularly disturbing and scary. 

One of the hardest things about being an associate, at least in a big firm, is gauging and juggling your workload.  One minute you’re happily swimming along with a relatively manageable load.  Nothing due for at least a week, a couple of projects on the backburner, and you’re heading home at 7:00 every day (and yes, it’s an odd, odd world when leaving at 7:00 prompts twinges of guilt and entails sneaking past all the other people still working).  Suddenly, everything picks up all at once and you’re drowning in a relentless deluge of paperwork, fighting the currents and wondering if you’ll ever make it upstream to spawn.  (Sorry, got caught up in the metaphor.)

It’s been one of those fighting the currents week. 

I hope everyone else’s week has been better.  I’m heading home to SJ for a much needed break tomorrow…although I’ll be bringing some work home with me…

It’s RAINING today!  Ordinarily I wouldn’t be so thrilled, but my car has been filthy lately.  I knew if I held out long enough, it’d rain and I could avoid having to go get it washed.  I totally win!

Owning a car is so much harder when you don’t have someone else to wash it, maintain it, and keep it full of gas.  Does anyone know where I can put in an order for a monkey butler?  (Sorry, I unabashedly love the Simpsons and monkey servants are a running theme on that show.  I don’t question it.  I just embrace it.)

A close friend from law school who (reluctantly) reads my blog (only because I send her the link to it practically every day with the demand that she read it) recently emailed me, “I hate to admit it, but you’re funny. At least in writing.”  Unbeknownst to me, I apparently managed to be completely humorless during my entire three years in Cambridge (with the exception of that time the wall jumped right in front of me after a night of drinking).  It started me thinking.  I like to consider myself as a somewhat funny person.  No stand up comedian certainly, but someone who elicits the occasional chuckle.  Maybe even a guffaw or two.  Mostly because I can laugh at myself, don’t mind if others join in (which they all too often do with disturbing enthusiasm), and don’t take too much too seriously.  But what if I’m wrong?  What if I’m totally and completely self-delusional? 

For example, I’ve recently developed a fondness for adding the phrase “and then he kicked me” to the end of any story I tell.  I find it hilarious and crack myself up for hours over it.  I’m now wondering if that’s akin to the five-year-old who finds using the word “poop” to be the height of comic genius?  Poop.  Heh.  Actually, that’s a classic. 

Note:  Please ignore this particular entry when evaluating my aforementioned funniness.  (This, by the way, is not an invitation to introduce me to the truth!  I’m sure this moment of self-doubt will pass quickly enough.  It’s a good thing I’m fickle and a little flighty.)

Happy lunar new year everyone! 

I often miss being home, but it’s always especially hard during Tet.  My family doesn’t do many traditionally Vietnamese things, but Tet was always something we did.  Or perhaps more correctly, something my grandmother did and we all half-heartedly participated in.  Then again, half-hearted participation is about as involved as I get in anything.  =) 

Yay, the Patriots won!  Yes, I only half-assed watched the game and yawned through most of the parts I did watch, but there’s still a twinge of pride that my team won.  It’s funny how people become enamored of teams that only have a loose connection to their own lives.  Merely by living in Boston for three years, and breathing the same arctic air as the Patriots, I have somehow adopted them as “my” team (second only to the Niners because I was raised in the Bay Area and because if I say otherwise, there is a reasonably large chance my parents would disown me). 

Luckily, I survived a foray to Hollywood’s Sunset Room last night and made it to a friend’s Superbowl party in Pasadena today.  Barely.  It was touch and go for much of last night.  At least the parts I remember.  There may have been some pitiful whimpering cries of “I’m dying” as I curled up in the fetal position on the couch, broken only by occasional belligerent shouts of “Why don’t you guys care that I’m dyiiinnnggg?!!!”  Most of you already know I have a tendancy towards melodrama and histrionics when drunk.  And when sober.  Oh, and no, I didn’t run into any walls this time round.  Thanks for asking.   

Visited the Getty again, which really is breath-taking.  Managed to avoid spitting over the rails.  I’ve been informed that something about the combination of heights and rails triggers a spitting impulse in guys.  I’m just going to take this statement at face value since I have absolutely no desire to try and prove it.  

Sigh.  Work tomorrow.