It's beautiful, and I'm not on vacation anywhere. I'm home. In San Francisco. And it's beautiful to the point that it should be declared a county-wide holiday, and we can all free ourselves from the cages we're bound to. Those cages with make-shift walls and optical computer mouses. But alas, there is no such day as "Finally it's Clear After Two Weeks of Socked in Fog" Friday or "It's the First and, Most Likely, Only Nice Day in August" Friday. How do I cope stuck in the office? With a glass of wine, a celebrity blog, and epicurious.com. Yes, yes, I know. I should be working, since I am I at work but it's a Friday...at 5:30pm....pacific time. I mean, my god, everyone else is at their local watering hole, trendy "It" bar, or at least trying to get home. It's unreasonable to expect me to be productive or diligent in any way. I complain, but the guilt does make this wine (in a plastic cup) taste that much better. And also, it's Friday night. Nothing can be that bad on a Friday night, it's like this unspoken law, that I, for one, always abide by.
So screw deadlines and disputes and complaints and bosses and responsibilities. It's Friday. I'm in the City, and I live for these weekends.