So, I've had four days off in a row, and did I do anything enormously productive? Did I start my novel, or even finish folding the laundry that has accumulated o the couch in the computer room? No.

In truth between allergies and general not-feeling-well, I spent much of the time sleeping, or reading. And really, I have no regrets, because they were my four days, and while I love Fuzzy more than life, I rarely get four days of alone-time in a month.

I did clean the kitchen, top to bottom – even the top of the fridge, which admittedly, I tend to overlook because I can't see that high. And I did send the RSVP for a friend's wedding in Minneapolis in July. And returned half the stack of NetFlix movies I had on my desk.

And while part of me likes this regular paycheck thing, the bigger part of me really doesn't want to go back to the office tomorrow morning. I want to stay home and play.

Fuzzy called at midnight EDT to tell me that he wasn't feeling well. He always gets sick when he travels, and I always worry. And the bed's too big, even though we kid that he's only allowed about an eigth of it.

And I'm whining horribly so I'll end this now, with apologies.