I had a really nice weekend: went to an art exhibit I’d been dying to see, watched a silent movie about the Golem–I love the Golem–enjoyed a variety of champagne-based cocktails, and hung out with friends. All of this weekend pleasantness, though, was rather blighted by bad weather.

For one thing, I did all kindsa kinds of driving during heavy snow. I realized about halfway through my journey that I’d neglected to put any of my car insurance info into my cute little clutch purse, so I was super paranoid about having the first accident of my whole life and then getting a ticket for leaving my proof of said insurance in my big, not so cute shoulder bag. That didn’t happen. So, no big deal.

I got snowed in at a friend’s place and, instead of leaving early Sunday to make it back for church, I was stuck until this morning. We watched a movie based on a John Cheever short story that’s always made me feel stupid. The movie was stupid, so I felt like I was clearly the winner in that scenario. Suck it, John Cheever. And we ate incredibly spicy pizza. Marvelous.

I drove back this morning, came in late to work and discovered… a giant mess. My desk is in its normal Monday state, and I had nine voicemails, six “do this immediately or the world will explode”s, and one big, fat “this is all my fault, but I’m going to pretend it’s your fault and make you fix it.” And one thousand candy-filled Easter eggs. That means I only have 1,200 to fill myself before the weekend.

Somebody! Quick, bring me a champagne-based cocktail.

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