38.5 hours

I don't know what happens sometimes.  I get sucked into this time warp of holy shit, busy, busy, busy, what blog?, sleep, leftovers, miles, busy, Sweet Pea.  It's weird.  I'll have the best intentions of the world, but then something takes precedence.  Since when did California become such a product of needing to do a billion things at once that I can't even sit down to write about my life because it's time for Jeopardy and that's way more important?

Am I complaining?  No!

Oh, and that 38.5 hours...that's totally how long Mr. Wookie was home before heading off for his next top secret mission.  He was home shorter than the time before, even less time to decompress, have a beverage, wash his stinky-ass flight suits, watch Monday night's Jeopardy, make a fabulous stirfry, do the dishes, and kiss me goodbye.

Oh, he did walk the dog once.  Yay.  But she didn't poop.  Wah.

This month has really taken a toll on me.  I haven't been this busy in California since...well, never.  And I love it.  Although the blog is coming up dead last in the line of responsibility.  Sorry blog.

And not a busy like I was in Virginia - this time it's mentally busy (insert pun about needing a brain first).  I work in the marketing field, and marketing requires intelligence to write copy, edit works, and be all smart and stuff.  That is sometimes draining.  But what's more draining?  Thinking of something brilliant on the cusp of sleeping, waking up, cracking out the laptop and moving forward before it falls apart faster than the 4th level of dreams in Inception.

I love it.  I love my life right now.  But hot damn...it's on fire!

So don't think I've forgotten about you - you're there.  I'm here.  Just let me sift through the brain cells and lemon peels.

I'm still in search of a squeaker ball that won't die within an hour's time limit.  Although an adorable face and slobbersome kisses I adore, don't let her fool you.  When she wants to play, she means it.  Don't half-ass it with her.