Failing the Stress Test

I've missed you, amigos, and I hope the feeling is mutual. I meant to disclose about four weeks ago that I would likely be MIA until April 1, but just like my plan to do yoga every morning during Lent,* I got distracted by shiny things and forgot. April 1 is to immigration attorneys (my employer of choice) what April 15 is to accountants, and since the beginning of February I've been working long, frustrated days and weekends more busily than a ten-buck Bourbon Street hooker. My thigh-high leather boots are really starting to look rough.

I've been meaning to post something quick and dirty** to communicate the sad fact that I've been too busy to blog, but I've ironically been too busy to post something about how I'm too busy to post something. My days have consisted of actually rolling in to work on time for a change, pounding enough coffee to give me the energy to run around the office, wailing like a caffeinated banshee, for ten hours straight, and then coming home to collapse in a pile of laziness on the couch. These extended periods of time spent pretending to be a grown-up have taken a toll on my mental acuity, which, let's be honest, was on thin ice in the first place, and so even if I had the time to write, I'd probably be doing things like typing with no vowels or devoting extensive posts to extolling the virtues of moss.

I realized last Saturday that I was ready to board the mothership with the other space cadets when our neighbor Edward came over to grab a beer with Lawyer Boy. While I had been in the office all day, Edward and LB had been playing man-time in our front yard, using every tool that could saw, hack, or clip to take down a holly tree that most closely resembled a starving hobbit. When they were done, LB had gone on the obligatory Saturday afternoon beer run. Edward walked into our front hall to find LB nursing not a beer, but a strongly-mixed bourbon and coke, and turned to me. "Don't let him play with those clippers after he's finished with that!" he joked.

I looked at him like he had seven heads, unable to believe that he had said what I thought he said. I was horrified. When Edward said "clippers," in my warped little head, I immediately assumed he was talking about nipple clamps. Why does he think we have nipple clamps? Why was he telling us not to drink and clamp? Omaigod, how do I respond to that?

After fifteen of the longest seconds of my life, I realized it was much more likely that Edward was referring to the clippers they had been using all day, than it was that he was giving us S&M pointers. I revoked my own speaking privileges for the rest of the night.

If you don't hear from me again until April 1, please remain calm and continue to breathe normally. I'll come flailing back into action once I climb out of the bathtub of Chardonnay I'm planning on soaking in once the work is done.

*Despite my allegedly solemn promise to Baby Jesus, I have yet to get up and play Crouching Tiger, Hidden Moron in my living room at all this Lenten season. My bad.
**Which would be a departure from my usual ramblings only in being quick.