Taking some lemons and making Spanish Fly.

After an exhausting and emotional year and 2 months, we're taking a 10-day vacation.

Yes, that's right. I made an executive decision. I thought to myself, fuck it. We have to find a way to take some sanity breaks every once in a while. So I started a feverish search for anywhere with vaguely warm weather, as well as something that I haven't seen in a while- this round, yellow, really bright thing that hangs in the sky for about 11 hours every day and is supposed to be really amazing. Apparently, a lot of people see it, though in England it's a bit of a myth. I think it's called... sun.

So, where exactly are we going?

I'm getting on a plane, strapping my ass to a seat for 10 hours, and landing in sunny San Francisco. The mister has been working there for a bit (read: he's been in one room with 20 people for a week with the doors closed, working 14 hour days and chain-smoking), and his meetings are finally over with tomorrow, so I decided rather than having him come all the way back to London, I'd meet him there and just go exploring. I've never been out west, and here's my opportunity! Though I know I'm being a tad bit optimistic in thinking that I can flaunt my pasty body in a bikini every day, at least there will be an ocean to look at. And sunshine. And fresh air. And the sound of the waves crashing. I can't tell you how desperate I've been for any kind of weather that doesn't in any way resemble the inside of a cold, wet, grey plastic bag. And just going to sleep at the same as the mister and feeling his long legs curl around mine will be absolute unadulterated heaven.

Okay, I have to stop thinking about it, though. Just seeing how grey and miserable it is outside is tempting me to chisel a Myshka-shaped hole through the window of my office.