It just can't get here soon enough.

Four more weeks. Four more weeks of getting to work a half-hour late, leaving a half-hour early, and taking an hour-and-a-half lunch break. And sometimes that's two hours if I take my run during lunch. Sometimes two-and-a-half. But never three.

The morale at my office is lower than Brittany's waistline. Luckily, you can't see our thong...but suffice it to say that it's pretty unpleasant. Just about everyone has a resume or three floating around the city, the boss is being chewed up by consultants who are trying to help her run a smoother (and more legitimate) program, and everyone comes to me to vent. They know I'm leaving, so there's no need to worry that I'll go spill their guts to anyone who might care. All of this adds up to the near impossibility of getting out of bed in the morning and long mindless hours spent surfing the web at the office, reading trashy gossip and fashion blogs and bothering people with email.

But in four weeks, my favorite photo-maker and I are taking a trip, my friends. Two whole weeks away from lame duck syndrome, dirty floors, bosses, and anything having to do with responsibility. We're flying to Portland to stay for a few days, renting a car, camping in the Olympic National Forest, driving to Seattle for a day or two, and then spending an entire leisurely week cruising down the California coast to camp, lounge, and stay in as many weird motels as possible. Then we're battling our way through the Oakland Airport to fly home.

Four more weeks. Twenty-eight days. Maybe I'll call in sick tomorrow.

Howl, baby.

The one, the only.

Just when you get to feeling like there's nothing doing on a Thursday night, throw on a little Wolf and you'll get to thinking there's a party goin' on.

I was feeling a bit like the blues tonight, and the Wolf never disappoints. I had lunch with a very good friend today who is moving to Connecticut next week (the good ones always got to go, isn't that what they say?), and we got to shootin the dust about relationships big and small. She's been married for five years or so, after a whirlwind courtship and quick engagement. At first they seemed to epitomize everything romanticized about marriage: true love, sure thing, hot lovin'...the whole package.

And this very same woman said something that stuck with me all afternoon. She said that marriage doesn't solve anyone's insecurity problem, doesn't solve very much in the way of feeling vulnerable or at risk of losing the one you love. It gets the law involved, sure. But that doesn't mean that every day both people don't have to agree to stay married. They do.

My parents have seven marraiges between them. You wouldn't think that I would be the one to place much faith in the institution, to have the desire to enter into such a seemingly risky proposition. But I do. Against my own desire to shun the concept as indulgent, empty middle-class schtick.

Perhaps I want the security that I assumed came with marraige. Perhaps I want the statement of love that marriage enshrines. But what I learned today is that the security isn't a gimmie. Everyone says that marriage is work; I'm just a bleeding, ridiculous romantic who envisioned marraige as a permanent ride on cloud 9. I've been around far long enough to know that relationships are work, but I suppose I always thought that marriage would mean that I had finally done it right. Hit it and quit, you know? Case closed. Right. Hm.

Marraige is more realistic than I thought it was. It's off of the pedestal. For now. Not off the list of things I'd like to do, though. Like I said:

Bleeding. Ridiculous. Romantic.

Caffeine, please.

So, I started my workday at 6 a.m. this morning. Did a photo shoot for a new brochure to market the services of the nonprofit where I toil away the days until August 18 (the day I will most gladly resign from this last development position and enter the gleaming, romanticized world of academia). It was very early. I was very tired. I had a sour stomach, and the designer I am working with insisted that we tromp across the park to another location halfway through the shoot. Oy.

With the shoot finally over, I got to the office at about 8:30, poured myself some flat diet soda, and began to fantasize about capping off my 8-hour workday by leaving at 3. I don't even drink diet soda, but it was the only form of caffeine within reach at the office. Hello, aftertaste!

And then my boss comes into my office. Her hair is flying all over the place, her stack of papers is all out of alignment an threatening to fall on the floor, her eyes are tired. It's only 10 a.m. This is because we're facing the possiblility of losing a large federal revenue source. It's a very big, very hairy deal that she's been dealing with for almost two weeks. She needs me to stay "possibly into the evening" tonight to help format a manual that must be in Jefferson City tomorrow morning to help the lawyers defend our appeal.

Yes, of course this would happen today. And of course it would be an emergency. Of course.

By 5, if I'm still here, I will need to staple my eyelids open. Staple them right to my forehead because that is the only way I will stay awake. I will scare my boss with this tactic, but maybe she won't ask me to stay late again.

Maybe I'll just stay until it's done and deal with my fatigue in a mature manner.

I will be so glad to be done with this aggravating profession. Fundraising is for people who like to work really, really hard with no guarantee of success. Sounds like fun, no? I'd much rather be doing this, talking to these folks, or learning more about this.