Do the Unemployed Need a Vacation?

You know the problem with health living? It’s not that it is difficult to keep up—it isn’t. Find the discipline to cut the bad shit out of your life, and once it is out of sight, it’s out of mind. However, once you find yourself out of your routine and all of your temptations that you banned from your apartment become readily available and couple that with an inability to exercise and a house that begs for you to sleep in on the $2K sheets, and sip gourmet coffee for an hour on the porch admiring the view of the Blue Ridge mountains, as the dog laps at your feet begging for attention, it is easy to find the sloth inside that you thought was buried.

And then we have the chocolate sheet cake, a dinner party that started a bit late but the appetizers already made, and a constant stream of rain that has not allowed me to leave the house—this is my vacation in Virginia. Pure decadence on every level.

I wish I had something interesting and hysterical to report, except all I’ve been doing has been sleeping, eating, playing with the dog, and watching movies with Lu and seeing the C-ville gang.

Well, and playing house.

See for us girls who have been socialized to want the beautiful house, kids and dog, housesitting a place like this is like playing “house” as a grown up. Instead of the Easy Bake Oven, we have the gourmet kitchen with the staff room on the side. Replacing Barbie’s dresses is changing the collar of the pure bred dog. And fuck the pink Corvett, there is a cherry red Porsche convertible parked out front to play with. I played lady of the house on Sunday night: dressed in a skirt and cute heels combo, I straighten out the house as the pasta dish simmered on the stove, keeping the dinner warm for when the guests arrived. Ok, fine, Lu straightened the house as I got dressed and played with the dog. Semantics, people, but you get the picture.

I’ve gotten in touch with my domestic streak this summer: clipping recipes that look interesting, tidying up the apartments I’ve lived in, and going to the gym constantly. It’s like there was this little housewife buried inside that I’ve just unleashed. All I need to do is develop an addiction to prescription drugs and learn how to make the perfect martini and I may become good enough for a low-statused Rockefeller, you know, like the distant cousin who never finished rehab Rockefeller.

I’ll be posting pics on here of my vacay and the dinner party, and of me circumcising a sausage—don’t ask. Right now, I just want to lay down on the couch in the library with the dog, and scratch these fucking bites all over my leg. I hope they aren’t venomous spider bites because I am without health insurance since Sept 1.