Whatever happened to the 4-day work week idea?

On Saturday we had the grossest, messiest snowstorm. It was raining when we woke up but then it turned over to big fat wet snow, as if the temperature went from 32 to 32.5 degrees. Mardi and I went to the gym and then shopping, and we spent hours in the mall buying optimistic, cheerful items like a pink iPod mini (her), sunglasses (me), a bathing suit (her), spring clothes (me), and perfume (her). When we came out, the mall parking lot was a slush swamp four inches deep and rutted with tire tracks filled with brown water. My gym sneakers were no match. At home Joe and I cooked dinner, did laundry, and watched six episodes of The Office in a row.

Yesterday we went to dinner with my family to celebrate Lauren's birthday. 25, it's really hard to believe. Back at the ranch, we ended up looking through all the family photo albums. We all agreed that at certain times in his past, my dad has strongly resembled a Cuban drug lord. He denied it until we showed him the most incriminating evidence, a picture from 1982 of my family at a parade. It's got to be about 90 degrees because everyone looks wilted and miserable. He is standing hands on hips, wearing aviator shades and a white polo shirt with a wide blue stripe. He has longish hair, a deep tan, and a thick moustache. After he saw it he said, "Okay, I'll give you that one."

Today came way too fast... what can I say? It's Monday. I'm pretending I'm not really here.