No Wilson Phillips.
That's reserved for the same special day out of the year before I come see my fellow degenerates in Vegas for stories that shall remain in a small, tucked away pocket of my 20 year old blazer (which finally got replaced because you never know if another interview might come up).
No new job unfortunately but last week's rollercoaster ended on a pretty big high as our annual full department meeting gathered for a wrap up of closing the books on 2010 and an award ceremony.
Foreshadowing here. Subtle as a Blake Griffin dunk on a midget.
Yes, I won an Employee of the Year award out of 400 people, seven of us walked away with a silver star which if it was pure silver, according to Tao of Fear, I could melt it down and take over the island of Togo with my own badassed all-female volleyball playing assassin group ala Gaddafi. Near tears and shaking after the applause and the requisite reading of my accomplishments for the year. They chose to leave out my four- to-five hour Pai Gow bender at the Monte Carlo and walking away $5 down after consuming my weight in greyhounds, CapN'Cokes, and professing my love for Frank Caliendo.
Instead, a dinner after work at my favorite restaurant (Three Squares) with two well-behaved kids who did indeed eat all of their veggies, snacking on a curious "Minnesota" styled crab cake (shrimp and walleye, don't ask me but it rivaled the ones I had at Rick Erwin's while in G-Vegas last year) and washed down with two Surly Furious. Of course.
Then despite flushing some more bankroll cash down the drain, I won the tptpoker weekly tournament after finishing second the previous week. Yet lost money on the night because, I play dum. Also, found me on top of their monthly leaderboard which will most likely go to waste since I'm 95% sure this next paragraph's activity will kill any reason why I'd want my laptop with me.
Vacation time in Texas. It's near 90 there. Here? Not so much, as the dash read 18 degrees with the landscape still glossed over by a sheet of snow/ice and blades of brown grass fighting for air. Mexican mojtios which contain creme de minthe, Malibu, and vodka with sugar (no mix) will toted around the border town of Nuevo Progresso for a dollar. Golf will be played with minimal skill, and maximum usage of the beer cart chick. And anything resembling work or school will be left in my porch outlooking the frozen backyard as I'm off this week at the PokerStarsBlog as well after an interesting night which Comcast decided to pull the plug on my connection with six players left in the Sunday Warm-up and as the Turbo Takedown was down to just two tables.
Luckily a Fonzie-like move of banging the router and shouting enough four-letter words to get applause from Sam Kinison got the connection back in time before the possible dash to my parent's house to write the rest of the story with four left, and close the books on the weekend around 2am.
And now, I bid adieu with without Carnie, Wendy, and Chynna, instead with my vacation arrival point in song: San Antonio Rose.