"Who, day and night, must scramble for a living,
Feed a bunch of kittens, pull out all her hair?"

I have a total week off--that's 7 days, folks, count 'em, one, two, five, SEVEN! I don't need to be back at work until the Thursday after Labor Day. Color me wild orange, with glee . . . as opposed to domesticated orange, I suppose.

It's not that I hate my job, far from it. I like my co-workers (most of them) and I enjoy the work I do, 'cause it makes me feel like I'm making a difference, even if it's just at my site, or with one or two people. And I like making a difference . . .

Or maybe I like control, and that's almost the same thing.

But it's very stressful, and there's loads more work than I can get done in a day (or a week, or a month) and yet, it has to get done, so I put in about 50 hours in 4 days every week. (I have Wednesdays off, or I'd constantly be putting in a 60 hour week.) And there's still more to do, more that rarely gets done, if for no other reason than that it's not a critical, time-sensitive project and can be back burnered. A lot of stuff is back-burnered into oblivion. I have at least two projects that I doubt I'll ever get to. Also, my uberboss sometimes sets impossible tasks for us, or changes the rules mid stream and expects my immediate boss and us to read her mind.

But now I have 7 days to truly relax, and enjoy some time with my husband and my cats. And I can return to work waaaaaaay less on the verge of burn out.

(In case it wasn't obvious to anyone but me, the title of this entry is to the Fiddler on the Roof number "Tradition," 'cause I'm a sucker for making up my own words to songs. It's part of my charm.

Or my illness, whichever.)