I have just realized I am a little bit crazy.

It is balls freezing cold outside, and I don't see how anyone with any choice would ever open their front door to let that atrocious weather inside. If I had a way of letting my dog relieve her bladder and bowels without having to go outside, I would do it. I just count my blessings that I took my vacation this week and I'm not out in that cold any more than I absolutely have to be, because if I had to walk to work in this weather...I'd just call and wait for someone to come pick me up rather than brave the subarctic weather we're currently enjoying. 

That's right. I'm on my vacation.

And I'm glad. 

Of course, I reminded everyone before I left on Christmas Eve that I was on vacation, and please don't forget and then call me and ask why I'm late. (They did this the last two times I scheduled vacation time, and I like to sleep in on my vacation!) And do you know what they did?

They called me this morning to find out if I was OK because I wasn't at work and I hadn't called.

Damn it. 

If I was as irresponsible and lazy as most of the other employees, then they wouldn't have called me to find out where I was until noon. But no, since I am always on time, and if I think I'm going to be late I give thirty minutes notice before I'm supposed to be there, they just freak out and think I died on my way to work. On the one hand, it's kind of flattering.

On the other hand it's damned annoying to be woken up so early in the morning when I didn't even crawl into bed until three.

Yes, it was a late night for me. I spent from nine in the evening until almost three in the company of a very charming British man by the name of Mr. Darcy. Alright, his real name is Colin Firth, but I was watching the entire BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice because Padawan put it in my stocking for me and once I started I couldn't stop. So I watched the whole thing, and the series inspired sweet dreams (although Colin Firth's Mr. Darcy has nothing on the Prior Philip version....) that were sadly ruined by the sound of my phone sounding the alarm this morning.

Because, even though it's been on the calendar since October, Manager Man forgot I was on my vacation. Again.

*sigh*

No rest for the weary...

In any event, I just thought I would let you guys know that I donated some of my things before Christmas because my closet was absolutely stuffed with things I didn't wear anymore or things I bought but really didn't like after I bought them and the return date had passed. I was rather proud of cutting down my boot collection from seven pairs to three. But then...you know...I got seven new pairs of boots...

So now I have ten.

I'm not sure how that really happened. It shrank...and then grew back...and then grew some more.

As for my jeans...I cut those down from forty three pairs to thirty five. And then got four new pairs so it's back up to thirty nine. I feel like I really conquered on that one.

And then two pairs of house slippers...

Alright, look. I have this problem. I like to have lots of pretty things. I really can't help myself. When someone asks me what I want as a gift I say, "jeans" or "boots" or "slippers" or "pretty shirts" and I wind up with more than I should have and it just spirals away until I run out of room and have to donate things. But I can't just get rid of things like it's nothing!

Almost everything I own has a specific memory. And it gets ridiculous.

For instance, I haven't worn bras in well over a year now but I can't throw any of my bras out because of the following reasons:

I was wearing this bra the night I lost my virginity.
I was wearing this bra the night I got my first kiss.

I was wearing this bra when I went on my first date.

I was wearing this bra the night I met Padawan.

The night of my high school graduation.

My first day of college.

My last day of high school.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

I have kept underwear for the same reason even though my butt can't fit in them anymore because I am ten pounds heavier than I was the day I graduated from high school and it all went to my disproportionately large back side. (Not complaining, though. Women pay plastic surgeons thousands of dollars to wind up with a butt like mine. And I got it for free, courtesy of nature.) 

Padawan says I'm going to be a hoarder. 

Not likely since I tend to throw out things that I buy, wear twice, and then hate.

But that's kind of like a waste of money.

I should probably seek psychiatric help, but then holding on to clothes in the least of my problems when you get down to all of my other habits and thoughts that I've written in this blog....