All Good Mini-cations

From the dense forestry of WFH has emerged a new species: neither work, nor play, but both. Without taking PTO, which we are saving up for another trip, I call this the mini-cation. It isn’t quite a staycation, because we leave home, but it also isn’t entirely a vacation, because we work.

On Monday, after a weekend of light exploring, we converted the game-room into an office. During the day, we made our coffee, took our calls, read our emails, sent our pings. Our makeshift office sat beside the lake. The sun rose over the lake each morning. I curled up in the woven armchair each day, reading my books. I brought every form of entertainment I could possibly think of: books, games, iPad, laptops, and, most importantly, my new Fujifilm camera, which le beau gifted me in June.

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Our week was a smorgasbord of diverse streets, neighborhoods and food. There were blocks hailing from all pockets of the world. In a way, it was almost idyllic – the melting pot America was purported to be. As we drove from one neighborhood to another, I counted all the regions I saw represented – Greece, China, Ethiopia, Vietnam, Argentinian, Iranian, Italian! – until I lost track.

And although we had been here before, like seeing a fresh crush in a new light, everything looked different. There were freckles (food) and flyway’s (sights) we had never noticed before. There were skyroof parks. Herbal shops. Boba heaven. Cyberpunk cafes. Every day was something new. And the weather! I rejoiced in anything under 95.

Nuzzled by daily comfort, I admittedly did not want to leave. I floated the idea of staying another week. Little cracks appeared in the illusion. We decided to return home as planned. I, however, could not complain. All good mini-cations must come to an end.


BO-LOOPERS

“Look. There’s free wood at that construction site. Remember when you were obsessed with lumber? You would have stolen that.”

“That was a dangerous time. Especially with my slight criminal proclivity and lust for lumber.”

“I was setting up my work station, and out of nowhere, he said, ‘you know I’m over my ex, right?'”

“….There is no greater indication of a lie than starting a conversation with, ‘you know I’m over my ex, right?’”

“She sure has a lot of simps. I wish I had one. Maybe that could be a service. ‘Call 1-800-Rent-A-Simp.’ Brought to you by the creators of Cougarnetes.”


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