Tomorrow is my last day at work. I didn’t realize this as I started to count down that I am hours away from the first real bona fide vacation in… um… I don’t know, actually.

I mean, I know I’ve gone away, either for weekends or for an extended period, but not once can I recall actually being able to go away on a company funded vacation. It’s an amazing feeling, too.

I’m still getting used to the idea of “sick days,” too. I’m excited to be where I am, at a job that I actually like going to, especially since I’m not working in radio anymore. The people, the job itself, I’m… I’m happy.

Hindsight what it is, I wish I had saved up some more for this vacation. Truth is, I never had one before so I didn’t know I could, or should, save for one.

But I’m already putting my pennies away for my next vacation, that’s for sure!

I have this alarm clock, if you touch the top it tells you what time it is. I did that this morning, and I heard it loud and clear: “The time is nine, fifty-nine, am.”

I get up and almost break my neck. Then I look and noticed the time: 5:59am.

I slept an hour last night. Awesome. Fuck you.

As I sat at yet ANOTHER doctor’s appointment, I stared at the end of Regis and Bernadette Peters (Apparently, Kelly is on the Kathie Lee schedule). The next thing on? Rachael Ray.

Could anyone be more fake? The producers of her show must be fucking brainless idiots. Today’s guest was Reba McEntire and it looked like the big hook to have her on wasn’t her acting or music careers, but her hair.

HER HAIR.

I don’t know, but if I were booking a guest on a show of Reba’s stature, I’d consider having some kind of fun but also focusing on who she is, not trying to turn her into some dog and pony show to appeal to mindless drones that are afraid to buy the Star at the supermarket checkout line because they are scared of aliens.

Her hair. Rachael Ray is worse than Ricki Lake. Her only positive attribute is that she’s cute. She’s not TV worthy but she’s a buy-her-a-couple-of-drinks-and-find-a-hotel kind of slutty cute if you tease her hair and get her a black top and tight jeans.

You couldn’t do that with Ricki Lake. Well, you could, but only on odd years. Her weight fluctuated more than the stock market in the early 80s. But I’m digressing.

The point is this: I almost kissed the nurse when she called my name, thanking her for saving me from the tripe on the waiting room TV.