This week I realized I am truly sick.  Or in desperate need of a vacation.  Possibly both.

The realization came to me in a blinding flash of clarity earlier this week.  I was in my car zoning out to NPR when they started talking about a Las Vegas woman, Miki Sudo, who had called in a bomb threat to a Phoenix bound plane her boyfriend was on http://abcnews.go.com/US/wireStory/vegas-woman-probation-aircraft-bomb-hoax-16461213 .  Now here’s where it gets weird.  The broadcaster goes onto say in his soothing monotonous voice that the sentence handed this brainiac is probation and – wait for it – TEN MONTHS OF HOUSE ARREST!  For real!

But here’s where it gets pathetic.  As I’m listening to the announcer I feel my whole body flush with anger and  – again wait for it – jealousy.  Yes it’s true, my gut reaction to this mental midget’s punishment is jealousy.

Because I’m thinking to myself:  What I wouldn’t give to have ten months of The Real Housewives (of anywhere), Law & Order, and What Not To Wear marathons!  I would finally have time to clean out, organize, and put down shelf paper (just the thought of shelf paper sends shivers down my spine) in my disaster of a pantry.  My linen closets would be impeccable.  Every single painting and decorating project would be completed.  My floors would be spotless – like Martha Stewart spotless.  My base boards would sparkle.  I’d finally have time to finish the Charles Darwin biography I’ve been struggling with for the last year and a half, along with Fifty Shades of Grey, and any other remotely interesting e-book my neighbor has in her Kindle account.  I’d have killer arms because I’d finally have time to use the Shake Weight I bought to tone up for my twentieth high school reunion.  Currently it sits forlornly in the corner of my closet (my husband would be ecstatic I’m finally using it – but I’ll save that for another post).  My dogs would be groomed and smell fantastic – even their breath.  Heaven.  My ten months of house arrest would be pure Heaven.

So I’m thinking of calling up the sentencing judge, Kent Dawson, and asking him to think about possibly sending Miki Sudo to my house for ten months of hard labor.  In the meantime, I’ve signed up for a subscription of Conde Naste Traveler.

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