Oh so tired

We had a very special splurge meal last night, carefully planned and shopped for. Brats, chips, and beer, baby! We even selected a pair of brownies-- just two, mind you, so we wouldn't have leftovers or be tempted to eat after that.

First of all, I now have an official reminder that when I get drunk (my Hub got to be the sober one for a change), I am possessed of the incorrect assumption that I am Superman. Or rather, I end up in hyperspastic mode, bothering my Hub, tormenting the cats, playing videogames like a crazed thing, and ending up feeling, via the energy high, that I deserve and ought to consume more sugar and more beer. The damage wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been-- I had brats, chips, more beer, a brownie, some of those evil buffalo-wing-flavored pretzel chunks, more beer, pickles, ice cream (hallelujah, a very good reason to keep the Breyer's CalSmart stuff in the freezer instead of Ben & Jerry's), and more beer. I was flying. I had supreme confidence in myself and the validity of my own decisions. In the light of day, it's easy to see that fighting like mad when my Hub picked me up ("Damn, but you can be some SERIOUS dead weight when you want to") was not a good idea, and might in fact lead to me getting dropped on the floor, but at the time, it never occurred to me. Thankfully, my Hub is getting really good at tossing me around, and managed to keep me from hitting the floor. Good man.

Mental note: the next splurge meal should not involve alcohol.

My poor Hub ate less than I did, drank less than I did, and still ended up being sick. I am darn near impervious to hangovers, I tell you. I've only had one, total, in my entire life. I feel fine today, but I'm tired as hell. Not enough sleep. Back on the wagon, right on schedule. I'm making it my goal this week to avoid breaking into a) the stash of crappy chocolate given to us at the big staff meeting, and b) the remaining buffalo-wing-flavored pretzel chunks, which my Hub adores and deserves to keep for himself without me stealing them for no good reason.

I'm spending the day at work clarifying my goals. Having sat through an entire two-hour presentation and workshop on how to construct S.M.A.R.T. goals (oh, how I loathe clever little acronyms like that) last week, I suddenly hit a point where it occurred to me that my goals should, first and foremost, be about me-- and that the "goals" that I have to write out at my annual performance review should be objectives designed to get me to my goals. I mean, if it's not doing anything for me, personally, it's difficult for me to give a rat's ass. On the other hand, if it's all part of a master plan to get me out of menial tasks and into managing processes, to make a lot more money, to have a kick-ass resume with lots of meaningful experience and creativity on it, to have educational chops and know-how that I could move from company to company, and to end up in control of my own department...? Dude. THAT, I can get behind.

So, today is all about working that out into big goals, objectives, and tasks on how to get there. The reality is that in working for this company, I have the opportunity to write my own script and make myself into the businesswoman I want to be-- I just have to have the guts and the confidence and the drive to go out there and fucking well get it. I definitely have a lot more of that than I used to. I think I'm on the cusp of developing the rest of it. And dammit, I like this feeling. I'm going to kick a lot of ass in the next five years, and it starts today.