The Boy and I had an appointment at the bank yesterday to inquire about mortgages. It was a grown up scary-assed time. I almost understand everything that was said. And we would be able to get and afford a mortgage for this condo. Promising news! Only thing is The Boy would need a couple pay stubs to prove he works at least 35 hours a week and... well, a lot of the time that isn't the case. Like lately. And, um... gah.

Fun fact: I made about $11,000 more than him last year. And he'll probably be the stay at home parent when we start pumping out babies. We are a progressive couple. I wear the pants/bring home the bacon/have a penis.

After our meeting at the bank yesterday, he immediately came down with a cold. And he's driving me insane. There is NOTHING worse than a man with a cold. Absolutely nothing. So because of this, I'm afraid he'll crap out on work tomorrow. Which means... hey! Another work week with less than 35 hours!

But speaking of work weeks with less than 35 hours, I'm hoping to take a random day off this week. Work is pretty slow, and I realized on Friday I have a staggering 15 vacation days to take before the end of February. I didn't realize it was that much. I'm kind of not fond of taking time off work, because I'm a control freak and other people do my job wrong. Also I get time off in lieu of overtime pay and I have a tendency to rack up 40+ extra hours in our busy month of May. Luckily, when I become branch manager my banked time will probably become a thing of the past since that's one thing management seems to get the shaft on. But at least then I won't end up with more time off than I know what to do with.

Shit, only I would complain about over a month's worth of paid vacation days in a year. First world problems, I guess.