A lot has happened in the month of June. I'll start by sharing the news that I haven't wanted to share.

I broke up with Sean on the 10th, two days after our eleven-month anniversary. That marked the end of my first real, romantic relationship, and I'm still a little dizzy from the river of emotions that kind of event unleashes. The split was as amicable as such a thing can be, and both of us fully intend to maintain our friendship. (If you're rolling your eyes right now at our naiveté, well, fine. But let me be the first to admit that I am super duper stubborn and super duper bad at letting go of friends.) For now, though, I think each of us is overwhelmed with questions like "what next?" and "what now?"

That, ladies and gentlemen, is where a planned family vacation comes in very handy.

This past Friday, I set off for work in wet clothes, leaving behind heaps of other wet clothes and an empty suitcase. (I am a notorious procrastinator when it comes to packing for travel. And when it comes to laundering clothes.) The discomfort of my damp attire was sufficient motivation for me to wrap up the week's projects quickly and to get out of the office. I escaped by 10:30 a.m., and I was fully packed and ready to go two hours later.

I loudly announced my readiness several times in a vain attempt to advertise the merits of putting things off until the last minute. No one listened. Callie, my cat, eyed me with suspicion.

We left thirty minutes late, WHICH WAS OBVIOUSLY NOT MY FAULT AT ALL, and after dropping the dog at the kennel, we piled back in the family van and pointed our thoughts toward Holland, Michigan.

The rest of the story will have to wait, though, because the weather here in Chicago is obscenely nice, and I have a book (and several episodes of Bones) to finish. SORRY.

As I wiped the tears from my face after a particularly normal episode of Glee, my brother walked into my bedroom. (Shut up. Move along. Nothing to talk about here.) He gave me some information on a free e-book for my Nook.

He valiantly ignored my sniffles. "I figure that if you don't like it, well, it's free, so . . ."

"BAHLETED!" I shouted. "Which sounds like bleeded. Which sounds like bleated."

"Which sounds like Panic at the Disco."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

On Saturday, I attended a graduation party for one of the next-door neighbors. His mother is my office roomie (and a great friend), and she somehow talked me into memorizing all the lyrics to "One Week" for this event. And singing it with her in front of people. And then doing the Macarena with her in front of more people.

I do not remember the Macarena being twelve hours long.

So anyway, this is basically your cue to avoid me like the plague for the next six months unless you want to hear me singing about Chickity China, the Chinese chicken. While dancing like it's 1999.