My typical day this week has gone something like this:
I nearly get blasted by fire by a chef who’s flipping bananas foster and brandy under a big white tent in the high desert in Santa Fe.
I’m drinking Arnold Palmers and watching well-muscled men in metal angel wings walk past my office door while eating gourmet chocolate dipped strawberries.
LuLu the accounting dog hides under my desk whenever she gets in trouble.
And, last but not least, I’m forcing people to sign papers with a light up Winnie The Pooh pen.
No, I’m not at Burning Man, although it sorta feels like it. Life is good when work sort of feels like Burning Man.