It was an interesting conversation in a staff meeting at work the next-to-last week of June. "So," said my boss, "you'll be in the office on Thursday the 28th, I hope? Please say yes."

Laura and I were moving from New York City to Chicago on Saturday the 30th—our sixth anniversary—and I thought I had already been pretty clear that I had to take both that Thursday and Friday off. I was keeping my job, and once we were in Chicago I would resume work as usual, except I would be working from home. I was using vacation time for the move.

I considered what to say. People are used to me being kind of an asshole at the office; I rarely hold back from saying what I think, or so my coworkers seem to think, and I believe they find it amusing, annoying, and scary in about equal measure. "The movers come Friday morning," I said. "My wife has been doing the lion's share of the packing, but if I don't pitch in in a big way on Thursday, she'll kill me."

"What if we'll kill you if you don't work that day?" said another of my coworkers. We did have a lot of tough deadlines coming up.

"Everyone in this meeting, all five of you, could kill me," I said, "and it still wouldn't add up to as dead as I'd be if my wife killed me."

I took vacation days from Thursday, June 28, through Tuesday, July 3rd. July 4th, of course, was a paid holiday. I resumed work on Thursday, July 5th, but that didn't stop Laura and me from going to the Taste of Chicago that afternoon.