Mardi’s upset I haven’t made a blog entry in a while. Well, here’s my latest. You can thank her if it doesn’t fill you with sunshine and joy.
Diane’s no longer with The Gabber (seems the editor wants writers who, oh, I don’t know, occasionally write things for him) and I’ve been trying to cover everything until they get a new person on board and up to speed, plus I’ve started doing PR for the Art Village (my penance a shitty past life, trust me, PR work is NOT my favorite thing) and a new client, Southwinds Sailing, that I haven’t even gotten around to writing for yet, wouldn’t be shocked if he’s written me off as another flaky writer by now… trying to work on this house (which, by the way, I’ve taken to referring to as Dante’s 9th level of hell), convince my tenants it really isn’t in their best interests to -no shit- live without power (I haven’t actually talked to them yet, so this is largely mental angst on my part, I freely admit)…yes, that’s right, on top of them not yet paying rent (it was due Saturday), the Three Stooges (and I mean that kindly) can’t seem to come up with money for the Progress Energy deposit (I got sick of them ruining my credit with late payments and told them when the new lease took effect they’d have to get power in their name)… poor guys, I mean, they only had a month and a half to get it set up… my dad’s remodeling my bathroom so I’m peeing outside (do NOT laugh) unless I’m showering at Tom’s house (thank god one of us has a fully functional house, poor guy, every time he sees me lately I’m there to shower and bum food, gonna start dropping off pillowcases of dirty laundry for giggles)… I have two foster dogs for Dachshund Rescue right now, other foster home told me (after I had the dogs in my car, of course) they would have loved to keep them if only they were housebroken… and oh, yes, I’m supposed to be doing sound for the new musical in Gulfport. It’s about a Muslim and a Jewish person in love in NYC right after 9-11 (oh, good, a cheerful little number… anyone ever see the Producers?)…Jesus, let’s see, how much can I possibly heap on before I end up mixing margaritas instead of making coffee in the morning? At least I’m not shooting heroin into my eyeballs yet (I’m a real wimp about needles).
The dream: I quit the freakshow of a government job so I could be my own boss, work in my pajamas, and write on the beach.
The reality: I have, at any given time, no less than four bosses. I DO work in my pajamas, although usually because I don’t change out of them before the calls and e-mails start coming every morning. As for writing on the beach? It’s been thirty fucking degrees here for as long as I can remember, and now that it’s starting to warm up, I’m too tired to drag my ass to the beach and write.
Someone either send me a plane ticket to Tahiti (one way is all I need, thank you), figure out a way to e-mail me a Margaritaville Margarita, sans everything but the tequila, sour mix (just a splash), and lime, or send me something funny as hell before I start making news, not reporting it.
If anyone needs me I’ll just be preserving my liver and periodically wiping the spittle from the corner of my mouth. This is how Hemingway got started, I just know it.
