Talk about derailed, oh goodness. Was that a prescient posting way back there in Aug 2006 or what. I'm not just off the rails, i'm off the track, nowhere near the station, haven't even bought my ticket ... you get the idea.
2007 -- the year I gave a eulogy for my best friend that incorporated a Britney/Madonna/Belinda/Manic dance interlude -- has been one beyond words. See that's why I danced. What else do you do when your best friend up and dies two hours after you planned a "Facts of Life" marathon for the following evening and nixed plans to go to the new mayor's inaugural party because it was, in John's words, going to be a pig fuck.
There's a couple of words I'd apply to this year. Pig fuck. Messy and necessary, productive but sloppy. And painful.
Since then, I've quit two jobs and started full-time freelancing, and full-time feeling like I don't have a job , need to focus, interspered with immense feelings of freedom, rest, and pride that, hey, here I'm a writer again. For the Washington Post, for whatever will pay me enough to justify a life of no button-down shirts or need to visit that Anne Taylor Loft sale.
So maybe firing back up ol Winky isn't the wisest of choices, but it was a gut reaction. And that's pretty much the organ that's been orchestrating most of my actions lately.
Must go wrap up an article "What to expect when you weren't expecting this" (working title) about grandparents raising grandkids and send my resume to the Campaign for Tobacco-Free Kids. I only stripped it as a child, never inhaled. And I've already got an online feature in mind for them to add to the site: "Let me Butt In" -- where kids tell why they quit.
Ok, snuff said for today.
Welcome back me.