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...

My mother tells me she's not worried about the calendar.
Of course, she hasn't actually SEEN it yet. Here's her e-mail:


The theatre ladies wanted to know if Daddy and I knew about your "Ms.
October" escapade? If we didn't know, were they going to hide all the calendars before this afternoon's show?
Tell them we've seen you naked, covered with poop. Tell them we've gotten through your age 13-18 years without having heart attacks. Tell them we've been through at least a dozen of your "Don't worry, everything will be fine" issues. Tell them we've been through more things than they could imagine. Tell them we worry about bird feces causing cancer, fish not getting fed, Madison missing us, your driving anywhere, freezers not getting defrosted and burning out the motor on your refrigerator, taxes not getting filed, Madison not getting shots, appointments...