you are viewing archives from 2005

is this thing on?

I woke up this morning and thought I have to write a slack article.

Most mornings I wake up and think is it really that late? what day is it? And what’s the magical property of my hair when I’m asleep that it can literally stand on end, but when I’m awake and have a metric assload of hair gel at my disposal, I can only get a little oomph?

I had a plan, when the slack was under renovation: simply wake up each Sunday like it was a regular Sunday, and scribble out an article to be used later. Except that my brain wasn’t buying the farce, and I’m never for doing work when I don’t have to. I don’t write for love, I write because I don’t know how to do anything else. And while I don’t have to do this, I’ve written the slack for a quarter of my life now. I don’t think I know how to stop.

That said, I couldn’t have enjoyed my brief respite more. I mentally recharged my batteries, jotted down a few notes for future articles, and oh yeah, had my jaw sawed off my face and reattached with titanium metal plates. From the outside, I look like any mild-mannered mistress, but in x-ray form, I am the bionic woman.

I also cut off all my hair, which is ironic considering that A. finally got around to drawing a picture of me. I love it, it looks like me, and considering that I give him regular sex, it still took three years for him to do it. I don’t begrudge him this fact, though. I cringe when someone asks me to write something personal for them. I do it, mind you, but it takes me five times as long and I fret over it ten times as much.

Over the past week I uploaded articles from the old site to the new one. It was like going through a photo album of the brain: each slice of history was captured in an instant and served up with a bow. I was 25 and poor, with an apartment and a job and a truly amazing dog. I was 26 and fat and dreaming of a future with C. I was 27 and heartbroken. I was 28 and working as a TV writer. I was 29 and thin and life was easy. I was 30 and unemployed. I was 31 with a new dog and a new boy and a comfortable life in a new house and wondering if it all really was a dream.

Some days I wonder if it still is.

The last eight years have been an Extreme Makeover: I have achieved some small success in the career that I set out to conquer. I have carved out a new body and rearranged my face. I have revamped the way I looked at relationships with an amazing man and moved into a home that is beyond anything that I could have ever imagined.

It’s only fitting that the slack should follow.

Welcome back, my darlings. And thanks for coming along for the ride.