news

life just happens sometimes when you are not looking.

Baby Gulliver is being born today. I haven't spoken to the parents, my colleagues, since they went to hospital, but just the thought of it makes me kind of glow.

It is March. The programme i said I was waffling with in October is still waffling. And I have exactly 7 days to finish it. Done, written, ready to print, no one moving, nothing changing, set in stone for August. fuck me.

My deadline is so strict because I am off another corporate jaunt to Italy the 31st - but this time renting a flat so I have some privacy, and spending my evenings with friends, which should make the whole thing infinately less nervy.

And the big news (even though it's not mine):

Anika is getting married.

She and Justin set a date, she's got a whopper of a square cut diamond, and even though they are paying themselves and I think her parents are still disowning her, I couldn't be happier for them.

So put it in your diary Grady's - Nov 1 in the Chicago Windham.

So that's

July: Iain & Jane (Liam's dad)
August: Festival
September: Kate & Jimmy
October: Carol & Heidi (Liam's mum)
November: Anika & Justin
December: Home for Christmas?

Can I possibly manage a state-side flight 3 times this fall? Jesus. or could I have more weddings to go to? Being a twenty something is fucking weird.

just another reason my sister is infinately cooler than me. or, why i will never been a government agent.

NASA's Moon Survival Challenge

Here are 5 important things you should know:

1, I have shorn my ShieldMaiden of Rohan locks. I hope some kid with leukemia who gets a wig of 12 inches of my hair will be ecstatic.

2, I am regressing into a love of shit sci-fi movies

3, My boyfriend loves both The Philadelphia Story and now, Romancing the Stone. If he wasn't a keeper before, his sharing my ironic love of Michael Douglas dancing in white pants seals the deal.

4, I am going to Italy at the end of March.

5, I am considering getting a mortgage. Is that sad?

I haven't been writing.

Not just here. But at all. Not journals, not letters, not emails, not postcards, not scathing diatribes on scraps of office stationary, not even badly constructed beginnings of novels or names for my non-existent band. Not anything.

I am bereft of words.

Life is just not writeable somehow. Which is ironic, considering my career.

But it isn't. It's too much. And not enough. And doesn't fit. And promises and takes and starves and grows.

See? Even I know how retarded I sound. It just isn't a literal kind of thing. It's like the epicness of opera but the quietude of an indy Cannes flick. It's everything and nothing and a sara-centred world devoid of a central character.

Perhaps I should take up dance. Maybe then it would all make sense.