Voice Mail Archives

Two years ago today, we moved here from New York -- back into this tiniest of cottages that my grandfather and grandmother bought, new, in the fifties, and moved into with my father, his brother and his sister. My grandfather had retired from the Boston police force many years before. He had been one of the first to respond to the Coconut Grove fire -- a nightclub fire that killed hundreds, while the unlucky patrons stacked up behind the immovable revolving door that was the only exit. My grandfather, traumatized and grieving, commenced to drinking heavily, and was granted early retirement.

wow. I just watched the most horrifyingly awful movie ever. Every last bit of it. yum yum yum.

The fog hasn't lifted yet. I say that with subdued glee, of course -- glee, because I love the fog, and it is a major reason why I love living here; and subdued because, of course, everything is subdued in fog. Everything is slow, and deliberate, and haunting. My neighbor, walking his dog, seems more fraught with meaning when I peer through fog to watch him do it. The fact that the opposite shore of the lake across the street is concealed from my view seems guilelessly metaphorical. And the recent bloom of forsythia in the back yard is a bright shout of color against the heavy, listless gray.

If you happened to stroll past my kitchen door over the last couple of days, you would have heard a strange thing. Not strange like call the cops, or strange like call the plumber, or even strange like let's crash the party. (I wish.)

I watched School of Rock the other night, under heavy sedation, so I remember little of the actual plot and action. I remember the gal who sang like Aretha, and Jack Black generally being a good, but tamped-down version of himself. It was a good time.

So, as far as I can tell, this working from home thing is pretty much all it's cracked up to be. I've now finished one whole job (editing a romance novel), and have barely left the house in five days. Of course, I've made my regular pilgrimages to the post office and the grocery store (buying sudafed figured prominently in my goals of late, but I am happily over that unpleasantness now) and I've taken a long walk every other day or so.

Whoa! Hey! I got another job! (These are short-term, freelance jobbies, mind.) Now I'm gonna have to, like, budget my time, and eh, make deadline! Oh, my poor, long-unemployed head spins...

lalalala

So here's what I love. I spend all day today fact-checking this enormous document -- a huge list of media contacts, right? All the local and state newspapers, radio stations, and tv stations. And, naturally, I ask to speak with the person that is already listed as the contact person, figuring they'll know the most about, um, themselves. And fer cryin' out loud, do I get attitude? Why yes, I get piles and piles of attitude!

Ah, such goings on...