Every once in a while, a girl needs to take a break. A little time off. Like, say, three months or so. A respite of sorts. And, sometimes, she doesn’t even know she needs it. It just sort of happens.
The hiatus I took was not planned. (Nor was it a stint in rehab. Please. I’m so not a twenty-something celebutard high on hubris.) April brought much more than expected. I took on a new old job for one thing. An impromptu dinner led to an offer to return to a previous position and, a week later, I started the new old gig while finishing up my old new job. I juggled the two posts for the next six weeks and, during that time, I made a ten-day journey to New York where I attempted to function in both time zones. Needless to say, I failed at that. Miserably. The jetlag I was attempting to avoid hampered me through the end of May.
I had made the mistake of making out with the wrong guy and got a nasty flu accessorized with a hacking cough, which boarded the plane with me. I’m sure flashbacks of Outbreak were running through my seatmates’ heads during the long flight to NYC. At least this was before the TB dude ran amok, or I fear I would have been sequestered. What kind of guy says, “Man, I think I’m coming down with something,” right after he thoroughly verifies your tonsillectomy? So glad it stopped with a kiss and something curable. This is where not being completely slutty comes in quite handy.
I’m a pretty tough broad who runs at a fairly kinetic pace, even with an active bout of Epstein-Barr Virus, but the bug combo’d with the lag and the new work+work schedule just knocked me on my ass. At the end of the day, I had nothing left. By the time May rolled around, the act of balancing two jobs, multiple projects and working six weeks straight with no time off, seemed to rob me of my usual stellar personality. My social life took a nosedive. Phone calls went unreturned, emails piled up in my inbox, plans were often cancelled or reschedule for a time when I had more time. I’m still waiting for that. After work, I would simply pass out shortly after inhaling dinner, only to wake up a couple hours later and start working again. Work work, not my work.
I get really unpleasant to be around when I don’t write. By June, the malaise reached a pretty intolerable level. It’s sort of like a version of PMS, as in: Please Miller Sit-down-and-write-something-for-the-love-of-God-and-all-that’s-holy! I found the creative flow blocked by the lack of verve required to transform a thought to something tangible. There are many half-written, semi-started columns, but my train of thought would easily get derailed. And what a time to run out of writing steam! Look at all I missed! Blohan on video doing blow (and I am so intentionally leaving out “allegedly” since Venice neighbors Santa Monica and its Police Department), Blohan in rehab, Paris in jail, Blohan extending her stay in rehab, Paris leaving jail for a hot minute before getting tossed back in the clink, Blohan spending her 21st birthday in rehab, Paris getting out of jail and Lindsay SCRAMing around after being released from rehab. At least until yesterday.
But, please, there are so many more important things to address: The war, the troops who are dying daily, getting wounded by the minute and being deployed yet again for their fourth, fifth or sixth tour all sidelined by celebutard news. I mean, didn’t we celebrate “victory” there about two years ago? And two years before that? Yet, in spite of W’s victories, we keep losing. What about the Shrub telling his bitch Harriet to stay home; after all, it’s only a pesky subpoena...look what Scooter was up against. The Dub has your back. As long as your back is one of a glad-handing, money-grubbing crony. The rest of us are screwed. How that futhermucker and his Beelzebublican cohort have not been impeached is effing beyond me. Nixon must be cursing up a storm somewhere. Where’s Ken Starr when you need him?
Then there are some people you just don’t have use for. Ann Cuntler showed her wax face and lived up to her nickname. Seriously. You make fun of someone’s dead kid and you have sailed way beyond bitch status and deep into the C. When will she do us all a favor and forget that you shouldn’t blowdry and take a bath at the same time? Yeah, I said it. It’s my karma. I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid. She should be, though. Her public disgrace has got to be on its way. Karma is one thing; hubris seems to bite you in the ass even faster. Especially if you are a blonde celebutard.
Finally, there was the earth-shattering news that the “Sex and the City” movie was finally a go! And I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t about five years too late? Are you like me and will be so totally excited to see it...the night it premieres on HBO? I am setting my TiVo, let me tell you. You bring the Tasti D-Lite and I’ll make the Cosmos.
Yeah, I’m back.
The hiatus I took was not planned. (Nor was it a stint in rehab. Please. I’m so not a twenty-something celebutard high on hubris.) April brought much more than expected. I took on a new old job for one thing. An impromptu dinner led to an offer to return to a previous position and, a week later, I started the new old gig while finishing up my old new job. I juggled the two posts for the next six weeks and, during that time, I made a ten-day journey to New York where I attempted to function in both time zones. Needless to say, I failed at that. Miserably. The jetlag I was attempting to avoid hampered me through the end of May.
I had made the mistake of making out with the wrong guy and got a nasty flu accessorized with a hacking cough, which boarded the plane with me. I’m sure flashbacks of Outbreak were running through my seatmates’ heads during the long flight to NYC. At least this was before the TB dude ran amok, or I fear I would have been sequestered. What kind of guy says, “Man, I think I’m coming down with something,” right after he thoroughly verifies your tonsillectomy? So glad it stopped with a kiss and something curable. This is where not being completely slutty comes in quite handy.
I’m a pretty tough broad who runs at a fairly kinetic pace, even with an active bout of Epstein-Barr Virus, but the bug combo’d with the lag and the new work+work schedule just knocked me on my ass. At the end of the day, I had nothing left. By the time May rolled around, the act of balancing two jobs, multiple projects and working six weeks straight with no time off, seemed to rob me of my usual stellar personality. My social life took a nosedive. Phone calls went unreturned, emails piled up in my inbox, plans were often cancelled or reschedule for a time when I had more time. I’m still waiting for that. After work, I would simply pass out shortly after inhaling dinner, only to wake up a couple hours later and start working again. Work work, not my work.
I get really unpleasant to be around when I don’t write. By June, the malaise reached a pretty intolerable level. It’s sort of like a version of PMS, as in: Please Miller Sit-down-and-write-something-for-the-love-of-God-and-all-that’s-holy! I found the creative flow blocked by the lack of verve required to transform a thought to something tangible. There are many half-written, semi-started columns, but my train of thought would easily get derailed. And what a time to run out of writing steam! Look at all I missed! Blohan on video doing blow (and I am so intentionally leaving out “allegedly” since Venice neighbors Santa Monica and its Police Department), Blohan in rehab, Paris in jail, Blohan extending her stay in rehab, Paris leaving jail for a hot minute before getting tossed back in the clink, Blohan spending her 21st birthday in rehab, Paris getting out of jail and Lindsay SCRAMing around after being released from rehab. At least until yesterday.
But, please, there are so many more important things to address: The war, the troops who are dying daily, getting wounded by the minute and being deployed yet again for their fourth, fifth or sixth tour all sidelined by celebutard news. I mean, didn’t we celebrate “victory” there about two years ago? And two years before that? Yet, in spite of W’s victories, we keep losing. What about the Shrub telling his bitch Harriet to stay home; after all, it’s only a pesky subpoena...look what Scooter was up against. The Dub has your back. As long as your back is one of a glad-handing, money-grubbing crony. The rest of us are screwed. How that futhermucker and his Beelzebublican cohort have not been impeached is effing beyond me. Nixon must be cursing up a storm somewhere. Where’s Ken Starr when you need him?
Then there are some people you just don’t have use for. Ann Cuntler showed her wax face and lived up to her nickname. Seriously. You make fun of someone’s dead kid and you have sailed way beyond bitch status and deep into the C. When will she do us all a favor and forget that you shouldn’t blowdry and take a bath at the same time? Yeah, I said it. It’s my karma. I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid. She should be, though. Her public disgrace has got to be on its way. Karma is one thing; hubris seems to bite you in the ass even faster. Especially if you are a blonde celebutard.
Finally, there was the earth-shattering news that the “Sex and the City” movie was finally a go! And I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t about five years too late? Are you like me and will be so totally excited to see it...the night it premieres on HBO? I am setting my TiVo, let me tell you. You bring the Tasti D-Lite and I’ll make the Cosmos.
Yeah, I’m back.
