Today would actually mark a bit more than 2 months since I last posted to House of Clams. Given that the site is professionally designed, actually paid for, and I’m a real-life writer, that pretty much makes me a bona-fide loser.
I’ve also endured a Truly Horrible Thing since my last post, giving me (in addition to all my other mild-but-colorful neuroses) an exciting diagnosis and treatment schedule for post-traumatic stress disorder! (Which at some point, I may or may not wish to dish on. The disaster remains deeply personal for now, yet just tapping that vein to a BlogHer Ads rep proved to be a mothers-in-arms experience I never expected and was altogether humbled by, so let time tell.)
ALSO! I’ve decided January must be my Own Private National Novel Writing Month. Typically, it’s staged in November, but in November it sounded altogether insane; by the time I’d read the founder’s book in December, the prospect of 50,000 words in one month seemed merely whimsical.
As a result, everything else (blogging, parenting, eating, bathing) must take a necessary backseat until February 1. To the three regular readers who’ve sincerely lamented House of Clams’s silence (hi, Ryan!), I’ll see you next month.
In the meantime, I’ll be at the gym most days, cramming the girls in Kids Korner and making the most of the fact that it doesn’t yet have a wireless connection as an excuse to focus on the task at hand. Also? Remaining ice-pick-in-ear annoyed at every asshat who stops on their way upstairs to make or take a call with, “I’m at the club…”
Now technically, OAC might HAVE the word “club” in it’s title, but people, this is still BALLARD; until we’ve got valet parking, or a private dining room, or at least ONE fucking tennis pro, can we at least all still agree OAC is really just basically a gym?
Because the next time one of you pompous clowns announces you’re at “the club” might JUST be the time my inner cracker booms out, “Hey ya’ll, welcome to Sam’s Club!!!”