On Friday night I was at a beautiful French restaurant for a prof's birthday party, listening to people who actually said things like, "I've got some Dickens for you that you have never seen. You will be amazed!" or "Have you ever thought of Corfu? It's a writer's paradise."
On Saturday, I was driving in the front seat of a police car crying. More on that some other time.
On Tuesday, I was on TV talking about the piece I wrote as a collaboration with my friend. Later that day, I was eating dolmades and sipping malted milks at the art gallery for the show/gallery opening with all the local politicians who take every opportunity to promote themselves or their party. Blech on them. The food, however, was great.
Today, I was on the phone with an editor from The Globe and Mail because next Tuesday one of my essays will be printed in that fine, fine paper.
I've got pages and pages of reading and writing to get at and a pile of laundry in the middle of my bed to fold.
I think maybe laundry has become the constant in my life.
(I owe Kimberly a post about my week. I'm hopping this will count. She has some mighty fine things up on her space. If you've never gone for a visit, you might wanna.)