What in the Hell Is SHE Talking About?

So it comes to pass that this woman, this transplanted woman, initially a Hoosier - a resident of Indiana, then a domestic foreigner trying not to be called out as the fraud small town hick she is, living and working in Chicago and its environs, with stops along the way in the home of Ball Jar and Dijon Mustard, and let us not forget that young adult stint in the coolest town in all of Indiana - and there when Bobby Knight lived and won there, too. Now settled, even if briefly, in the hills of Northwest Georgia, U.S.A.

This woman. Me.

I am done for now. My heart's not here. It's somewhere else scribbling madly, writing bits and pieces of stories, dictating to myself and transcribing in the in-between times when I don't have other things tugging at me. Devouring books of all kinds. Looking at faces and places and things and thinking about how to describe them so that you can see them, too.

There is so much unfinished business. And then there is business. Which demands my attention to be done properly. The Royal Pains think they need food, shelter and stylish clothing. Selfish gits.

There's the fact that I hate being a bad friend and if I cannot reciprocate and come visit you, then I feel it's rude for me to expect you to come visit me. There's so much good stuff out there, you don't need to be wasting your time popping in here to see if I've said something goofy or done something boneheaded.

So here's the deal - I'm going to post once a week on Wednesdays. The best way to know if I've done something embarrassing or have something irrelevant to say is to grab the rss feed. Then your reader will tell you when I've posted. If you don't use rss feeds, but want to start, this article explains how to use them. (Scroll down when you get there.)

Since I am actually producing something, I will be posting bits of the work here (maybe?) or telling you about how the process is going (maybe?) or I'll just be blowing off steam. Or pushing skin care products that YOU MUST HAVE. You guys know me. Anything is possible. Except outright sanity.

Until then, thank you. Thank you for being here with me when I laughed, cried, ranted and raved. When I swung from plucky political pundit to purveyor of plucked chicken porn. When I took gratuitous pictures of the now gone garden. Thank you for not shaming me when I ran away from home for a day. For not abandoning me when I was broke, losing my house and running out of gas.

Thank you for not calling the Department of Children and Family Services to report me for founding and promoting The School of Benign Neglect. Thank you for not calling the Humane Society about the way I make the Pussies for Peace ears bleed when I screech at them in the high kitty voice. Thank you for not submitting my name to What Not to Wear. That, in and of itself, is HUGE.

But most importantly, thank you for being my friends. Everyone should be so lucky as to have such a swell posse in their corner. You guys rock.