Writer's block.
That's the problem. Writer's block.
I haven't blogged since April. I know! I haven't really written since April. Which, coincidentally, coincides with my last writing class. So...maybe I was just on a break.
Yeah, that's it - we were on a break.
Writing class has started again. Our first in-class assignment (15-20 minutes to write on a particular topic) was to write about something that happened to us in the 8 weeks since our last class. Below, is mine:
I turned 42. And I wasn't even traumatized. No, I'm serious! I was not traumatized.
OK...me, 3 girlfriends, birthday weekend plans ~ road trip to San Luis Obispo (SLO), wine tasting, birthday dinner, English Beat - yay! A couple of weeks...plan, plan, plan. Excitement grows. *My* plan? Fly to Sacramento on my birthday to see the English Beat (yay!), then meet the girls in SLO.
B backs out on week prior - ok, fine. D and J decide we should all drive up to SLO (3 hours) together - stop at a winery or 3, nice leisurely drive up the coast. Ok, fine. I buy a one-way ticket back to Burbank, book a hotel and watch a chunk of my birthday money go bye bye.
It's Friday, my birthday. Me. Sacramento. The English Beat. Birthday song. Birthday hugs, kisses and wishes. Birthday shots. Yay!
Fast forward to Burbank Airport - me still riding high on my birthday night festivities. I walk off the plane, through the airport, out to D's car. No J.
"Ready to go?" I ask.
"No. I'm sick. I don't want to go."
"Wha?"
"I don't feel good at all."
Silence. I only spoke to give her directions to my house. I get out of her car. I get into my car. I yell 'Fuck!' a dozen or so times. Then, I cry. Do I go? Do I not go? Fuck! Fuck it. I'm going!
Before I can stop crying, a call comes through: a problem at the hotel in SLO with the suite I booked. The sweet girl at the Marriott - so apologetic - can we move you to another room? Sobbing, I said "Put me in a tub witha pillow and blanket - I don't care! It's my birthday weekend and all my friends just bailed on me." ::sniffle:: She stammered. "No, we have a room for you..." ::sniffle:: Ok, fine.
On the 101, I blast Rage Against the Machine for over an hour, yelling, screaming, raging. Then, I was done. By the time I hit the hotel, my makeup was smeared, my hair was indescribable and I wanted a bed.
When I gave the gal my name, she let out a little gasp. Then, her manager stepped forward - do you have plans tonight? Well...nooo...since my friends bailed, I need to find a place for dinner, then I'm going to the Downtown Brewing Company. "We would like to treat you to dinner - here's a $50 voucher to our hotel's restaurant. Happy Birthday! Enjoy!"
And, I did!
