Life During War Time

After several years of freelancing (the best way to stay creatively, if not barely, employed while essentially unemployed) I've returned to the brick 'n mortar workplace. Within hours of sealing the deal and resuming a life of careerism, I was obligated to give-up: cigarettes, blogging, a performance of Christmas carols (sung in French no f-in less) by my child's kindergarten class and a chance to go to Africa with the BBC. No kidding.

Of course I'd made the typical Graham Greene-like pact with God to stop smoking once and for all if suitable employment came my way, so that anticipated sacrifice had to be commenced right away, firmly. And missing kiddie events is a guilt that can eventually be ignored with the general hustle and bustle of daily life in a big city. But who'd have imagined giving-up blogging? Or a lengthy trip to Africa, a place I've dreamed of visiting since I was a child?

All to make money to keep food on the table and an ITP (Inside The Perimeter) condo over our heads. Life is indeed cruel, especially for those of a ludicrously long-suffering and utterly pointless romantic nature. More on the BBC Africa Project later... when I have the strength to blog about it. I'm going to go faint or something now. Take in a Pride and Prejudice show to enhance the drama that lies within. Sigh...

Then again the comforts of steady, office/adult-oriented, stimulating work are so routine at this point in the game that any wisps of inner pity over perceived personal and cultural sacrifice are actually quite well assuaged by such pleasurable familiarity and organizational requirements. However, there is really no burning need to shout from the rooftops about one's closeted (professional only, mind you) tendency to tack Miss Hathaway, n'est ce pas?

In other reports of guilty pleasure, such as the warm and quite satisfying smugness that comes from having one's editorial work appear in a major daily, my charming friend and occasional colleague, Suzan Satterfield, had a seasonal rant in the AJC's back pages yesterday. Here's a bit...


Leave it to the far right to suck all the joy out of the holiday season.

That's right. I said the "H" word. I've said it for years, and now I'm (gasp!) letting my children and guests in my home say it, too. It wasn't until this year that I knew just how radical and militant I was every time I uttered "Happy holidays."

Full editorial here. Happy Holidays!!!! (My Christmas cards say it too.)