I admit it, I'm rubbish, I've been neglecting this site, but I do have a good excuse. No, really. Even by my standards, I've been stupidly hectic, juggling lots of exciting work things along with the somewhat alien concept of 'having a life' (thought it was about time to do something other than work for a bit.)
As you may have picked up if you've been here before, my 30th birthday was imminent when I last wrote a proper post. Well, now it's happened. I'm still alive and not noticeably more wrinkled or grey haired (I had my first grey hair at 25, and my first grey eyebrow hair a couple of years ago, so I've dealt with the 'body becoming decrepit' issue. At least until the first grey pube appears.) So, my birthday is excuse number one for lack of posting. Obviously, I had to celebrate with one or two cocktails which led to a hangover of monstrous proportions (well, when combined with a stupidly glamorous-feeling week when large numbers of people seemed to turn up bearing champagne and flowers - I approve of birthdays).
As it was a 'proper' birthday, I figured canapes were in order too, so that I could feel vaguely Sex and the City. Unfortunately, I learned that SmokedSalmon.com sold canape cases (through the catalogue or phone only - they're not on the website). It was £16.25 for 60 cases. It took me a week - if not longer - to set aside the moral guilt of spending £32.50 on canape cases but I figured 'what the hell, you only have one 30th' and took the plunge. I'm glad I did because they were just *so* cute. And for £32.50, I got to feel like a princess; a feeling that every woman should have at least once in her life.
OK, I admit that the rose-petal-filled swimming pool may have been going too far, but I was carried away by frivolity (and it only cost £2.99 from Tescos, plus the heads of some roses that had gone past their best).
And then, 'thirty' began tainting me. I decided that buying a gazebo was a good idea (£20 from homebase, so again, controlled frivolity). Gazebo; even the word sounds like it was created to be used by aging women obsessed by home and garden accoutrements because they don't have a life. It certainly sounds more suburban than 'big tent with no sides'. Pathetically, I utterly love my gazebo and have become somewhat addicted to lazing under it in the garden, looking up at the stars and the fairy lights which I've decorated it with in a 'definitely breaks every health and safety rule on the planet' kind of way. I am *so* getting old.
Gazebos, cocktails and canapes were only one part of the problem though. As millions of trashy novels have taught me is 'the way things are supposed to be', about a week before my birthday, I decided that I wanted to achieve all of my life's ambitions in the remaining time I had before I officially counted as a 'grown up'. You try posting to a blog when you're trying to fit your entire life's ambitions into a week. Luckily, I rapidly realised that I'd never got round to making a list of my life's ambitions, so I just decided try to fit in anything that I thought sounded like it might be a giggle into a week. (Tip: If you're under thirty, write a list of 'cool things to do' now - and start doing them. Otherwise you'll end up having as stupidly busy a time as I did.)
First off, I decided that I should get some erotic pics taken whilst I was still relatively comfortable wearing skimpy clothes. The wonderful Goddess B came round and I dug out my spangliest outfit along with a secretary style outfit. We had a top laugh doing the pics - she's now become a friend - and it was well worth £200. If you need any erotic pics taking, I utterly recommend her.
Then, I did a bit of a 'family' kind of thing; my stepmum came down to see me and we had a lovely time chatting about growing up and life in general. My dad gave me a toolbox as part of my birthday present which made me feel like a 'proper' adult (albeit briefly); I have a quiet sense of contentment that now, if something breaks and I try to fix it, I've probably got the tool to do it (if not the skills). I'm not entirely sure what half the things in the toolbox are, but I was impressed that it had a Maglite; something that looks cool *and* I know how to use. Though, thinking about it, storing the toolbox containing said Maglite in the bottom of a dark drawer about as far away from my bedroom as it's possible to be probably isn't the most practical thing in the world. Still, maybe when I'm 31 I'll get 'practical' running through my bloodstream. Though I find it unlikely.
But my biggest ambition, that I've had since I was about four years old, is to get a book deal. Or at least, it was. Thanks to the post I made on 5th January this year, asking if anyone knew any agents or publishers, and the subsequent introduction to an agent that the lovely Paul Donnelly set up for me, I've now had an offer for my book. I haven't signed the deal yet, because apparently there are other publishers interested who my agent is waiting to hear back from, but I'm incredibly excited. I had a meeting with the publisher and they were talking delivery dates and covers and marketing and word-counts and all manner of things that made me feel very squeally indeed. Though, obviously, I sat there calmly nodding in a 'Oh, yes, percentage of net receipts... Ah, indeed, first serial rights... I understand exactly what you're talking about' kind of way. But, after getting a translation from my agent (I love that I have an agent. It's still dead exciting.) it transpires that, if I go with these people, I a) Have to finish my book in the next twelve or so weeks and b) If I manage it (and it's not such unprintable rubbish that they throw it aside in disgust and set fire to my as yet unsigned contract) then I'll have a book out on the shelves by Spring next year.
You'd think that'd be enough for anyone. And it was. I've been bouncing for days. But then, things got to explosive level of squealliness. Shortly after my birthday, I received an email from a PR:
'Dear Emily, would you like to come to Texas for three days to learn to be a cowgirl? We're promoting the DVD release of 'Open range' and are taking journalists to Texas to learn how to lasso and bareback ride.'
At first, I didn't believe it; freelancers don't get offered freebies like that, in my experience - and, more to the point, I suck at all things sporty so am quite possibly the worst person to go on such a trip; I can't even ride a bike, let alone a horse. Bareback. But I called the PR, it was legit, and so followed a frantic burst of calls to every publication I could think of to see if they'd be interested in a story on it that would thus justify the PR company's expense. The lovely Blink magazine said 'sounds good to us'. So, next week, I'm off to Texas. The state which, to my knowledge, still criminalises sex toys. Clearly, I'm going to fit in well. Given that it's a three day trip, including travel time, and I think it's about a ten hour flight, that means I should get all of 52 hours - including sleep time - in Texas. Or, more to the point, what amounts to just over a day trip. But sod it, I get to learn to be a cowgirl. And I've never had a broken bone before, so it will probably be a character-building experience.
Given that I had a deeply sucky time of things as a teenager, then spent the vast bulk of my twenties working in jobs that I didn't want to, going out with a variety of unsuitable men (and some really lovely ones) and scraping together enough money to pay the rent, I'm not too unhappy with the way that my thirties are going. I feel content. Clearly, I must be getting old.
Posted by emilyd at May 20, 2004 02:45 AM