I’m so glad the weekend is imminent. While the tall kid just rolls with the punches, neither the short kid nor I care to have our sleep schedules messed with and it’s getting bad over here. As in the past, he and I will no doubt become accustomed to the new schedule just in time to change the clocks.
Apparently I survived turning thirty-five. The long walk to the mailbox didn’t result in a birthday rejection, which was nice. My husband took me out to Applebee’s, much to the delight of my children who were shouting “It’s Mom’s birthday, so do that clapping thing really loud” before we even got through the second set of doors. The gift portion of the event has been postponed as the only thing I really want is the new Rascal Flatts CD and it doesn’t release until the 25th.
We postponed Mother’s Day three weeks this year, so what the hell, right?
I decided yesterday the thing I need most in the world right now is an agent. Unfortunately that wasn’t something my husband could just shell out some cash for. (Okay, so maybe it is, but I don’t want one of those types.) Unfortunately, what I’m looking for combined with much agency website surfing has yielded a very short list. Very short. As in like…one.
Speaking of, have y’all ever gone to the Writers House Literary Agency and explored the site? The history of the building(s) and the photos are simply amazing. Absolutely fascinating.
(For the record, that’s not the door I’ll be knocking on. I can be slightly delusional at times, but not that delusional. I’m not sure they’d even let me dust in there, never mind write.)