The life of a freelance writer is often feast or famine. This rule applies both to work and to money. Which makes sense, I guess. For the past two days, the work has been sorta famine-y. I’m not complaining. It’s just the way things go.
Most responsible freelancers use their famine times to drum up new business, hunt for new gigs, organize, network, and a bunch of other stuff. Totally irresponsible freelancers use their famine time to become addicted to Mad Men and not shower. At all. No showers since Monday in this house.
The Mad Men addiction happened on accident. Mostly because I was looking for something to distract me from the tearful, moving Joe Biden speech about Teddy Kennedy. It made me cry and I didn’t feel like spending the day obsessed about the Kennedys (a genetic disorder inherited from my mom that made me read entirely more about the Kennedys as a kid than any teenager in the 80s should. I blame the fact that the only books in our house were encyclopedias, VC Andrews, and Kennedy-books).
It should come as no surprise to anyone that I am the last person on Earth to become addicted to Mad Men. Well, it might come as a surprise to WMG, a Loft classmate. He’s been bugging me to watch the show since it first aired, long before anyone ever even heard of it. I, of course, ignored him because that’s how difficult I am.
Being the last one on the bandwagon is no fun, which is why I generally eschew bandwagons. I’m finicky like that.
So, I promise not to bore you with how I spent the day waffling between wanting to be Joan Halloway and wanting to be Peggy Olson. You already know how fantastic the show is or you’re sick of it. I get that — it’s why being the last one on sucks.
One of these days I might check out that Wired show all the kids were talking about, or maybe, you know, Arrested Development.