Monday, Monday

My Dad used to blare Ed Ames while cleaning. If there's one way to drive a teenage girl nuts, that's the ticket.

But for some reason good ol' Ed's version of "Monday, Monday" blasts through my head every time the dreaded day comes around.

Another day, another dollar I guess.

While submerged in bubbles last night, Dad and I had a little talk, as we so often do these days. It's the benefit of having him in heaven. There's no call waiting, no busy signal cause he's on the internet.

The topic of conversation last night? My career. I was asking for a few strings that only heaven can pull in the Huntsville area, seeing as we're officially a year away from W-Day and Alabama residency is imminent. And Dad (or my conscience, whichever you prefer) wanted to know why I had given up writing so easily in the past few months.

Hmm. Valid point. Now that my job title is "assistant editor" rather than "reporter" my workload has inevitably been more tearing other people's writing apart than penning my own. And since I did just kind of win first place from the Catholic Press Association for my online dating story, it isn't just a valid point - it's a valid concern. I've been writing since I was five. Why stop now?

Especially when there's vendettas against David's Bridal to be written.