The Redhead Papers she is go bye-bye.

In case the lack of posting over the past few months wasn’t enough of a clue, I’ll just clear the air by saying that yes, indeed, I will not be updating this site anymore.

Shhh. Don’t cry. Here’s a tissue.

I can throw a ton of excuses at y’all, you know, about how I’m swamped at work and don’t have time to write and how I want to write for real like as in a book and blah blah blah. And all that’s true, but the fact of the matter is, I’m not the same person I was when I started this site back in 1934, and that’s a good thing, but it also means that I feel like this site has been played out. It offers no joy, updating feels like a chore, and I kind of have nothing to say.

I mean, I still have plenty to SAY, just not on this site.

Don’t worry. I’m not taking the site down. It’ll stay up indefinitely at the erindailey URL. The vanity RHP URL will fade out in a year so probably best you just scrap that shit.

And yes, I will be writing for other venues, least of which will probably be some other sites of my own. But that won’t be for awhile yet, so you can save your baited breath for something more interesting. And I am also going to try my hand at finally attempting a damn book already, but you won’t know anything about that until that shit is published and on the shelves at B&N because knowing my work ethic, I’ll be 50 before that ever happens.

So, peace out, bitches. It’s been awesome. I heart you all. And just remember: no matter where you go, there you are.

XO

E.

I’m in Amsterdam.

And you’re not.

And I’m alone, and staying in a flat that’s four times the size of my own (it has stairs up to a BEDROOM and TWO BATHROOMS and a PATIO) and the poor men who are exchanging with me, while totally understanding of the fact that my apartment, in New York terms, is HUGE, oh and FREE, are probably like, “How’d this bitch work THIS out?”

Yeah. Somehow, I won the vacation lottery on this one.

I’ll be writing about this trip, but not here. On a different site. And I’m not telling you what it is or where you can find it. So that I can write what I want, about what I want, and not worry about the repercussions.

Because I’m in AMSTERDAM, dammit! And there should BE no repercussions!

You know you’re old when…

…you go out for drinks with the crew at 5 pm on a Friday and you’re home by 9:30 pm and you’re so tipsy that you have trouble getting the key in the door.

I have decided that my years of writing for this site (and for myself) might possibly consitute a book of some sort. I am being encouraged not only by my friends to do this, but also by my bosses. The friends want me to write about every last thing I’ve ever experienced or done. The bosses just think I’m funny and a good writer and that I should write what I want but not write it here.

I started to write a book several years ago that was pretty much about me being single and the various escapades I’ve had (want to talk about how I slept with the drummer of one band and the bassist of another? Buy me a Grey Goose on the rocks and I’ll spill), but it wasn’t that interesting. Then I started to write a book about how every guy I’ve ever dated has gone on to marry the girl he dated AFTER me. Yeah. Had trouble even getting a couple chapters into THAT one. Then I wanted to write a script about being single and how it’s like a disease for some people. Then I wanted to write a script about a bunch of New York girls who have to travel south for the wedding of a friend of theirs. Then I got promoted and all my writing came to a halt.

I’m not sure what to do now, but I do know that I can’t write much for this site anymore, considering that all of the funny, weird, silly, insane shit that I come across happens at work or around it and writing about that is really off limits.

But I miss writing.

I look back through the stuff I’ve written over the years and some of that shit is damn funny! Like, it’s a good read! I want to get back to that girl who wrote about every last thing and did so because she knew that someone out there thought it was worthwhile to read. But I don’t know how to get there without writing on the internet. Part of what made writing (and my writing in particular) so enjoyable was getting immediate feedback from people and their viewpoints on my life and their own lives. I can’t do that anymore. I can’t write about every last funny-ass thing that happens to me or bizarre situation that I see because I run the risk of implicating someone or something that will be a bad career move on my part.

Yeah, that’s where I am at this point.

I am more honest in my life than I’ve ever been in my writing.

Which is probably why I haven’t been writing for this site as much as I should have been.  I used to write here what I couldn’t say or do in my life. Now I do and say it all. Don’t give a shit. Tell everyone what I think of them and how much I wish they’d wear different pants. Because, really, you’re wearing those pants? Do I need to tell you that they’re hideous? And your hair. Jesus. A homeless person had that same haircut three weeks ago and even THAT guy was like, “Shit, my hair is holding me back.” For real. You need to rethink your hair and your pants. I tell you this because I love you. Really.

I’m at a crossroads.

I want to write, but I can’t write here.

And if I can’t write here, where the hell can I write? And what can I write about?

I’m at a loss.

I go away for two weeks and someone knights a penguin.

I have spent the last 48 hours catching up on emails, blog posts, Facebook entries, and my general health, which is awful right now, considering that I now have a travel cold that is kicking my ass (all this after traveling for 12 hours on Thursday and then having my THIRD endoscopy on Friday — who the fuck’s bright idea was it to schedule an endoscopy the day after I returned from San Diego? YEAH, THAT’D BE ME) and I have a fever and aches and pains and holy crap, have y’all read Cute Overload this weekend? Because…ROYAL PENGUINS!

And I do mean royal.

This adorable penguin, Nils Olav, was knighted. And I have to say, he’s got some regal bearing on him — far superior to that of several of the British and Norwegian royals themselves.

Watch him walk down the path to his eventual knighting — he’s all, “Oh, hullo! Soldiers! I had no idea you’d be here! I am so happy to see you! Do you like my yellow cravat? It IS charming, is it not? I shall like a cup of herring tea later, if it’s not too much trouble. Also? I like to crap on pavement. Please do ignore me as I do so.”

I just love that pretty much anyone can get knighted or damed nowadays (ex-Beatles, errant millionaires, beloved actresses). However, if someone dames Sienna Miller, I might just have to forgo my undying love for all things British/Scottish/Irish because that girl is a skank.

Although, secretly, I would love to compare her walk through the ranks to Nils Olav’s. I’m thinking he’ll come off as much more regal and deserving.

Because I loves me some airport bars.

Where have I been? Well, obviously, that awesome haircut took me on a journey of epic proportions otherwise, the mundane explanation of, “I’ve been working like a dog,” is just too sad for words.

But…I’ve been working like a dog.

Built a website, doing more job stuff, had to fly to San Diego for a business trip that involved, in order, the following fascinations:

• The world’s longest flight across a country.
• A racy red convertible with satellite radio.
• My first driving experience in a year.
• A hotel that had windows I couldn’t open.
• And a lot of children who were usually either A) soaking wet, B) screaming, or C) tossing tortilla chips all over the elevator and stomping on them.
• A strange experience wherein I thought I broke either my toe or my foot.
• Seriously, I went to sleep on Sunday night and woke up with a toe that was three times the size of a regular toe, so much pain that I thought I’d accidentally CUT IT OFF in the middle of the night, and a desire to work out.
• So I worked out.
• At five in the morning — because it was 8 am New York time.
• And my foot hurt. A lot. But I just thought it was “sore” or a “dream injury”. So I ignored it.
• And then I went to my room and tried to do yoga. And the second I tried downward facing dog on my right foot, I shrieked in pain.
• Yeah. Broken toe.
• I decided to take a shower and obsess about just where and when I could have broken my toe. Because obviously, I HAD BROKEN MY TOE.
• In the middle of the night.
• While sleeping.
• All I know is, when I got out of the shower and tried to put my foot in my fancy Nine West black leather slingback, my foot turned and looked at me and said, “Bitch? Are you fucking SERIOUS? I am THREE TIMES that things size! Good luck wit DAT.”
• Maybe my foot is Chris Rock’s alter ego.
• So I wore flipflops. To my first meeting at the company. CLASSY. Nothing says, “Trust me” like a chick walking in wearing flipflops.
• I had to keep my foot on ice for the first five days.
• I made Josh go get me ice.
• I let the company buy me: two toe splints, a self-adhesive bandage, a gargantuan bottle of Advil that I left behind because people with ulcers shouldn’t even EAT fucking Advil, but it’s the only thing that works for swelling, an ice bag and a bottle of vodka.
• And some goldfish crackers. What? I was hungry. AND I WAS CRIPPLED.
• According to the pharmacist, the toe splints were necessary. After a couple of days, I realized that not only were they NOT necessary, they were useless. I hadn’t broken anything. I don’t know WHAT I did, but whatever I did, it was healing remarkably fast and I know now that if I’d had a moment to blog about it, all you people would have TOLD me what I’d done.
• I used the Toe of Pain as an “in” with the company — they thought I was funny.
• I thought I was in PAIN, but okay if my PAIN is FUNNY to YOU.
• (Secretly? My pain is funny to me, actually. I’m a ham.)
• So, while my Toe took center stage, a colleague and I partook of day after day of training in a room that looked out onto a “zen” courtyard that had very little “zen” about it.
• A bottle of vodka. In my room. That I’d bought while in pain. That I’d bought, really, because hotel bars are expensive and irritating and why would I bother getting a drink there surrounded by annoying people when I can get a bucket of ice and a bottle of tonic and watch Michael Phelps in peace and quiet while sucking down my drink of choice?
• Many, many convertible tours of the San Diego freeway system. No, seriously — have you ever had a convertible? And, if you have, have you ever driven it anywhere but, like, Jersey? Or Elk Grove Village? The reason I ask this is because YOU CANNOT GO ANYWHERE IN CALIFORNIA THAT DOES NOT INVOLVE DRIVING ON FREEWAYS. So if you’ve ever driven on a California freeway, you know why a convertible is NECESSARY. If all you do is drive every day, why not make it enjoyable?
• I’m quite fond of the one day wherein I was tooling up the Torrey Pines drive, heading for Del Mar and “Mrs. Robinson” came on the Sirius satellite radio. I almost pulled over, I was so happy. Except that I was driving a racy red convertible, going about 45, and I suddenly felt like I was in The Graduate and of course, Benjamin just drove and drove and drove so…I kept on driving.
• A downtown visit to La Jolla that ended in a cab ride back to my hotel because I don’t drink and drive.
• In and Out Burger
• Mahi mahi tacos
• Pacific Beach
• The San Diego Zoo – wherein I discovered a panda cub, a koala cub, a restaurant in the middle of the zoo that serves good food AND WINE, and a tram to the Wild Animal Park
• The Wild Animal Park – wherein I discovered rhinos and giraffes and a wish to go to Africa
• Approximately 34 hours of conversation about websites, technology, content management systems, usability, gripes, concerns, help, hate, irritation, and, finally, “when the hell are you coming home?”
• That last conversation came up probably every day from everyone ranging from my compatriots and friends to my bosses.
• Apparently, I am missed.
• But probably only because I put out a lot of fires and use the word “clusterfuck” a lot.
• A trip up Torrey Pines highway to Oceanside because…hi, convertible.
• Did I mention convertible?
• A head cold that I killed with vodka.
• A nagging worry that our financial guy will be terrified at my hotel bill because I may have put a lot of the restaurant bar/grill on my hotel room but seriously — THERE WAS NOWHERE ELSE TO GO.
• Unless it was P.F. Chang’s and we went there twice and twice is two times too many, y’all.
• Three hours in the San Diego airport because I got here way too early.
• Mmmmm. Bloody Mary.

I cannot WAIT to get back to my city and my little apartment and my cozy bed and my eight computers and, most of all, my friends whom I love and adore and miss more than I thought I ever could.

Next Page »