(Or should I say, “Fun-tastic?”)
In the last few days, things have suddenly turned for the better.
My relationships are more clear. I do not feel the need to hide in a ditch from the world. I apologize for the emo attitude of the previous post.
Peter decided that he wants to take me to Minnesota this summer. I would love to go, but I don’t know where I will get the money. I am considering having a garage sale in a couple of weeks. There is so much useless junk that I can sell.
I got an internship with the Wellington Town Crier. One day I e-mailed them; the next day I met with the executive editor and scored the job. They will not pay me in anything except experience. Honestly, I don’t mind. There is so much that I need to learn. I am incredibly excited and overwhelmed at the prospect of taking photos and writing articles that will be published for the entire Village of Wellington to see. My internship doesn’t start for another month, and I already have butterflies thinking about it.
The Barrett-Jackson Auction is in town this weekend, and I obtained press credentials to cover it for the Beacon. Every year, I have gone. It is my pilgrimage. Classic cars make my stomach do flips. Today I went to try to pick up my media credentials (they had closed already … darn), and I parked next to a Thunderbird. Not one of those cheap rip-offs that Ford tried to force down everyone’s throat a few years ago, but the real deal. It was beautiful: seafoam green, white interior and chrome for days. The wheels had such a delightful sparkle, the sun hit them and they sang the Hallelujah Chorus. The gala was about to begin, so men in suits \who smelled splendid and wore shiny shoes were trickling steadily through the gate. An occasional woman, always in stilettos and a semi-classy cocktail dress, hung from the arm of a man who could probably be her father.
Yes, I am delighted that the Barrett-Jackson Auction has returned to Palm Beach this year. I always go, and I always take a thousand pictures. This year will be no different, save the fact that I will be writing an article on what I observe.
Peter and I are going to his sister’s birthday party in Orlando on Friday night. I am excited to be released from Palm Beach County for an evening. In the morning, Kari (Peter’s sister) and her husband, Mike, will return to the 561 with us to spend Easter weekend here and bring a dog for an old woman. Then Mike, Peter and I will go to the final day of the auction, where I’m sure I will have multiple cargasms and run around like a crazed meth addict interviewing whoever I can get my hands on. Actually … that comparison makes no sense. Why would a crazed meth addict want to interview anyone?