I feel positively famous. People keep coming up to me to say congratulations. All weekend it's been flowers, cream puffs, dinners, cards, e-mails. I haven't done anything to deserve all this. Others have done it before and done it better. But I have to admit I am rolling in all the attention.
But the best, best, best part is waking up in the morning and not having to go check inkpop. No more reading romance and science fiction for me. I can watch my number of picks drop and delight in every single one lost. I think we can safely say it was nine months of hell. Turning left when everyone else turns right is harder than I thought it would be. God help me, I am immensely and egotistically proud of myself. I did it my way, as Frank would say. And I am proud of that. It is no big accomplishment. This is not going on my gravestone. But I still made it through. I think that's something worth noting, at least. In my own tiny world.
*Edit: Oh, how darling. Even Claude wanted to offer his congratulations, apparently. He took it upon himself to kill a mouse and drop it by my feet. He had not neglected to rip its face off. I was gagging, but he was so proud of himself - cause really, nothing says I love you like a mutilated rodent. I wanted to yell at him, but then I realized it was kinda sweet, dead mouse notwithstanding. It must have taken a lot of time and effort to catch a mouse for me. Much harder than picking up the phone and ordering a bunch of purple tiger lilies. This just isn't the kind of gift you put on the coffee table to show the family.