Clinton and Stacy, Help Me! I think.

"You could be a hobo," Ryan said tonight, holding up a dress that looked like it was made from someone's couch upholstery. "Or a matador," he continued, and if the section hadn't said "Missus" I would have sworn he found a Halloween costume. An hour later I still hadn't found a dress for the wedding reception this weekend, and I was starting to wonder if it was everyone else, or just me. Why did everything look simply awful?

I mistakenly used to think that I had some sense of style. I think the last time that I felt "in" was in the late eighties, when anyone who had enough leg to hold up leg warmers had a sense of style. But I know somewhere down the line I lost it. I went from making fun of my mother's clothes to borrowing them. I have pants in my closet from 2005, when I weighed almost 200 pounds, that still fit me well enough to ignore that the ass sags almost down to the back of my knees. I have shoes bearing holes, underwear wearing war scars from the dogs, and socks that have been missing their mate for so long that they've begun collecting social security.

I need help. I would like to think I could throw money at the problem, but just because I have $5000 doesn't mean I won't just buy 500 Woot! Shirts. I need someone to hold my hand and point. Try that one. Don't try that one. Walk away quickly in the opposite direction.

I'm too easygoing for TLC. I would be so desperate for direction that I would put up little fight and bore all the viewers into switching to the FOX network. That is, of course, unless they tried to trash my Woot! Shirts, and then the WWE viewers would all be tuning into TLC.

So if any of my faithful readers who knows a bit more about this than I do wants to spend an afternoon helping me find some pants that hug my curves appropriately, I will buy you coffee as payment for enduing my tendencies to sigh a lot, brood, and detour to the bag department.

Challenges

It's probably good that sometimes, things that seemed like they were going to be easy end up being much harder. Otherwise, we'd have nothing to improve upon for next time.

My Temp

I say the word "certainly" at least a thousand times at work every day, and most of the time I mean it. But sometimes I don't, and I'm slowly realizing that this is okay.

In the last few months I have taken a lot to heart, about love, about work, about writing, about who I am and where I want to be. And one of the hardest lessons I've had to learn is that nothing is certain.

At this point in my life I have already decided that I am not ready to settle down. So with this decision I have to expect a level of transience, for myself and for the other members of my generation. I have already faced the fact that in this economy, any job at all is better than the mire of unemployment in which many of my friends currently stuck. And now, I am coming to terms with becoming close with those whom I know are leaving town and probably not ever coming back.

I've had a great last few weeks getting to know Ryan, and I'm sad to see him go. But I'm excited for his amazing opportunity to cruise through the Panama Canal with Princess Cruises, and his enthusiasm and dedication to his work inspires me. And even though I will miss him, my brief time wtih him has reinforced my new-found philosophy that I should probably not plan too far past tomorrow's breakfast. So far it's working just fine.

And will I make it the yummiest, most satisfactory breakfast I can? Certainly!

Best Ideas and Why My Job is Kind of Cool

It's inevitable: I always get my best writing ideas when I cannot do a damn thing about it.

When I lived in Saginaw and drove 30 minutes to and from work every day, when do you think I was most inspired to write? If I hadn't gotten a better and closer job I probably would have broken down and purchased a Bluetooth digital recorder (do such things exist?).

Now, I answer phones for a switchboard and while I do have the occasional free 40 second block between calls, I can get about three to seven words written before my thoughts get derailed with a caller looking for the dermatology clinic, to page their psychiatrist, or to find their brother who od'd and "I swear he got admitted this morning I was just too high to remember which hospital."

The good part is that I do tend to get some good ideas from such exchanges. Today a woman called in because if her neurologist didn't page her back within two hours she would get evicted. Why? What brought her to this point? I journaled about it for about ten calls before my brain bounced to something else, or I took a break to get water - whichever one came first.

An example of my work journal, while listening to random mix of soft tunes on the Muzak:

"Human? Dancers? When asking this seemingly simple question, several inferences are made quite easily: first of all, it is inferred that humans are NOT inherently dancers. Secondly, it is also inferred that dancers are not inherently human. We must be one or the other, otherwise the lyrics would be, 'Are we humans, or are we dancers, or are we both?' and that would totally mess up the rhythm scheme."

Where else could I come up with this nonsense?

A Defense of Community (for Writers)

I have discovered that the more I talk about the writing projects in which I am currently immersed, the more people will lend their own advice. Now while this may not always (or ever) be the best idea in the world, it can sometimes bring about some gems. For example, I’m writing a short story right now that borrowed a basic plotline from a story by Chekhov. I’ve explained my project to several people, and it was almost as if they could not help themselves – ideas came shooting out of them so fast with so much intensity that I had hour-long conversations about it with both of them.

My friend Ryan knew a relative that had been involved in a farming accident, which is something that I’m including in my story but don’t know a lot about. He actually called his mother to ask her more details about it, and took a page of notes for me on all the gory details. Then my friend Dan ran with the plot, and went a whole different direction from what I had planned to write. I could see in his eyes that he was intrigued with the idea, and he actually sent me a long poem he wrote, inspired by the plot idea.

I’ve decided that especially based on these two friends, I should turn to my community, writers or not, for ideas and inspiration, and think that any writer who chooses not to take advantage of their network is doing themselves a great disservice.

Red Line to Park Street

As I rode the train to work this morning, I watched the sun begin to peek out from behind the buildings of downtown Boston. The very base of the sky was a salmon pink, and then extended into a purple and then indigo blue until it met with the retreating night sky above. No one else on the train seemed to notice. Riding home I glanced back to see the lights twinkle in the darkness as we crossed the Charles back to Cambridge. I am still without a career-oriented job and money is still tight. But it's times like this, crossing the black water and looking out onto the skyline, that I realize I really love it here. I love this city.