A Writer's Life

The room I wish I wrote in

The room I actually write in.

The Glamorous Wardrobe of the Professional Writer

Fact: writers cannot dress themselves. I am no exception. And, because I spend a lot of time at home alone, and because I pay for my own heat (meaning the thermostat never goes above 65), this winter has resulted in several baffling and hilarious sartorial combinations. To wit:

- thermal underwear twin set from Kmart, size 1X (for that sexy kurta effect) worn under quilted, checkered construction worker shirt

- grey "sweater leggings" from Target rendered unwearable in public due to extreme knee-bagginess, thermal undershirt and flower-print summer dress under turquoise cowl-neck sweater

- thermal underwear set again, avec quilted down vest that is exactly the same as the one worn by the old Chinese lady at the fruit store

- grey sweatpants, grey cashmere sweater with holes in it, long, black-and-grey Dorothy Zbornak-esque sweater (to be honest I wear this most days)

- same thermal underwear set, this time paired with a pink bathrobe for that stay-at-home mom look

- completely naked except for a blue hooded sweatshirt and my husband's bedroom slippers, no socks (laundry day)

- same blue hooded sweatshirt, paired with heart-patterned granny undies from the Gap, fuzzy bathroom slippers (laundry day variant)

Most of the time, these wardrobe choices are accessorized with a pair of taupe gloves from H&M that I cut the fingers off of so little balls of taupe synthetic wool scatter like tumbleweeds across my desk when I wear them.

On a related note, I just found a Museum of the Moving Image sticker on the back of my calf.

That's all. Carry on.

A Public List of My Preferred Baby Names

Since I'm rapidly withering on the vine and prospects for me having a kid within at least the next 12 - 18 months look unlikely, I've decided to post my fantasy baby names publicly, since all of my friends always steal them anyway. So go ahead guys. Shatter my dreams. Steal my grandma's name. Go ahead. I'm cool with it. Because I don't think I really want to go nine months without bourbon anyway. I mean, just beer and wine? For nine months? Forget that.

Girls:
Alice
Ruby
Nora(h)
Vivian
Charlotte (maybe)

Boys:
Emmet
(that's it for boys, actually)

There. Take them, they're yours. Who needs kids anyway? All I need is my solid gold car and rocket house and I'll be fine.

Why I am not successful, Part 1: I am a trivial person

It's 11:30. So far today I have made particularly tasty coffee and a stand-up omelet, perused dresses on the internet, and written an email to my sister. I would like to point out that today is a Monday and that I am self-employed. (OK, I sent out one press release. I am not entirely horrible, just mostly horrible.) However, I should also point out that if I worked in an office my productivity output would be about the same. What I'm trying to say here is: I am not a successful person.

For years I have imagined that my essential problem was laziness. But I wrote a book! How could I be lazy? It's also possible that I'm stupid. But I've met people far stupider than myself and they seem to be able to navigate the World of Human Adulthood.

Then today, as I was flipping through some magazines, I realized my problem isn't that I'm lazy: it's that I'm just incredibly un-serious. When presented with the New Yorker and The Atlantic what do I do? I flip to the back to check out the comics caption contest and the funny advice column respectively, then discard the rest of the magazine.

I'm silly. Flaky. Childlike. Nonsensical. A human non-sequitur. Incapable of earning a living because, while I technically have a profession, that profession, whimsically enough, doesn't pay actual money. (Writers are paid in fairy dust, rosewater, and dish-soap bubbles.) I traipse through the forest of my imagination all day long and tend to injure myself if I try to work at anything. Office-work results in papercuts and entanglements in staplers, and it's only thanks to the grace of God that I haven't killed anyone while waitressing. (I think I'd make a fantastic kindergarten teacher but I find flesh-children rather noisy.) I'm an outstanding ghost-tour guide, I will say that. Mainly because it is a profession predicated on being completely bonkers.

What can a person like me do? The Sedaris family has already cornered the market on whimsy, so I can't sell that. The New Yorker caption contest doesn't actually pay any money. Working for the J. Peterman catalogue probably isn't at all in real life as it appeared on Seinfeld. I suppose I'd better buckle down and finish that young adult novel about teen witches and hope that pays off somehow. But first I think I'll write a short essay on "Betty Boop in Snow White." Because that is the least practical thing I could be doing right now. And I am a very silly person.

I look good

I mean I look really good. Hey everybody! Come and see how good I look!

Everything I need to know about life I learned from cutting my own bangs

1. Be bold. If you pussy out you will end up with thin, wispy, shitty, wimpy bangs. They will be limp and greasy and fall in your eyes. What you get will not be what you wanted because you only went halfway.

2. Sometimes you will fuck up and look like an asshole. This is how life goes. Not everything you do is great.

3. But in about two weeks or so you will totally get over it, and soon nobody will really even remember the fortnight you spent looking like a retarded kindergarten teacher. Seriously. You will get over it.

4. And also seriously, not everybody is paying attention to every little thing you do all the time. Most of your most intimate and profound traumas they not only don't care about or want to know about, but they don't even notice.

5. Unless you were stupid enough to capture your awkward phase on camera. Be very careful about who you let photograph you. You do not want to end up tagged in blurry, shitty pictures on Facebook where you always seem to have your mouth open like you're screaming underwater just because someone "likes candid shots."

6. But also sometimes you will cry. This is inevitable when you end up looking not like Ana Karina but the aforementioned kindergarten teacher. It is OK to cry sometimes, even out of self pity. You're only human. And, if you have someone in your life who will sympathize and maybe even take you out to dinner to cheer you up because you are ugly and miserable, cherish that person forever.

7. Along these lines, don't be so hard on yourself if you don't look like Kate Moss when you're finished with the kitchen scissors. You're just a regular person. Don't expect the world.

8. And, don't expect that anything that can be performed in ten minutes or less will transform you completely. That's just greedy.

9. Nothing in nature is perfectly symmetrical. Do not strive for perfection unless you enjoy being unhappy.

10. Sometimes you will get hair in your eyes and it will kind of hurt. Sometimes you will slice open the skin on your brow-bone. You cannot complain about these things. You are the one who took up the scissors in the first place, remember.

11. Also, don't blame the scissors. It's a poor workman who blames his tools.

12. Although, you really do want to try to get your hands on the best equipment possible for the job you're about to do, if you can afford it. It will make things a lot easier. If you can't afford it, that kind of sucks. It sucks to be poor so try to avoid that if you can. This is the real point of lesson #12.

And finally, because who doesn't like a baker's dozen,

13. Maybe you shouldn't wear bangs at all. Sometimes in life you fool yourself into thinking you're more special than you are, have more talent that you really do, can pull off something you can't really pull off. Maybe you are wise enough to know when to give up. If not, I hope you have a special person in your life who can gently take you aside and say, "Dude, stop doing this to yourself." Or maybe you can pull off a heavy, dramatic fringe. If so, good for you. But they need a lot of upkeep. Prepare for constant maintenance.

Remember kids: your bangs will break you down. Especially if you are really shallow, like me.

Today's Forecast

Oh, hi. I didn't notice you there. I was busy running my hands through my thick mane. I know, it's impressive isn't it? These two lovely ladies seem to think so. I call them Blonde and Brunette. Maybe they have real names, I don't know. Yeah, they're acting like they don't see me, but they do. They love me. Know why? Gorgeous: that's why.