Fashionably Late

Here's a not-so-secret: I don't get invited to many parties.

I don't know why not. It probably has something to do with halitosis and appalling small talk. When  I was younger, I used to dream of fancy cocktail parties and freeze-frame moments of glamorous frivolity. I'd show up in black and heels and turn heads and say amazing things and laugh with my head thrown back, just so. Dah-ling! You are too much! Oddly, this is not exactly how my life has turned out.

I got invited to a party, though. Larissa is throwing a link-up shindig over at Papa Is A Preacher and I don't even have to wear pantyhose and make up. It started yesterday, so I am as per usual, late. Patience please, with the chronologically challenged among us. I thought yesterday was both Wednesday and Tuesday for the better part of the day. Don't ask. It's amazing I get anything done, actually.

So, here I am. A little late, a little out of breath, and my cupcakes got crushed in the car on the way here. Fortunately, Larissa is a gracious hostess and you can't see any of this anyway. I brushed my teeth and now for the appalling small talk: What have I been up to?

First and foremost, I have been contemplating my light switches. You know how when you have two switches that turn on the same light and then the up/down/off/on thing gets all out of sync? I have a switch that's up when the light is off and it makes me a little bit edgy. So sometimes I engage all of my mental faculties trying to figure out the exact sequence of switch flips to get this sorted out. Up = on. Down = off.

I have also been melting crayons with a hair dryer. This is so fun. It's all over Pinterest, so the law of averages says that at least some of the people who pinned it will actually do it. It's like the strip mall  of DIY - you can walk into any number of homes in any region in America (and sometimes Canada) and find the same cheap art. In a few years, you'll be able to find waxy canvas messes in Goodwills across the country, too. But for now... for now... watching those multicolored drips fall down the canvas are worth the price of admission. I will be hanging these in the monkeys' rooms to use as message boards. Everyone needs a message board.

So, the writing. This is the portion of the cocktail party where the dreaded "What do you do?" gets asked. The only worse question for me is "Where are you from?" I answer that one with "Nowhere" and then if people are interested I can elaborate. What do I do? I write. What do I write? Nonsense. Um, OK, then. Seriously, though, I'm working on several essays at once right now. They may become blog fodder, or they may actually turn into something I'd like to send out somewhere. It remains to be seen, really. I don't want to talk about them much because I'm coy like that. Not really. I find that discussing a project rather than just working on a project tends to suck the life out of it. For now, though, let me tell you this: for the writing, I have been spending a couple hours a day dwelling in a lonely, confused and angry place to get these things written, so I am not always a whole lot of fun to be around. It's worth it to me, though, in the service of authenticity. Some of the fumes from these particular gas leaks may show up on the blog from time to time. Just hold your nose and try not to inhale too deeply. It's all good.

Here is my most useful tidbit, though: pick up a copy of The Writer's Idea Book by Jack Heffron and keep it handy. There are so many useful kinds of prompts in there and just the right kind of encouragement when you need it. Keep creating, folks. 

Out of Body Cocktail Party

Photo credit: fractl from morguefile.com

Do you ever sit down to complete a thought and there's a cocktail party going on in your brain? Friends you haven't seen since childhood are rubbing elbows with Presidential hopefuls. School superintendents are off in a corner somewhere in deep conversation with your mother. Ex-boyfriends are chasing your old bus driver around the hors d'ouevre table and sloshing their drinks. The deejay is blasting that Chumba Wumba song that you didn't even like the first time around and mixing it up with Depeche Mode and the soft hits of the 70s, 80s and today. There's a conga line of children, old pets, authors and movie stars. They stop and speak to you in quotes and song lyrics, bad puns and cliches. It's a wonder anyone gets anything done around here.

It was a beautiful afternoon today. The sun came out and softened the chill in the air. Everything smelled like grass and cherry blossoms. We walked to the park after school because playing tag was really the only thing any of us could think to do. An old power ballad blasted through an open apartment window and I felt like I was in a John Hughes movie. Where the skies are always blue, the lawns are always mowed and the family dynamics are always are slightly dysfunctional. It was the sort of afternoon that lifted me up and out of body and around and through time and space.

Rather than fight my out of body cocktail party, I think I'll let it rage on. I won't be the finicky neighbor who calls the cops when it's too loud, too late on a school night. I'll take my place near the punch bowl and do some people watching, maybe take some notes.