The one where I make a mess of metaphors.

A wise person once said, "Dress for the job you want, not the job you have." This is especially important when you don't have a job. Otherwise, I'd be going around town in a Sunset Strip Emperor's New Clothes scenario, which would garner plenty of attention, but not the right kind. Or, alternately, I suppose I could stay in my pajamas all day, and shuffle around like the women pushing their shopping carts up and down Fairfax. But I promised my mom I would come home before that happened.

So, every day, I wake up and I dress like I have a job. Then, I make a list of things to do that includes things like, "Buy cotton balls," and "Eat lunch," and "Where is the ATM?" These mundane tasks have become the cornerstones of my day. That's okay, for a little while. And I've got a few forges in the fire, too. Is that the expression? "forges in the fire?"...

--Okay, after about twenty minutes in the bowels of the internet, I can tell you that it is "irons in the fire," but the hearth in which those irons are fired up is sometimes called a forge (and also a smithy). (Usually, though, the word is used as a verb, meaning to shape or mould). Anyway, I'm sure I've totally bored any of you who've stuck with me thus far. Sorry. I fancy myself a wordsmith, and this slog is my smithy (forge).

Back to business. I've got a few irons in the fire. And trust me when I say that I'm going to strike while the iron is hot. Etc. Etc.

While I wait for the irons to get hot enough to strike, little things keep reminding me that I've made the right choice. Exhibit A: the magnets on the fridge at my apartment.

The thing is: these aren't my magnets. They were already here. But they express the very underpinnings of my own heart. Aren't they BEAUTIFUL??

Sartorially, magnetically yours,

Kendall

Oh Irony.

Question: What is the appropriate punishment for a slacker-blogger who has simply abandoned her blog for no good reason?

Answer: Send her to a Blogging Conference where she will have to explain to everyone that she used to have a blog once, but that she is monumentally lazy and preoccupied and her blog fell into radio silence.

This is how my life works: three weeks before I am given the chance to attend a conference about blogging--I stop blogging. When I think of the fact that I'll spend two days being the only person at the conference who doesn't actually have an active blog, I get a little twisty, anxious feeling in my stomach that can only be quelled by wine, or bowls of sugar cereal, or bowls of sugar cereal doused in wine (not really that last bit--or not yet, anyway).

But today I am biting the bullet, re-entering the fray, grabbing the bull by the proverbial horns (can you tell I've been reading Lonesome Dove and having cowboy dreams?). I'm going to SLOG ALL OVER THIS THING. Watch your shoes. You might get slog on them...

Last night, some friends and I played Life, the board game. It had been at least fifteen years since any of us had played, but oh, did we remember it. Libby used to cheat to ensure she got to live in the Tudor house. I used to stare at the board, wishing hard that I might land on every "Baby Girl" or "Baby Boy" square, thus filling my little minivan with adorable babies. Times change. Now, Libby wants the Modern Victorian house and I am happy with my one quiet, well-behaved child.

For the first twenty minutes, we mostly lamented the new, cartoony images on the much-busier game board. Why, we wondered, does everything have to change? Why? Then, we got down to playing. It was way more complicated than any of us remembered. Clearly, as children, we'd only adhered to the rules that interested us. Now there are "Share the Wealth" and "Long Term Investment" opportunities. Now there is the "Spin to Win" gambling feature. And, because we are older, and understand the extended rules, we feel compelled to follow them.

See how much Life is actually like life?

As we played, we tried to understand what Life is meant to teach the young children who play it. There are obvious lessons: you will buy a house; you will have a family; you will have a career; you'll make money and you'll pay money. In the end, you'll retire to a big mansion and count your money, and if you made enough of it, you are the winner. Twisted.

But there are other lessons, too. Lessons that resonated especially powerfully to people in their late twenties. Namely, that Life is Random and Absurd. For instance, of the six of us, only Andrew ever had to pay taxes. Two people found buried treasure and collected 500,000 dollars. Kelsey landed on every tile that said she'd won a television dance/singing/game show contest, and raked in the dough. Jacob lost his job as a veterinarian and became a hair stylist. He made the least money but lived in a mansion. He also had to do the only real work of the game, as our banker, which is--of course--a job he didn't get paid for at all. Libby made the most money but lived in a double-wide. Poor Paul, just because he had the highest salary, got sued by anyone and everyone who landed on a Lawsuit square.

And with each spin of the wheel, we waited helplessly to see what sort of hand fate would deal us next. Half way through, Kelsey suggested we double whatever number we spun, just to move across the board faster. So we did, and soon we were tearing along, jumping all sorts of milestones without looking twice. Babies, car accidents, Nobel prizes. We spun and spun again. We raced one another to retirement. And when we got there, we had piles of money and we were all exhausted.

Life seems to reduce the whole experience of a person in the world to a series of purchases, payments, and required milestones. The game offers a few choices, but eliminates most. It forces your hand. Across the board there are stop signs that demand you to stop, to marry, to pick a house or a career out of a pile of limited options. So, the lesson is that life is random, and absurd, and it is sometimes about choice but it is mostly about chance. But if you think too much about that stuff, it will leave you feeling tired, tired, tired.

Luckily, there are good friends, and there is champagne, and there is plenty to laugh about when--in make believe--your friends discover buried treasure, win Nobel prizes, buy homes they can't afford, become veterinarian-hairstylists, get sued again and again, win game shows, or fall way, way behind because they are physically incapable of spinning anything other than a two.

I've missed you,

Kendall

"Working hard? Or hardly working?"

In college, my friend Andrew gave me a framed copy of the image above. Can you read it? It says, "Procrastination: Hard work often pays off after time, but laziness always pays off now." For five years, it has been on my desk. Often, when I should be working on a short story, or a lesson plan, or--Heaven knows--a slog post, I look at the picture instead, and I puzzle over the following questions:

1. Is that man standing in a real place? One that actually exists? Where is it?
2. If it is a real place, and it's as high as it appears to be, how cold must it be where he is? Shouldn't it be snowy? He's above mountains! And clouds!
3. What does this picture have to do with procrastination? Or laziness? Is the message supposed to be that if you don't procrastinate, you can climb this mountain? And what if I've got no interest in climbing mountains? I'm terrified of where he is.
4. Why are his shorts SO SHORT??

Then, an hour has gone by, I've done no work, and I start to think I might feel a little bit hungry, and just like that: productivity gone. Truly, if there was a Procrastination Olympics, I could win. But I wouldn't, because I'd be too lazy to turn in the registration form.

Now, I've got this new TV plan. I've got celluloid dreams (not cellulite dreams--certainly not). With this new goal, you know what two personality traits will absolutely not help me on my way? Procrastination and Laziness. Which means I've got to act against my instincts, just like Dexter Morgan. I've been watching a lot of Dexter, lately. Have you seen it? It chills my bones, and also fascinates me. Dexter has to work against his instincts in order to not be a sociopath serial killer, so, we've got a lot in common, obviously.

The point is that I'm consciously trying to be a different, more industrious person. It's hard to change when I've got 27 years practicing one pattern of behavior, but wanting the job I really want is a very good reason to change. And lately, I've had a lot of work to do. Like, a lot. I've been scrambling. I've been stressed. It has not been graceful. But, I haven't totally hated it. Which is surprising! I'm changing.

For proof, look at these text messages from last night:

Mom: "Life going any better yet?"
Me: "Yes, thanks. Digging myself out of the hole. Is it weird that it's been kind of fun?"
Mom: "No, it's usually rewarding when you work hard at seeing difficult or challenging things through."

I think most adults wouldn't need this explained to them. But I did. Because, honestly, it's kind of new to me to enjoy working hard. I hope I can keep it up.

But, I'll keep the Procrastination picture on my desk--if only because I really like the man's shorty shorts.

(more) Productively,
Kendall

Kendall Writes a Script.

(This is how I'm going to dress to write my TV episodes, too.)

INT. Night. Kendall's apartment (where, yes, ANOTHER hobo spider has recently been discovered in the shower, and murdered). Kendall sits on her futon, her laptop atop her lap, typing, and occasionally looking ponderously at the ceiling. She speaks quietly to herself.

KENDALL:

What on earth do I blog about today? My Valentine's Day hangover? The fact that I've still only read 120 pages of Moby Dick? What President's Day means to me? I know, I'll blog about software.

I'm a whole lot closer to recognizing my dream of being a TV writer, because now I have FINAL DRAFT 8. What is Final Draft? It is a program that makes a script out of a word document. It has all the necessary formatting! Apparently. I don't actually know how it works yet. (Also, I don't know how to make a TV episode. I know there's an A story, a B story, and sometimes a C story, and tags and buttons, etc. but, I don't know how you make those things. Yet.)

The point is, I've set a goal for myself that seems hard to attain (writing for TV), especially from my spider house on the Palouse, and it's super easy to get bogged down in the size of a dream that seems far, far away. But I think I'm learning something important, which is that I just need to focus on the step that is right in front of me. It becomes sort of manageable and measurable--two helpful qualities with goal-reaching. Today, I got the necessary software. Victory!

Tomorrow: I'll figure out how it works. I can handle it.

Measured and managed,

Kendall

French Toast: 0; Kendall: 1

This is what humble pie looks like. In case you can't tell from the stunning photograph, it was supposed to be baked apple french toast. It became mush, with a fine layer of leather on top. Carly, bless her heart, described it as a sort of "souffle. George, or Ciara, called it "custard." They're very nice people.

If we coated it with enough sugar, or huckleberry syrup, we could pretend it was french toast. But it wasn't. And I grew pretty despondent, after the success with the Brown Cow a few days before. Apparently, that had been a fluke, and now I was back to being a flake in the kitchen. Oh well, I thought, defeated, back to the grocery store vegetable trays I usually bring to parties.

I found out how humble pie tastes. It tastes eggy and burny.

Then, this afternoon, something happened. I was watching Holiday Inn, which is a strange movie starring Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, a bunch of spineless and thin-ankled women, and a really strange song dedicated to Abraham Lincoln that the whole cast sings in black face, and , my mind wandered, since the movie was making me pretty uncomfortable. My mind wandered back to every task I've undertaken and quit. Piano lessons, dance classes, singing in the choir (though, really, I had no business in any singing based activity), soccer, sewing classes, even this stinking blog.

In an effort to be less of a quitter, to do the sort of hard, introspective work that I associate with being an adult, I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, and I tried again. It wasn't quite perfect, but let me provide visual evidence for the fact that I at least got myself within the ballpark (is that even a sports metaphor? it looks strange.).

Better, right? Someone, somewhere, would believe that this was baked apple french toast.

I promise this isn't going to be a cooking blog, because I really don't EVER cook anything, and this past weekend was a total anomaly with two cooking events in three days. But now I'm set until 2011. Seriously. It's just really snowy and cold here, and I don't have anything else to be doing, and trying to cook--and trying to blog about it--is better than trying heroin or gambling or murder, or any other trouble I could go getting myself into.

In the spirit of this newfound determination, I'm going to attempt the Snoqualmie pass tomorrow, for some quality time in Seattle with Katie before heading to P-town for the duration. Wish me godspeed and good defensive driving skills for tomorrow. I probably won't blog for a few days (tragedy!) (people sobbing and renting their clothes!) (I'm sorry Melissa--keeping you from doing your real work is the very best reason I have for keeping up with this thing), but I leave you with this very, very dear Christmas gift.

Enjoy!

I can try again.

Confession. I abandoned the blog. I am a bit of a quitter. I left "I can do lots of things," and I went off to do lots of things. I started a new job, found a new apartment, and had eighteen new boyfriends. One of those things is a lie. I got into a (minor) car accident and went to two strip clubs. I took several plane rides by myself.

But now, the weather is getting bad. And I am trying to watch less TV. So, the blog reasserts itself. I wonder: can I go back? Is it too late? There are problems, with the blog. It's not about anything, for starters. Another problem is that I don't want anyone to read it (No one does read it, of course, but I'm speaking more philosophically about the concept of writing a blog to have it NOT read. "If a tree falls in a forest, does anyone hear it?" Who gives a shit? That's my point. I think).

But my friend Natalie says to take time, find my voice, and not tell another living soul about the blog until I'm good and ready. Okay. She also says that good photos make or break a blog. So, I include this photo of me and my father, because one thing I can do is play "Heart and Soul" on the piano.