She catches herself checking her own blog for new entries.
There are no new entries because no one (not mentioning initials here) has written any.
Nope. She's been busy. She's been acquiring jackets and uncluttered, non-floaty clothing with tailored lines, in subdued colors. Some of them are so subdued they fail to pass as colors. They are more...shadows. Weedy says, "Oh. Grown-up clothes." And she thinks, why in hell am I buying grown-up clothes?"
No one answers. The plants continue to ignore her and do their excuse-me-but-we-need-watering thing. She's paid up to $14.95 for the things but the plants have yet to provide one valuable answer. The furniture continues to be furniture. Much of it in need of cleaning, all of it silent as...well, furniture. And asking actual sentient beings for an answer is useless. She'd run the risk of an answer like, "what's odd about that?" or "well, you are 58."
Now she's worn tailored clothing, but normally it's by way of costume. The famous 40's suit that made her feel like she was Queen of the Known Universe or at the very least, Katherine Hepburn. But this is different. This is not worn with spike heels, stockings that have seams and little gloves. This is jackets and dress pants. This is necklines without cleavage. This stuff screams - I'm serious, dammit.
She's serious. Serious business is transpiring in her world. She is seriously overloaded at work and determined not to have her term-beginning meltdown. She has work in her first serious show. She is not just someone having fun anymore, beading until her eyes cross. She is now One of Eleven Nova Scotia Designers and the opening is tomorrow night. She considers renaming herself "One of Eleven." Borg Artist and Serious Human Being. She hopes she will not act like a dip stick at the opening. But the hope is frail, in spite of the jacket.
She is having a good time writing this. Having given up hope of serious subject matter.
