of plotlines and hemlines

Try it On Tuesday: July 20th

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 09:54:27 -0400

I am thrilled that I wrote this in one short burst just this morning (maybe an hour, with some interruptions for coffee and Lego piece finding). It goes to show me that I need to do it more often, the writing in bursts to play around.

Inspiration, in no particular order:

-the dress, and my position in the bathtub (a wonderful suggestion by Julie, the photog!), led me to think of mysteries

- the smirk led me to think of something funny(ish)

-Heather and I had the conversation that I describe here

-I was watching clips of the Muppets on Youtube with my kid this morning before I started writing

Happy tuesday, y’all. At Bonnie’s request, I’m aiming to do start a “Friday Frolic (or Frock-lic)” as well.

xx fiona

Fiona’s sequined cocktail dress used to belong to her, and...

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 09:42:47 -0400

Fiona’s sequined cocktail dress used to belong to her, and now is available at www.bestdressedlondon.com

Three Thousand Forty-Six Hits by 9:30 am

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 09:39:00 -0400

for HJSH

If she was being honest, she had two accomplices: Chrissy, her friend, and Keith, her son. But, as her head was slowly guided into the back of the waiting patrol car, she vowed to herself that their names would not be mentioned. There was no reason why she would have to divulge the names of her “accomplices,” partners in crime. Years of watching cop shows and reading detective fiction had prompted her thinking. She was hardly about to be interrogated in a windowless room in the basement of the main police station for “public mischief” — the excuse the cop had given when she was arrested outside the arena talking to a few other women.

The t-shirt had started as a joke between friends. She and Chrissy had been discussing possible outfits to wear to the Sting concert, whether it would be too hot for skinny jeans in a packed arena in the middle of July, if they’d get filthy wearing shorts instead. Chrissy started on about her collection of concert t-shirts, and from there it was a slippery slope to an evening spent in police custody with several dozen rowdy and drunken fans who more adequately met the charge. She no doubt would figure in the various retellings of the night. She hoped it would be more Forrest Gump than sad middle-aged lady in a cheesy t-shirt, but she ultimately had no control over what hazy memories would appear for her cellmates.

As she sat in the corner waiting for Keith to come bail her out, she suppressed a smile. Her own memories of the night would not be at all hazy. She and Chrissy had an epic night, to use Keith’s trendy expression, and her arrest and detention was simply one more thing to add to it. This thought comforted her a little bit, prevented her from agonizing about the effect her arrest would cause at work. It allowed her to focus on the ridiculousness of her situation, freeing her from thoughts of what other people might think of her. Keith would shortly arrive and, sheepish, she would have to explain herself, again.

In due time, she was led to the lobby, bailed out, in possession of various forms telling her of court dates and the like. The door was opened for her and instead of the expected big hug from her son, Keith kept arms-length away from her. He held her arms, softly, as he asked earnestly if she was okay, if she had been mistreated. He stood very still, even after she had laughed off his concerns over her safety while in police custody. Finally, they made their way out of the police headquarters, and drove home in silence. Keith was on the phone to his dad as soon as he got in the door, and she called Chrissy as soon as she could to tell of her “ordeal.” There was a considerable amount of laughter as she recounted the other women hauled in with her, her thoughts when in the cell, and Keith’s expression when she was released.

Keith was awake earlier than usual, scrounging for coffee before she even had a chance to fully wake. “Grab your glasses, mom,” he yelled to her. Sitting at the kitchen table, he turned his laptop to face her, and she instinctively adjusted the screen to her height. She saw the familiar screen of Youtube with the ‘play’ triangle in the centre of the screen. “Brace yourself,” said Keith, laughing, as she watched the grainy footage from the night before. “I hid the camera in my pocket when I went to get you,” Keith explained, “and then I taped you retelling the story to Chrissy,” he added. She couldn’t help but be impressed with her son’s technical skills. This Youtube generation could get anything on the Web in no time, she thought to herself. She realized after about forty-five seconds that her face was in focus but the rest of her was blurred. As the clip progressed to ninety seconds —the limit of people’s attention on Youtube, according to Keith — her homemade t-shirt gradually became visible as the camera focused squarely on her 45 year-old thankfully well-supported breasts: I wanted Tantric Sex with Sting (and all I got was this lousy t-shirt).

July 17th, 2010

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 17:10:37 -0400

slightly belated, but more coming … got a few good ideas today! You’ll see that I changed the title from what I was originally thinking, and even changed the first line …

Hey, tomorrow’s Tuesday! I’ll post something new.

All That's Missing is the Sparkle.

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 17:05:00 -0400

The small shop just past the corner of Mellon and Rhodes consigned a good number of the more extravagant frivolities of the neighbourhood. At various times over the past three years, it had housed, for however brief a time, exactly one thousand eight hundred seventy six different articles, ranging from the predictable to the esoteric. Joyce Berry’s not insubstantial handful of gold had ended up there, once she learned of her husband’s infidelity. Anne Rockwood’s silver fox swing coat entered on the most frigid of January days, after a brief and memorable detour to the drycleaner’s to erase its spray-painted trauma. Nicole Chapman’s great uncle’s collection of leather awls had pride of place, for three whole weeks, in a glass case near the window. For a time, early in its life, it seemed as if the small shop was destined to become the last repository of absolutory idiocyncracies and frustrated conceits, a refined albeit temporary residence for all the things people thought they should keep but hated to see crowding their own homes.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the sort of thing that was brought into the shop changed. Sara, the shop’s manager, only noticed it when she had to shift around the display to accomodate the growing number of accessories that had, she imagined, caught the fancy of Lise, the shop’s owner. Lise had owned So Close to Me, which she billed as an upmarket consignment shop for the discerning second-hand customer, for just over three years. After a stalled start when she mistakenly acquired baby and toddler clothes and gear, she had learned that her customers liked their children in new clothes and their second-hand shops focused on the esoteric and original. Her acquisitions policy was flexible, leaning toward madcap. She simply accepted for consignment only those things that caught her eye. Having learned her lesson with the kid’s clothes, which she had assumed would be lucrative, since people bought things for their children, she scarcely spent time worrying about whether things would sell. She simply acquired those items that appealed to her own unique sense of style and substance. She did not shre this policy with her bankers.

The overflowing rack of designer purses was thus incredibly perplexing for Sara. She could see no reason why Lise would have accepted them for consignment. They fit neither the profile of the store nor the proclivities of its customers, who bought their designer purses new or were given them as gifts. Sara’s curiousity piqued with every purse she hung on the rack. Each new purse lifted from the box marked “To put on Floor” gave rise to variations of the same emotion. She barely fondled the soft leathers. She didn’t even make her customary inspection of the lining to check for authenticity and quality of workmanship. She simply wondered what had prompted Lise to accept seventeen designer purses in colours varying from turquoise blue to steel grey, in shapes from the smallest clutch to the biggest hobo shoulder bag. Sara could see no way to ask Lise about the purses; they did not have that kind of relationship, nor did either woman want that kind of relationship.

Lise’s reason for the sudden and excessive appearance of purses had to do with a manila file folder found tucked in between two large hardcover anthologies in the room she called her library. For this reason alone, she would never tell Sara why she wanted to sell the purses. If she told Sara that she had once kept a file folder filled with pictures of her ideal wardrobe — and that this ideal wardrobe was accessorized by designer purses — Lise was quite sure that Sara would laugh her giddy laugh and promptly file the story under her “To Tell My Friends Re: My Silly Boss” file. That was the truth of the matter, though. Lise had found this folder, full of pictures cut from old Vogue, Chatelaine, catalogues, and more. She figured it was fifteen to eighteen years old, made when she had been a confused undergraduate searching for her “‘look” and her “purpose” and her “uniqueness.” Lise had sat there transfixed for a good hour, poring over the pictures. Then she walked as if in a trance to her overstuffed closet, and pulled out outfit after outfit, matching the pictures to the looks she pulled from her closet. The slim leg navy pants with the crisp white wrap-around blouse, chunky red necklace (probably cinnabar in the picture, red acrylic for Lise), navy square toe pumps; the drapey heather grey cardigan over leggings; dark denim with a plain black tshirt and fitted blazer; straight pencil skirts; riding boots; ballet flats — but with the exception of a large camel coloured leather bag, gifted to her one Christmas by a now-dead aunt of considerable wealth, Lise had none of the ‘carryable’ accessories that she had so clearly seen herself using. She used habitually one brown purse in the winter and one smaller black purse in the summer, a pattern established by her mother when she was fourteen and deemed old enough to carry a purse.

Two days after Lise found the manila folder, a woman with a vaguely East Coast accent contacted her about consigning some purses and Lise acquired the black leather portfolio-style bag that she instinctively knew would be the perfect complement to the dark denim outfits. She paid one hundred dollars for it, thrilling the customer and ensuring a steady stream of similarly well-heeled purse-loving purgers to her office next to the shop. One day, just to seal the vision, Lise perched herself on the edge of the desk, balancing a clipboard and a fountain pen, intentionally mimicking the posed presentation that had so captured her attention all those years ago. When Sara entered the office at the end of the day, as was her habit, she found Lise sitting like that, exuding a quiet confidence that had never been apparent before. Lise’s posture and composure disarmed Sara, who was wholly unprepared for when a stack of women’s magazines was thrust in front of her with the charge to cut out only those things that she loved that caught her eye, no matter what.

erm ...

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 16:41:05 -0400

Have I really not posted since JUNE???!!!??? My word.

Well, I can offer very little in the way of excuses. I did have to watch every match of the the World Cup (Fiona is a card-carrying kickette); I did have to enjoy the summer heat that has enveloped my neck of the woods (hello, beach, I love you); I did have to take some steps toward remunerative employment at some point in my future (some of these did not pan out, others may yet). Those are all pitiful excuses for not writing, I think you will agree.

So, I am back. Again. Smiley faces all around.

I am working on a little story at the moment, called “Everything is here except the sparkle,” and it will get posted just as soon as I have the time to add more to it. I’m thinking Thursday is likely. It might be Wednesday evening. I’ve got the opening line:

“The small shop just past the corner of Mullon and Rhodes consigned a good number of the more extravagant frivolities of the neighbourhood”

I’m not sure where it will go from there …

Fiona is wearing a light blue poufy strapless prom dress,...

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 16:27:49 -0400

Namaste

Fiona is wearing a light blue poufy strapless prom dress, courtesy Emily.

June 9th: inspiration

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 15:10:00 -0400

Winsett himself had a savage abhorrence of social observances: Archer, who dressed in the evening because he thought it cleaner and more comfortable to do so, and who had never stopped to consider that cleanliness and comfort are two of the costliest items in a modest budget, regarded Winsett’s attitude as part of the boring “Bohemian” pose that always made fashionable people, who changed their clothes without talking about it, and were not forever harping on the number of servants one kept, seem so much simpler and less self-conscious that the others. (Wharton, The Age of Innocence 123)

So, I am in one of those moods that vascillates between boredom, ennui, and tiredness, coupled with a heavy case of the “wants.” So to get myself out of this mood, which is obviously not especially productive or emotionally healthy, I went for a big walk with the dog and the kid. On the walk I remembered that I didn’t post yesterday (oops!) and I decided that I would go home, find a picture and a quote and write something. It was a better decision than sitting in front of the TV. I’m reading Wharton’s The Age of Innocence, which was serendipitous — since I was trying to work through the case of the wants. (I want to go on vacation. I want to buy new yoga clothes. I want a new bathhtub that I can soak in.) I also happened to be on MLS today — hence houses.

The picture of the grey dress (thanks Pauline!) put me immediately to mind of someone concerned with appearances and little else (see me adjusting the top?), and I thought the hat lent an air of wanna-be aristocracy. I wanted to write in clematis, since the design on the dress looks like that (and because I have a gorgeous purple one in flower in my own garden) but since they are climbing flowers they would not hold up well to cutting — hence lilies. I thought about irises too.

x x x fi

Fiona’s grey jersey dress comes from Pauline; the hat...

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 14:58:35 -0400

Fiona’s grey jersey dress comes from Pauline; the hat comes from Julie.

Social Hierarchy (June 9th, 2010)

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 14:55:44 -0400

Amidst a very select circle of her friends, Aerie remained the one most persuaded by the idea that happiness would come with the perfect presentation of a glorious home. When Aerie walked down the driveway of her home, set back from the road as it was, she could not help but feel the tender pride that comes with the possession of something everyone uniformly described as magnificent.

Aerie had not always been aware of these things. She had not grown up with wealth, but she quickly came to understand how money could structure everyday lives to a degree that was, when one thought about it, unfathomable. Aerie could not see herself going back, not now that she had experienced a life where her chief worries were what colour of flowers to cut to enliven her ‘Miami chic’ white living room.

As she wandered around her gardens, she cut a flower here and there for a growing that nestled in the picture-perfect basket at her feet. Today she was searching for the deep purples of Asiatic lilies. Purple spoke to her because she had pretensions to prestige, and so it was not without some thought that she sought out its rich, majestic tones to offset the whites of her otherwise glacial living room.

There was a certain uncertainty to her actions. She aimed for artful ease in all her interactions with her small chosen world: her nanny, her children’s teachers, her gardeners, those friends that she allowed to glimpse her crafted idyll. But she remained a reluctant dilettante in the natural world, coming across as slightly flummoxed when even a speck of dirt lodged under her buffed nails.

Her surprise at discovering the warren was short-lived. Aerie observed the location, and then she walked away, resolving to tell the gardener to deal with it. Glancing behind her at a whisper of noise in the distance, she saw the ambiguous shape of a rabbit turning its head in response to the definite shape of her neighbour’s large brown mottled Rottweiler’s clamping jaws.

Aerie remained unmoved.

Oh, and...

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 16:53:08 -0400

there is only one sentence in these 1000 words that I like and might consider using in another context. These really are writing exercises, remember! I just go with whatever flits into my head at the particular moment of writing. Frankly, I am often surprised it is articulate!

x fi

Oh, hello there! June 2, 2010

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 16:40:58 -0400

Today’s post comes after a brief —but all too long —hiatus. I’m back. New dresses, new ideas to work on! I’m excited about it.

So… some context for today’s post. Julie, my fantastic friend who acts as Fiona’s photographer, snapped me sitting hunched over on the edge of a stool. This dress was one of the last ones we did on that day. We had spent the afternoon listening to upbeat tunes and generally laughing a lot, getting a fair number of goofy, smiley pictures. (You’ll see them soon). Then, she told me to act dejected, and this picture was the result. I think I look more contemplative and caught up in my own thoughts, so that sort of was the leaping off point for this piece.

But the other thing that bears mentioning is that I was writing while on the train. Taking the train = social observation, in my opinion. Taking the train also equals snippets of other people’s conversations and random sightings of expressions out of context. There was this woman sitting a few rows away who I would see when I walked (lurched!) back to the bathroom (a fairly frequent occurence since I was trying to escape from some loud young men). She was sitting next to another woman, but I don’t think they were travelling together. I had been flicking through the photos, waiting for something to make me take notice, right before I got up to walk the length of the train to the bathroom for the first time. The woman on the train had the same slightly self-absorbed focus in her expression that I have in the shot. So, of course, I started wondering what she might be thinking. I am not sure what prompted the focus on agonizing, but I suspect that it was because, while waiting to get into the toilet on the train, I overheard four women griping (kind of SATC2 but on a train). So there was that. There was also my own experience of sitting behind seven increasingly drunk young men … let’s just say I had to tell myself more than once that “things are neither good nor bad but thinking makes them so.” It worked, for the most part.

Also, I am thinking of taking a mini-break to Chicago.

Batik Sundress: Fiona’s Own.

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 16:09:11 -0400

Batik Sundress: Fiona’s Own.

Reality Creation (June 2, 2010)

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 16:07:11 -0400

There are two types of people - those who come into a room and say, “Well, here I am!” and those who come in and say, “Ah, there you are.” ~ Frederick L. Collins

Maria was agonizing. Not about anything in particular; that would make too much sense. At least, this was her thinking. In her mind, right now, it made sense to agonize about a particular something. But just agonizing, well, that didn’t make sense. She was stuck in her own head, and that was not a comfortable place to be. There were no couches to lay on, for one thing, and the people she was likely to encounter were typically abusive, telling her in no uncertain terms the things she could not do, could not attempt, could not fathom in her limited experience. Nope, it was not the place you would like to visit, Maria’s head. Try Chicago: that’s a nice place to visit.

Over-thinking was the root of Maria’s problems. At least, this is what she thought when she thought about it, which was all the time. She thought she thought too much. Maria had a friend, Petra, who she thought felt too much too deeply. Thinking too much and feeling too much were not the same thing, Maria thought. They’d had conversations about this, Maria and Petra, unresolved conversations, about what the question “What do you think about [fill in the blank]” really meant. To Maria, the question was completely clear: what is going through your mind about whatever topic. It was a rational question, and Maria craved rationality. It made sense. Petra was forever arguing with her about what she thought, daring her to replace “what do you think about [fill in the blank]?” with “what do you feel about [fill in the blank]?.” Maria resisted, of course, or she thought she resisted. Maybe one part of her resisted. The other part of her took that thought and twisted it into a series of other thoughts that then drifted around her partially conscious mind, flitting in and out of her head and more or less inappropriate times.

11:52 am on a Wednesday morning was one of those times. Maria told herself she did not have time to agonize right now, at 11:52 am on a Wednesday morning. There were things to do, jobs to get done. Agonizing was not on the list. To attempt to stop herself from agonizing, Maria tried to keep her mind occupied with tasks. Make a shopping list. Figure out how best to sew a kitchen curtain. Think of the lyrics to a song. Get out of this headspace.

‘As if it was ever that easy’ was the thought that sent her into her current spiral of agonizing. Maria was experienced enough with her habits of agonizing to recognize its hallmarks: doubt and worry (she could never claim it was unfounded worry—why was that?), a bit of the victim (life was often a series of trials for her –why was that?), a hefty dose of what her spiritual books called the ego. It was her head after all. Of course she should be the star of her own dramas, she thought, with characteristic self-awareness. But that was not her problem right now, she thought. Her problem was that she was agonizing. And if she was agonizing, she was paralysed from doing anything except agonizing. So, Maria thought, she should pinpoint the cause of her agonizing.

She got as far as remembering that several of her colleagues had abruptly stopped talking when she approached them during yesterday’s coffee break. Yes, Maria thought, suddenly feeling confident in the source of her agonizing. She was agonizing because of them, because clearly she had done something to piss them off. Now if she could only figure out what it was that would cause them to ignore her. They must know something, she thought. She would have to ask around and find out what she had done to be subject to this kind of behaviour from people she thought were her friends. Whatever she had done to make them not like her, she could fix, Maria thought. She would just need to figure out how to fix it, she thought.

Why was she always doing this to herself, she wondered. It can’t be hard to think of something other than how miserable you make people, the voice in her head chided her. Of course, if you did do something wrong, you’ll have to figure out what it was and make emends. How would she do that, she thought, her mind quickly jumping back to the fact of her being the one to be blamed for whatever else was going on. It had to come back to her, she just knew it.

Was turmoil like this in everyone’s head? Why was it in hers? Why couldn’t she shut it off? Maria tried to change her thoughts. She tried to make her thoughts reflect what she wanted to have happen, she really did. One time she had even tried to make a vision board, one of those gimmicks that she had heard could help her get where she wanted to be in life. It had seemed easy – at least the cutting out of pictures part. She took the exercise very seriously – she always took herself seriously – and for ten whole days made every conscious effort to try to think about what she wanted to achieve in her life. She thought about how she didn’t want to have to worry about money and how she would be happy if only she lost ten pounds. She thought about other things, too, but those were the big ones. So when the weight failed to disappear of its own accord and she went into overdraft, she decided that the whole vision board idea did not make sense and that she was, as per usual, foolish for thinking she could change things. It didn’t make sense after all.

Miss you all!

Tue, 27 Apr 2010 10:48:49 -0400

My ‘need more hours in the day’ hiatus is almost over — I can see the light at the end of one tunnel — and I expect to be back writing for the blog in a week. (Gasp! I’ve said it out loud … now I must produce something … good thing I keep a notebook!)

Listen: Fiona will be baaaack with a vengeance in the spring and summer. Lots of new dresses, new locations (thanks to my photographer’s new abode!), and some experimentation.

I miss you all, dear readers.

March 2, 2010, Inspiration

Tue, 02 Mar 2010 22:15:19 -0500

The mannequin made me think of a bicycle leaning against a side of a house. The playfulness and the glint in my eye made me think of an illicit affair. I long for summer.

x fi

Photo

Tue, 02 Mar 2010 22:11:33 -0500

March 2, 2010. "Furtive"

Tue, 02 Mar 2010 22:10:04 -0500

Furtive

She watched the figure on the bicycle negotiate the rocky path that led from the gate around to the side of the house. The path was wide enough for only one person, a small one at that. It had been covered in gravel some years ago, when Michael still cared to keep up the appearance of interested homeowner. Now, tufts of grass shot through the odd stone that remained, green shoots of defiance, making it clear that whatever was under the surface, rooted there, would always come through. She hardly needed reminding.

From her vantage point in the kitchen, she overlooked the side garden full of shockingly coloured perennials that bordered the path. Teetering slowly along, refusing to step off and walk the bicycle, Aidan kept having to adjust his riding posture to accommodate the climbing flowers. Riding with one elbow bent at an unfortunate angle, his hand methodically pushed away first the clematis, then the bougainvillea. She kept waiting for him to glance at the window, catch her being furtive. Soon, though, she was left glancing at his rear tire, willing herself not to have her eyes travel the length of the seatpost.

The path led to a shed, and this shed would have been the likely location to store the bicycle, if the man had any inkling about how fast gossip was likely to travel. Pleased with himself for avoiding the defoliation of the abundant flowering shrubs and climbing flowers that threatened to overwhelm the side of her house, Aidan merely staged the bicycle against the back porch. Running his hands through his curly brown hair, he finally glanced at the door.

As she washed her hands in the sink, she thought about pushing the door open, calling out to him. She wanted to gauge his reaction, assess whether or not her intuition was correct. Instead she turned to the stove to grab the tea towel with which to dry her hands. She adjusted her blouse, tugging at the bottom hem to smooth the fabric, deciding at the last minute to undo another button. With one eye on Aidan, still sitting on the stoop, she quietly made her way across the living room, onto the stairs, sneaking to the upstairs bedroom.

Sophia’s bedroom had very little to distinguish it from the bedrooms of other married couples living on the same street. A queen size bed, two dressers, an overstuffed chair flanked by piles of books and magazines, the hallmarks of people who used the bedroom for sleeping, reading, and precious little else. Settling herself seductively in the mist of the throw pillows, she fished around near the headboard, drawing the binoculars to her eyes just in time to catch Aidan and Kate making out like adolescents.

23 February 2010

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 20:50:39 -0500

I am happy with how I spend the hours in my day. I do, however, have many many many ways to make myself happy. This small but important fact explains why I need more hours in a day …

I’ve been doing some fun stuff lately, in addition to my editing and novel-writing. I’ve been working on a few short pieces to send to small magazines. They are all ideas that germinated here, so I don’t feel TOO bad when I only get slightly inspired —- or when my creative energy is spent by the time I can get to my own writing exercises.(By the way, did you know that Fiona has a short piece of fiction in the new edition of Matrix magazine, out of Montreal? It’s the Matrix “New Feminisms” issue #85, Co-edited by Melanie Bell & Karis Shearer.) I’ve also been developing some cool new workshop ideas, I’ll be speaking to some highschool students next week, and I am doing some review work too.

I’m quite pleased that next week does not have a theme.

xxx fiona

Fiona’s retro white taffeta strapless dress comes from...

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 20:37:38 -0500

Fiona’s retro white taffeta strapless dress comes from Heather.