Hi, I’m shutting this thing down. 

When I started writing this thing, however many years ago, I felt stuck in a job I hated, and needed a new challenge.

At first I was just fucking around, seeing if I could be consistent at something, throwing word pasta at the internet to see what stuck. People seemed to like it. I got lots of nice feedback.

And then, as bad things started happening in rapid succession (dead dog, dead mom, impossible grandmother situation, emergency surgery), writing felt almost necessary, like I needed to document what was happening in order to make sense of it. 

All the while, my social media feeds were full of look-at-me posts, people building their personal brands by presenting themselves as happy, confident, successful, having their shit together. Most of it seemed forced and fake. I wanted to counter every “look at me” with “listen to this.” Like, let’s just be honest about our lives, and maybe try to find some humor in the mess.

Now that the mess has subsided, now that my life is 100x better than it was several years ago, the urge to write is almost gone. Even if I do have a good story, most evenings I’m physically and mentally exhausted from spending all day in a warehouse sorting dead people’s clothes. Which is, strangely enough, something I’m really good at, and the most rewarding work I’ve ever done.

So this is a Thanksgiving thank-you for reading my stories and being my sounding board for so many years. I’ll leave you with one more story before I pull the plug.

PS: Come December if you want to email me, use my first name dot my last name at mac dot com.

The building has two levels.

Upstairs is the showroom. It looks like a really nice thrift store. Baby gear, furniture, electronics, housewares, linens, art. And a clothing boutique. Everything is free to people who make an appointment. All clothing clients are assigned volunteer personal shoppers.

Downstairs is the warehouse where the donations come in. Most days I am the only one in adult clothing, and most days at least 500 pounds of clothing comes in. My job is to find the good stuff, in “dignity condition,” and send it upstairs to the boutique.

A couple months ago, a call over the walkie: “Is anyone available to help a client with clothes?” It was mid-afternoon, all the scheduled clients and volunteers had gone home, but there was a walk-in. I headed upstairs.

He looked young. He told me he was starting a concierge job, working the front desk at a fancy apartment building. It required “business clothes” he did not have money for. He had no idea what size he wore in shirts, pants, or suits.

I picked out a few things he could try on for size. While he was in the dressing room, I found this glorious dark purple plaid suit that looked like it might fit him. And my gut told me this guy had the confidence to wear purple plaid. I knocked on the dressing room door. “I think I found a suit for you.”

He opened the door and his eyes got big. “Purple is my favorite color!”

The suit fit him perfectly. He was, as the kids say, feeling himself. 

Next up was shoes. At least 10 pairs of really nice men's shoes had just come in, in his size, most of them brand-new. He was like a kid in a candy store. I called him Carrie Bradshaw and he laughed. “You don’t understand. I really love shoes."

He spotted a pair of light caramel colored boots, in what looked like faux crocodile skin, and got really excited. “In that suit? With these shoes? I will feel like Prince!”

Later, as I was packing up his new wardrobe, he told me that many people who get jobs with these fancy apartment buildings go the maintenance or engineering route because those jobs come with uniforms, and they don’t have the money for business clothes. “Tell them about us,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”

He thanked me profusely and left. To get back to my downstairs dungeon, I had to walk back across the showroom, which was being restocked with furniture and housewares for the next day’s clients. Most of the time, there’s no music upstairs. But that day someone had turned on a radio. And the song playing at that moment — I shit you not — was “Purple Rain.”