Patchouli, Pear Martinis, and a Picture Show

"Omigod! Suzi Sparrow! It's been, like, forever!"

Suzi struggled not to recoil as Fiona Murphy bore down on her full sail across the elegant lobby of the Ambrosia Hotel and enveloped her in a patchouli-scented hug. A strand of Fiona's sun-streaked hair, styled in the near-ubiquitous beachy waves of Southern California boho-chic, whipped into Suzi's left eye. Fiona's arms, jingling with many bracelets, squeezed the breath from Suzi's lungs.

"How are you, Finny?" Suzi drew back, sucking in oxygen, blinking her eye, and adjusting the halter straps of her pink Lindy Bop dress she'd inherited from her Nanna--the dress that had started her obsession with vintage fashion in the first place. It was her Pretty in Pink dress. Her lucky dress. Her knock 'em on their asses with envy dress.

Today she needed all the luck she could get.

Thanks to a challenge from three friends that she would go on thirty-one blind dates in one month, she'd been on seven dates in the last week--some good and some bad and some downright Twilight Zone. And while this had the desired effect of getting her out of her apartment and ending the slump she'd been in since her breakup with Ashley, going out every night and spending the better part of each day recovering and then arranging the next assignation distracted her from her far more important quest: finding a job.

No. Not just a job. A career. A career to justify the tens of thousands spent on the English degree that seemed to have no practical applications beyond graduate school. After which, she could look forward to and sad, low-paying, no-benefits adjunct professor positions while desperately trying to  score a tenure job before she died of old age. 

Last night after her date with Lucy Dante (a.k.a. the sexy weirdo who honestly believed she was Beelzebub in a skirt) Suzi gave in and filled out a graduate school application. Deep down, though, she knew grad school would just be putting off the inevitable. Debt and a job search would still be waiting in four to six years. Then inspiration--or possibly desperation--struck. Why not put herself out there right now and make something happen?

No more whiling away endless hours looking at job postings and never applying for any of them because they weren't just right either. It was time for action.

If she'd learned one thing from her recent blind dates, it was that stepping out of her comfort zone got easier with practice. She'd dated in alternative universes. She'd dated in a time loop. She'd dated the devil. She had survived and had some fun along the way, and even if she hadn't found her soul mate yet, she'd shown her friends--and herself--that she could be adventurous.

So forget the comfort of graduate school and the mountain of additional debt she'd accrue. She would try something far riskier but potentially more rewarding: freelance writing.

Two hours of research and a few emails later, she had an interview lined up and an interested media outlet willing to look at an article on spec. What was the worst that could happen? Failure? Oh, well. Disgrace? So what? Embarrassment? Bring it on.

"Comeonletsgetsomedrinks!" Fiona grabbed Suzi's hand and dragged her toward the hotel bar, all gilded columns and white leather banquettes surrounding round mahogany tables. An impressive Art Deco-inspired tile floor matched the collection of photos of 1920s and 1930s Hollywood stars on the walls.

Suzi breathed in the glamour--along with Fiona's liberal application of her signature patchouli perfume--and allowed herself fifteen seconds of envy, but no more. Who cared that Fiona's life included fancy hotels and famous film stars and movie sets while her life was filled--and she used the term loosely--with typing at a coffee shop and increasingly bizarre blind dates?