Studio Tour Saturday

One of my art friends, "M" turned 12 last weekend. As part of her birthday suprise, her mother and I arranged a Saturday afternoon "Studio Tour Field Trip."

Our first stop was the studio at my workplace [pictured on an earlier post], with a tour of the artwork we've produced over the last few years.

Next: The Boneyard Pottery Studio. The owner, Michael Schwegman, was very warm and hospitable. He invited us to look around, and then sat at the potter's wheel and threw a pot and a bowl for M, explaining what he was doing, and teaching us about the molecular structure of clay, along with other scientific tidbits: Clay will constipate you, and is one of the ingredients in Kaopectate.*

He showed us the kilns, and told us about the different glazes and chemicals he uses. There was another lady there, I didn't get her name, but she was equally nice, giving M a hunk of clay to toy with, to understand the consistency of the starting material. There were some friendly cats standing buy to entertain us also. Everyone wished M a Happy Birthday and thanked us for coming.

They treated us like 3 visiting princesses. We bought nothing on this trip, but rest assured that The Boneyard Pottery will be one of my first stops when gift shopping from now on.


Our last stop was at a painter's home in Savoy, Illinois: Barbara McDonnell. Her artwork was hung in every room of the house, so we got a grand tour thru every room.

Her work was lovely, consisting of pieces in several different media: chalk pastels, pencil, and oil pastels. The subjects varied greatly. Her husband is a football coach in town, and so there were 2 large sports pieces in their living room. There were several landscapes, and a few portraits of her friends.

She showed us her studio, explained the media she's currently working with, and told us some about her artistic career. She was a very calm, serene lady, and I was most struck at what little fanfare she made about her art.


One thing I loved that she shared with us was this small workspace, that she prefers to her studio. She works here when she cannot sleep, she says, and she prefers the light in this room.


If she ever had any, Ms. McDonnell seemed to have cleared any and every mental hurdle that artists set in front of them; she is unconcerned about time or space or money or shows, though she has had her own shows and sold her art, and will continue to. She just Makes Art; it's as much what she is as who she is. I loved that.

A nice combination, her husband does woodworking and builds all of her frames for her; we also got a tour of his studio.


It was very fun and enlightening day with some very nice, and very accommodating people. I want to do MORE studio touring!

*Legal Disclaimer: Do not eat clay! Stick with the Kaopectate, if you must have it.

Girlz Night & The Troll Hole

Last Friday night was GirlzNight Out. Melissa and Marcy-Momo and I did a few warm-up beverages at The Blind Pig, then moved to The Esquire for more warm-up drinks and Bleu Pear pizzas.

We happened to secure a table underneath 2 televisions, in which Olympics extravaganza was blaring. You know what it's like to sit under a television in a bar; every time you glance around, all eyes SEEM to be on you, but they aren't, really.

So, after some time, Mel, sitting on one side of the table alone, confides in us: "I feel like this chick behind me is staring a hole through my head, every time I glance around the bar, everyone at the table behind is turned around looking this way." She knew, of course, the TV situation. We are not a catty lot. As I was laughing and assuring her, "they're watching the Olympics..." the woman behind her got up and stormed our table:

"Rest assured, that even though you three are SO LOVELY that I might WANT to watch you all night, I was just looking for a friend who was to appear on TV tonight!!"

!!! Did I say "!!!"

Mel tried to explain what we'd said, but the other woman said, "I've clearly offended you!!" and she put her coat on and huffed out.

When I was 22, this would probably have made me cry. Might I just say that I appreciate being 30+ 40+ years of age, in which I could only think, "get over yourself."

And still I contemplate how some people are just happier if they can find something to be outraged about. Good for her, we made her day.

As long as we're talking about The Esquire, then, I will reveal a creepy secret that few male customers are aware of: The Troll Hole!!!

This is the downstairs lady's room at The Esquire:


This little half-sized door is not normally open; I had to open it to check that no drunk, crazed, rapin' and pillagin' troll was hiding inside. I have to open it every time I use this restroom, to check; for who on earth would willingly pull down their pants to pee NOT knowing for sure that The Troll Hole is unoccupied? Not me!

I actually haven't used the downstairs bathroom for years because of it; I just risked my life for blog-fodder.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

I await all local comments, male and female.

rough sketches

I'm tired and braindead tonight, and putting ridiculous mental pressure on myself to have something besides the Valentines post up. Yeah, I take down my Christmas tree on the 26th, too.

So, here's something. These are the rough sketches for two 8 x 10 portraits I'm doing of me and my son. They're faceless because the final paintings will be. They're colorful and whimsical; I'll post the paintings when they're done.

Happy Valentines Day!

Korean Ginseng Drink

Momo and I did a quick run to The Green Onion, a local asian grocer, on Saturday night, to pick up one little ingredient. We ended up filling our basket with cookies and candies and newfangled beverages to try.

This was MY beverage: Korean Ginseng Drink. Doesn't it look exotic and exciting!! It has an entire ginseng root right inside! That might be pretty tasty.

I was right! It WAS tasty! I tasted just like a bottle of water that had some stinky root rotting away inside of it for god-knows-how-long, with undertones of potting soil. And pond scum. I tried 2 sips of it, and both times the hair rose on my skin; I had goosebumps for a solid 2 minutes after each sip. I have them now, just writing about it.

So, my final advice is: You should try it, because then you can say you have.

PropShopping

A rare event on Monday: Brian and I went out shopping. I mean TOGETHER. The TWO of us! Whoo, Hoo!! I was buying, of course, but when your kid is 19, it's worth the price of a pair of Adidas Samba's for 2 hours of his time.

After shoes, we intended to run into Gordmans for cheap socks, then dash back out. Howevahhhhh, we passed a planter in the shape of a teacup on the way out. I had to stop and admire it, and Brian said, "too bad you don't have your camera."

What?!! Why in the heck did I buy a camera the size of a credit card if not to have it with me everywhere I go? I DO have my camera!! So, I took this picture:


HA ha ha! "Well, THAT was fun, let's see what other pictures we can take!" Oh, he WENT for it, can you believe it? We broke into a Whose-Line-Is-It game of props, and ran back through the store.

HAR HAR, he's drinking from a cat now. We crack ourselves up! Quick! Put this on your head:

Ya killin me! Next, to the art! LOOK!

A self-portrait!!! Wheeze, we are are so funny!!! Where's some more art?!!!

Yeah, Ok. NOT Funny. Let's go try something on. Hold these up!

He actually asked me, "Mom, are these really men's?" I love it when I am a source of wisdom! Let's keep going! Hold up this nightie! "Yah. Like that's going to happen." All right, then, put these on:

Look at that face: the fun is wearing off. Well, let's pay for the socks then. In the meantime, didn't we have an unexpected good time?!!

For those of you who have been inquiring, yes, he still plans on joining the military. I've only put off updating you until we/he has a solid plan...In the meantime, I will continue to underhandedly, surreptitiously, convince him that continuing on with college...well...you know. In the meantime, I am going to keep a deathgrip on stolen moments like these.

BlahBlahblog

Today is list(less) day.

1. Here's a poignant blog must-read by Sven; read it, love it, cross your fingers; it may be published in a larger forum. http://svensguide.blogspot.com/2006/01/comprehending-surprising-statistics.html

2. This new blog craaaaacks me up, plus it links to other blogs that craaaaaaaack me up. Check it out: www.tinyoranges.blogspot.com.

3. Tonight is ArtNight for me and the kiddies. Last week someone left in tears, so we're trying again this week, to make graphic shapes using watercolor mask and watercolors. No pressure!

4. Speaking of language barriers, I was busy yakking to Ilaiy last night, listing off all the vitamins I take. For some reason I thought that constituted brilliant conversation. He stopped me when I got to Calcium. Shocked, he was shocked! He asked me, "what in the heck do you take cow semen for?"

5. 2 weeks ago I taught the kids to use grid system for drawing. My long term plan for them is to have them design something, transfer it to a larger canvas, paint it, and, if all goes well, put it in a community art show. Here are the drawings that evolved. I'm so proud of them, this was the first time they'd ever tried this!

M, Age 12. Dinosaur.

K, Age 10. Polar bear

C, Age 9. Chili peppers
[Uh, age correction in comments, from C-dog. My bad.]

J, Age 6. Iguana
[Another age cx. Oops.]

You're It: A BlogTag of a Different Sort

Score! I finally found throw pillows that met my strict throw-pillow criteria: soft & cozy (usable!), and just the right shade of red—not maroon or orange. I'll confess right now: Savoy Walmart (screaming kid capital of the world). $7.88. I went in for onions. I came out with onions and pillows.

Look at the picture:

And this close up:

The tags, you notice, are sewn right into the pillow's seam.

Here's my second confession of the day: There are some areas in which I am not home-makerly expertised. I cannot get a floor clean with just a mop. I'm not that good at arranging furniture.

I cannot remove a tag.

Look, there HAS to be a secret to this! What idiots would sew the tag right into the seam?!!! I contemplated my new pillow for some time. I thought, "I cannot possibly tear this tag from this pillow without tearing open the seam."

I weighed my choices then: I can cut this tag veryvery close to the seam. Then I'm going to end up with an unsightly white strip-o-tag, that I will NEVER get out! That's crazy! I know! They have surely sewn in some break-away tag. There's a perforation just within the seam! Yeah! They are geniuses, and all I have to do is give these tags (there are 2 sewn in here) a good hard yank, just SO....

Doh!!!! DOOOOH! Did I say Doh! Well, that's not really what I said, let me tell you.

Look, I can't remove a tag from a pillow, a t-shirt, a mattress, or a wash towel.

I have, ONCE in my life, successfully cut an itchy tag out of the back of my a shirt while I was still was wearing it. Now it's my poor-man's gambling addiction, the thrill of the adventure: CAN I cut the next tag out of my shirt while I'm sitting at my desk in my cubicle? C'MON LUCKY SEVEN!! COME TO MAMA!

Hell no, I can't do it, how many shirts to I have to nip holes into the collar before I figure that out?!! I need a 12-step program.

So I'm left with the pillow that needs some stitching, and one pillow left with the tag. I could just deal with the Minnie Pearl look, but I'm sending out a plea:

SOMEONE TELL ME HOW TO DO THIS RIGHT!!

White Lies Wine

Being a connisseur of fine cheap wines, THIS caught my eye at the grocery store the other day.

White Lies, by Beringer in Napa Valley.

"Made For Women By Women!" the sign reads.

A Woman's Wine, as opposed to a Men's Wine! What could that possibly mean?! Is it injected with chocolate and Midol? Does the bottle come with a candle? roses? batteries?

I took the photo, left the wine, and came home and looked it up.

Oh. Eh. It's WineLite. 25% fewer calories. Less alcohol. Fine.

I should have left well enough alone, but nooooo...I had to go and read this interview with Beringer's Director of Innovation, Tracey Mason, and the Director of Wine-Making, Jane Robichaud, on BusinessWeek.com. Here are a few excerpts:

We recognize that women don't always need that regular 14.5% alchohol content wine. With that level of alcohol, we often won't have that second glass, or we'll stop ourselves at none at all.

BWA-haha! "One glass!" "We'll stop at none!" Oh, stop; ya killin' me! That's rich. Well, Ok, I'll concede, someone might worry.

They do want to make sure that you know it's NOT DietRite Wine.:

Diets are associated with tasting bad. [Their focus groups] also said "Don't make me feel bad or like I'm giving something up."

Hm. Now I'm not sure if I'm amused or insulted. The interview goes on:

Q: What makes White Lie different from all the other wines out
there aimed at women?

Any wine with a pretty flower on the label might appeal to women...

WTF?

...There are lots of feminine-looking labels out there but without our humor and edginess. We went a step further to think about what's actually in the bottle, and not just on the outside of the bottle.

"I Can't Believe It's Not Wine" Wine?

Q: Why the tongue-in-cheek name White Lie?

It's something that we as women all do....

We as women have cornered the market on the white lie? Goo-goo! Giggle.

...We're having fun by winking at ourselves. We all tell little lies like "My hair
is naturally this color," and "I always get up early to exercise."

And "I don't drink."

All Rise!

Jury's Returned. The verdict is:

Insulted.

C'mon; if they had said they were developing a low-cal, low-alcohol wine for smart, dynamic women on the go, women concerned with their caloric and alcoholic intake, I could have rolled with it. Here's what I'm hearing from their statements, though:

It's a faux wine for a woman that lies about the amount of exercise she gets in each day, and is too insecure to admit she covers her gray. She's in denial and extremely sensitive: she can not bay-ah to hear the word "diet" because it makes her feel bad. She's a bimbo that bases her wine choices on the pretty-pretty flower on the label...unless she's feeling a teensy bit naughty, then she'll choose "White Lies." That's just so cute.

What those slick marketing people know but aren't telling you is: She's going to drink 2 bottles of the stuff in one sitting, to make up for the lack of alcohol.

Shhh... Don't tell her we know though; it will make her feel bad.

Language Barriers & Trash Bags & Benadryl

I sauntered past a frustrated Mexican girl in Walgreen's the other day, simultaneously speaking into her cel phone, and to a clerk: "que es el nombre?" and then "KLAHR-ee-teen" she told the clerk, who continued to stand there in a stupor. Just take a peek at the look on her face:

Ok, I just HAD to put my nose into it: "She needs Claritin."

A few minutes later, the clerk approached me and thanked me saying, "I had no idea what she was saying; I was getting ready to take her to the Glad Trash Bags."

NOT Claritin, but wrap it around your head
and pull the drawstring tight. Allergies go away.

Aurgh! I can handle stupidity in a person until it seems voluntary. So, I slapped her across the face and screamed "Glad Trash Bags??!! Were you even TRYING? Can you not even SOUND OUT an accented word?"

In my mind.

I'm always amazed when Americans expect everyone else in the whole world to learn OUR language, thus saving us the hassle of learning jackshit, and then look down their noses at accented English or a foreign language.

Soon after the Claritin incident, I got an e-mail from my friend Ilaiy, who grew up in Bangalore, India. A frustrating day at work, and he wanted my honest opinion:

....[D]o I sound that bad that people cannot understand what I am saying?

Apparently he'd been explaining something at work, and after he was allll finished, the two guys he was talking to laughed at him and said, "we have no idea what you just said."

Ilaiy was brought up speaking English. He speaks 5 languages fluently, and understands 2 more. He received his Master's degree in the United States. He is clearly not lacking in vocabulary. There's the occasional transposition of V's and W's which makes the word "Volvo" pretty amusing, but his English is otherwise clear and understandable.

So, what is it, he wants to know, that makes some people "choose" to misunderstand him?

What do I say? How can two coworkers become so paralyzed with "Ve" over "We" that they toss up their hands and declare themselves completely in the dark? How can "Claritin" become "Glad Trash Bags"?

I tell him that we weren't introduced to other languages as children. Nor other sounds for letters, other than the ones we make.

I tell him that people are intimidated by others that know more than they do.

I tell him that people fear looking stupid.

I tell him we're lazy; memorizing an entire dictionary full of words in another language seems overwhelming.

I advise him to politely ask, when it happens again, "Where did I lose you?" or "What didn't you understand?"

Maybe it will be a gentle nudge to the paralyzed in question to listen more carefully. We could all stand to do a bit of that.

As for me, I have a basic understanding of a second language, and I don't use it, and I'm more than a little ashamed of it. SO, I've pulled out my spanish libros and am brushing up on my vocabulario. I'm looking into refresher courses in the community. Our spanish-speaking population grows here, and they need help, baby! Our hospitals need translators. There's only one insurance store in our town that has spanish speaking agents. Only one car dealership.

By the way, the girl at Walgreen's ended up in front of me in the checkout line.

She purchased Benadryl.

Ca-ca.

That Takes Ovaries

This afternoon Mom and I met friends to see "That Takes Ovaries," a play at our local community college. Our entourage consisted of 3 men, 3 women.

The book of narratives that the play is based on, edited by Rivka Solomon, is probably one I'd enjoy. The play was tauted as

"a bold, gutsy, brazen, outrageous and courageous collection of real-life experiences and first-person dramatic narratives from women and girls. This 90-minute play is packed with true tales of estrogen-powered deeds that range from playful and sassy to political, including women fighting for their human rights."

It was all that, yes. Each actress did an amazing job of performing their assigned narrative. Some were hilarious and shocking: a woman confronting a burglar in her home wearing nothing but a t-shirt (no panties!) and reducing him to tears by shaming him with a picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. Another tale of a young girl, who with her girlfriends, stops a long-time highschool ritual of the boys scoring 1-10 on each of their body parts as they walked by.

So, there were empowering tales and some heartbreaking tales. It was entertaining, and interesting. I laughed. I cried.

What I strongly did NOT like about the play, and about a lot of "women's empowerment" messages that we encounter, is that there was no tale in which any man was portrayed in a positive light. They were burglars, pimps, abusive boyfriends, abusive husbands with knives, guns and strength.

I was more than a little uncomfortable and embarrassed to have invited my male friends to a play in which the underlying secondary message seemed to be "men are shit." I'm positive that had the genders been switched in the play, if I'd had to listen to men tell tales of women portrayed only as catty, loose, nagging, money-grubbing shrew-bitches, I'd have stormed out in an indignant huff before the play's end.

There are a few women in my life that like to occasionally get on that "there are no good men" bandwagon: "they're sexist, they're pigs, they're never faithful..." and I'd like the Gentlemen in the room right now to know this: I have NEVER sat still for this blather. Though I'm usually one to sit back and quietly let idiots reveal themselves, I have to voice my opinion on theirs: "Hogwash!"

Sure, women have to empower themselves against the bad guys. Against unequal wages. Against sex discrimination. Abuse. Violence. But there's no reason to walk all over the good guys to find that empowerment. We have to also acknowledge, ladies, one other important fact:

Women sometimes have to empower themselves against other women.

There, I said it. Now THAT took ovaries!

Seriously, who among us hasn't been hurt or betrayed by a close or not-so-close female friend that should have been standing by us? I, and most of my female friends, at one point or another, have had to cut loose other women in our lives for our own sanity.

One close friend of mine chose to end a lifelong friendship after her children were repeatedly seriously injured by the other's children, with no repercussions, no end in sight. The friend spurned harassed her via telephone and doorbell, and went so far as to case the neighborhood and look in her windows during the day while the kids were napping.

A tough time for her; she was empowered by her female friends, and by her best male friend: her husband.

Men Hurt Women. Women Hurt Women. Men Hurt Men. Women Hurt Men.

But so also do we love and support one another. And maybe YOU can find empowerment on your own, and maybe I can too. But's it's sure a hell of a lot easier with a little wind under your wings from both your male and female friends.

So. To Mike, Atef, and Ilaiy:

Thanks for being such great men and such great friends. Thanks also for being such good sports this afternoon; it was for a good cause. I should have stayed for open mic and said all of this on stage.

An embarrasing story and a shoulder update

I was late in coming to the internet, I think; got my first home computer in '97 or so, and eased into surfing, posting, chatting. Once I got the hang of it, I made a few great friends, some of whom I'm still in contact with: Maria, Rob, Evelyn, Jane. I think I did a pretty good job of filtering out the forum/chat nutjobs, through the years.

Cautious, I am. At one point, through some message board or another, I began chatting with a local doctor. Humorous stories, a few email forwards, and conversation, as it will, turned into a more personal nature: He shared a few of his dating disasters with me, lamenting about patients fixing him up with daughters and nieces. I told him of planning the family vacation, had him brainstorm about a few affordable destinations. That was about the extent of it, but after laughing and yakking for a few months, he suggested we meet for coffee.

Hm. Married at the time, and having an 11-year-old kid, I didn't find the idea very appropriate, and declined the invitation. He eventually let me know that he found the correspondence a waste of time. No coffee, no e-mail, he said.

No skin off my teeth, though it did make me feel a little paranoid and immature; would coffee have been so bad? No matter, if I was uncomfortable, I was uncomfortable. End of story.

2 years later. A kickboxing aerobics class at Gold's gym, and OUCH! I irritated something in my hip. For 3 months I let it go, unable to make any sort of smooth transition from sitting to a standing position. After having enough of the creaky, painful starts, I went to see my family doctor.

She referred me to a local specialist.

Yes. The doctor I would not have coffee with. I felt a certain panic, when she mentioned "my" doctor, and asked her if there wasn't someone else she could send me to. But no. The only other doctor within my healthcare system was a 2-hour drive.

SO KIDDIES...just which underwear do you wear to see the doctor you wouldn't have coffee with? Yes, I had to meet him IN MY FREAKING UNDERPANTS!! I had to BEND OVER IN HIS FACE while he pushed around on my hip joints.

Did he recognize me, my name?

Duh, of course he did! HOW did we know one another, he asked, didn't he recognize my name? "Hiiiiiii, I thought it was you!!!"

Well, he was actually nothing but polite and professional, we caught up on each other's lives, I got the Rx I needed to reduce the inflammation in my hip, and then made Diane, my chaperone and moral support for the day, drive me straight to a pub for a beer. That was in 2001.

Ask my how my shoulder is.

X-rays have shown it to be an effect of arthritis in my neck (Mother pronounces it arthur-itis). An Rx relieved some of the symptoms for a minute there, but I got excited and declared myself better, and I've did overdid it; I spent the day on the couch today, back with the heat and ice.

My family practice doctor has offered one alternative, if this doesn't work:

She's referred me to a specialist for a cortisone shot in my neck.

Dammit all to hell.

Old Lady Ass-Kicking

Click here for a great laugh : http://www.chumfm.com/MorningShow/bits/march24.swf

It's a phone call from a man in Texas who witnessed a car accident that involved 4 elderly women. It was so popular when they played it on CHUM FM radio station that they put it on their website...

Chris Penn, 1962-2006

Chris Penn died today. We do not yet know the causes. Before the Hollywood Hub-bub breaks out, I'd like to get a word in.

We met 2 celebrities on a family vacation in Las Vegas, in 1999. One was Mohammad Ali. He was walking through the Bellagio with several bodyguards surrounding him. My son, then 13, and never having heard of Ali, accidentally sauntered into their path, and was startled as all get-out when one of the bodyguards yelled, "Don't Touch Him!!!" and sent him flying with an elbow.

It was somewhat comical, my poor kid getting the crap kicked out of him by the bodyguards of the World's Greatest Boxer.

But down the hall, then, we spotted Chris Penn. Brian told me, "that guy was in the Jackie Chan movie!!!"

We screwed up the courage to approach him, and we were met with the utmost kindness. Penn was warm and friendly. He talked with Brian, and didn't make us grovel for the photo we were dying to take. He saw the camera, saw an admiring little kid, and said "let's take a picture."

I almost don't want to read tomorrow's papers. This is what I will always remember of Mr. Chris Penn; he touched our family with his warmth and kindness. Let them say nothing that will make us forget that.

Faith: Disenchanted

You won't believe this. After going to Chicago Sunday, and having my purse returned to me, after walking through parking garages with fistfuls of money, after walking around dark streets in a strange neighborhood, and coming home safe and sound...

...Melissa had her wallet stolen yesterday, right out of her purse, she thinks right off of her desk in her workplace. 2 purchases were made with her cards before she could put a stop to it.

It really takes the wind out of your sails, doesn't it?

Faith, Reinforced

Sunday was Get The Heck Out of Dodge Day. By 9:30 in the morning, Melissa and I were screaming and laughing our way up I-57 on our way to Chicago. By noon we were sitting in a place called Ada's Famous Cafe & Deli, trying to decide on brunch or lunch before we engulfed ourselves in culture: Agenda for the day: The Art Institute.

After a little snack,

!!! A reuben sandwich at Ada's.

we schlepped to the museum, and spent the next 5 hours admiring art, and impressing everyone within earshot with insightful commentary such as "I don't get it."

By 6:00 we left the Institute with sore feet, sore backs, and a desperate need for hydration coffee and chocolate. We holed up in a window seat of a cafe for an hour or so of people watchin'.

I swear I'm trying to eliminate bathroom stories from my blog, but the topic just keeps coming up. Nothing graphic here, just a sidenote that Gent's was Out of Order, and a new generic "His & Hers" sign was taped over "Ladies." During my visit there, someone repeatedly rattled the door handle, causing me to rush through the handwashing. I opened the door and slid past a guy that seemed to be in a major hurry.

A few minutes later my restroom Evacuator approached me. He had my purse in his hand.

My purse. Credit cards. Money. Camera. All handed back to me on a silver platter by a knight in shining armor in the middle of the big city. What're the odds?

Melissa and I then headed back to the car. We'd parked in an automated garage, that required payment at a vending machine. We got off the elevator, and each stuck in $20 to cover the $24 bill. The machine started kicking out change in $1 bills.

$16 isn't that much money, but it sure looks like a lot when it's flying out of the machine a buck at a time, falling all over the floor. Melissa couldn't get a grip on all that dough, and was ass-end up, laughing and trying to gather it, when a man stepped off the elevator behind her. She had no idea he was there, and jumped when she straightened up. We scurried off into the garage...

...in the wrong direction. And then in the wrong direction again. So, there we were, a couple of blondies lost and wandering around a city garage, carrying fistfuls of dollars.

We found the car, got in to count and find we were $3 short; we'd either been ripped off or we'd left a Hansel & Gretel trail to the car, where we sat and counted the money 3 times.

After that, we wandered off to unchartered territory, parked the car in a neighborhood strange to us, and walked to a cool sushi restaurant we'd spotted.

Melissa later recounted our day to her boyfriend, who *happens* to be a Cook County Sheriff.

His response, which I've been assured was spoken with a tone of laughter and love was: "You two are a criminal's wet dream."

Hey, I resemble that remark! I was completely aware of my surroundings at all times; remember, I wrote this last Fall.

All right, it is not lost on me that we were very lucky. I know that Sunday could have had a lot of different twists to it, leaving me to write a much different blog tonight. There was a lot of potential for a lot more disaster, some of which I out-and-out invited with my own absent-mindedness.

However, if I had the day to do over, I'd do everything the same--except for one thing. I'll bet you're thinking I'd have held on to my purse.

Nope. I'd lose the purse again.

What I'd do over, better, is to thank the man that returned it to me.

I'd thank him with proper enthusiasm; I'd give him a hug, instead of standing there slack-jawed in shock and blurping out a lame, "ohmigawd, thanks!"

I'd thank him for giving me the gift of once again experiencing appreciation and gratitude. Can we stop and feel those things too many times in our life?

I'd thank him for reinforcing my belief that people are inherently good.

Ambidexterity.

Kids, my shoulder hurts. I've put it out. Kickboxing. Sleeping on it wrong. Or mousing too much. I don't actually have any idea what I've done, but I'll just share that I'm in such agony that I've made an appointment with my family doctor. Tuesday. 8:00 a.m.

That might not seem like much until I share with you the fact that I don't even HAVE a family doctor, that's how little I see a physician. Oh, I do the responsible Ob/GYN annual thang (sorry, gentlemen, TMI) but shoulders aren't her area of expertise.

In the meantime, I cannot turn a steering wheel, lift a chip to my mouth, or apply that mascara I bought 2 entries ago. I can't wear anything but a button-down, and when showering, I can't reach the other armpit. Imagine it: washing your left armpit with your left hand; I want to start making crazy chimpanzee noises and splitting open a banana.

Enough with the imagining, already. Times up!

Anyway, Blog Entries are bottle-necking in my head, and I'm taking notes with my left hand. Cross ya fingers that the doc will send me home with Ibuprofen, instead of an Rx for needles or knives.

Amen, miss ya, stay tuned, catch-ya-latah!

The Lady of the House

Meet Sylvia: AKA Bilbia, Sylvinkia, Silvie, Silviebaby...anything but Sylvester, which is what Brian wanted to name her when we got her 15 years ago. I coerced him into settling for the feminine version.

So. Sylvia is 15 years old, 15 pounds, and lately, yakking up on the white carpets, that the idiots that lived here before me decided to install. Yakking more often than the average bear. Uh, cat.

So, she gets a new diet. I've always given her the best, but maybe it's time to revise. I went to the pet store tonight. My choices, for my cat: Science Diet Light, for the Overweight Cat. Science Diet Hair Ball Control. Science Diet Senior [Citizen, I call it], and Science Diet Sensitive Stomach.

Where in the hell is the "Science Diet I'm the Queen of this Household, Bee-otch, and You'll Spend $48 on My Delicacies and Then Go Fix Yourself 17-cent Ramen"?

Awww, look at her. I talked it over with the pet people, and we decided to mix the AARP and the sensitive tummy cat food, and so the total was only $23. She's worth it, the little snookums.

Oh. Gotta run, my noodles are boiling.

Fun Browsing

Artist's name: Penbender, www.worth1000.com
when I tried to find more about the artist's name, I met with a restricted page

If you're into toying with Photoshop at all, you'll love browsing www.worth1000.com. There's are several different contests topics in which the masters present their work. This entry is from the "Mamsects & Insmals" competition. There is a ton of fun stuff on this site.

ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz Zebras

It is "slow season" in my company, and work hasn't trickled in since last Thursday. I am pretty good at occupying myself when faced with a day of staring at 4 cubicle walls.

Yesterday, I read your blogs. All of them, along with all of the comments. Then I read every blog that every blogger posted to. I looked at Lord Celery's wedding pictures. I watched Steve & Carol's Hanukah celebration on video-blogging (vlogging). Who are Steve and Carol? I have no idea, but I laughed along like I was one of the family. His Mother just kills me. I e-mailed. I dusted.

Today I got bored and took some pix of the studio. Here it is, with a painting that I did for the bossman at least 2 years ago. There was a photo of some zebras in this stance in some National Geographic or something, and he wished for a graphic painting. His dime, I say: He wants zebras, he gets zebras.

It looks like a fairly simple one to do, just one color and all, but it did cross my eyes at times. I finally had to stop and label the drawing like a paint by number, in order to make sure I was painting INSIDE the stripes instead of outside of them.

Anyway, the studio's cool, the easels are big, and wouldn't it be cool to have a setup like this at home? If the workload remains this slow, maybe I'll go tug on his sleeve, and head back there for a few days.

The studio

Da sink, in our now defunct darkroom

And at home, I'm slowly moving things in from the sunroom. The paints are thawed out, and seem no worse for the cold-air wear. I'm rearranging the house, looking for a place for the easel to stand. That's all I have to report from the homefront, regarding painting.

Sundays with Mama, Vol. III

I was thinking, just yesterday, about how I've had little fodder for "Sundays with Mama." I even started to write a crazy memory from a year or so ago, with intentions of posting it tonight or tomorrow. As luck would have it, new fodder presented itself, on this Sunday.

First of all, I showed up today, as I do every Sunday, at noon, to pick her up for lunch. The screen door was locked so that I couldn't let myself in with my key. After a longer-than-usual wait outside, while I pounded on the door, and her pekinese, Buddy, barked his Little Buddy head off, my mother opened the door, in a daze.

She was still in pajamas with hilarious bedhead, and still in a sleep stupor. In so much of a stupor that she didn't mention that I'd just woken her, she just shuffled off to get dressed. I was actually initially alarmed, but then she explained that she'd been "partying" with my niece and nephew last night (ages 20 and 16)...at the mall, and then renting movies and watching them until ... well, today! Mom had pulled an all nighter!!!

So, while Wild Mom got herself together, I walked Buddy, went over her bills, flipped through the Sunday ads, used the "little girls" room...Hm. Interesting find in there; I came back out and met Mom in the kitchen. "Uh...Mom...what happened to the TP?"


She just stood at the counter, entirely composed...for several...seconds... I waited for an answer, with the maimed roll in my hands. She tried to wait me out, but a smile began to spread across her face. "It got chewed," she finally announced, very matter-of-factly.

"BY THE DOG?" I yelped! She broke into laughter then, saying "well, I didn't want to WASTE it!!!"

I was, by then, laughing also, but still incredulous. "Mother!" I chastised, "there is dog spit on this!! You can NOT touch your vagina with it!!"

"The V-word" is not really one that was ever spoken outloud in my parents' household, and my naughty brashness buckled her over the kitchen sink, laughing until tears rolled down her cheeks.

No exciting conclusion, as there rarely is with Tales of the Mother. I put the TP back long enough for a photo shoot, then slam dunked it into the garbage. We sped off for lunch and errands, still giggling.

It's funny: my mother has a quiet, hilarious way about her. An understated hilarity, that makes you laugh your ass off while you're with her, but after, you can't, for your life, remember what had been so funny that afternoon.

I am extremely happy to be writing this stuff here.

Mall Rat Day

I went to the mall today. For mascara, of course; thanks for all of your advice from the last post. I try to avoid the mall, but Mom & Pop mascara just hasn't been working out for me. (Blink, blink..bat-bat-bat.)

Today's observations:

The Limited had a BIG, BIG sale. Last week, the sale was 50% off. THIS week, the big big sale: Buy one, get one free.

Only they're selling the first one at the original price. So, instead of $18 for 1 sweater, they are now 2 for $36. Wow. What a bargain. Do they think we're stu--oh, wait, we ARE stupid consumers, and their job is to trick us into buying their product. Fine. Still... I want to boycott them just for their marketing department's lack of imagination. C'mon! Trick me!

********

It's that time of year when winter catches up with my dry skin, and I'm desperate for a good, heavy, gooey, oily moisturizer. I screwed up the gumption to step into The Bath & Body Works.

Fending off the clerks in this place is worse than ducking plaid-panted salesmen in your local used car lot. There are girls stationed every 4 feet to hand you a basket, offering their help, fluffing you with glitter powder, and ticking off the sales, which are anyway posted on signs in 30-inch intervals. It's just soap and lotion, how much help can I possibly need?!!

I have a suggestion that will cut down on this customer harassment: After I encounter the first clerk in the store, and listen to this week's sales, then she can slap a sticker on my forehead that says "she's just looking." Then let me shop in peace.

Today's promo: Buy $25 worth, get a canvas tote bag with sample products in it for only $15 more dollars. "A $125 value for only $15," the sign said.

$125 value?!! Look, if I'm to get a $125 value for only $15, you can keep your ugly canvas bag, and spot me any of these things: a small television with a built-in DVD player, a decent calphalon stock pot, 6 bottles of wine, my power bill, (for months other than December), the suede coat that I keep waiting to go on sale. I know! Just give me $125; hell, knock $25 off of that, I'm feeling generous.

**********

My final observation:

I do not, for the record, consider myself a prudish sort, but I have to admit I raised my eyebrows more than once at little girls in high-heeled shoes, and make-up. I'm not talking about adolescent or "pre-teen" girls, I'm talking about LITTLE girls, girls that won't even be considering a training bra until the year 2011.

When I was purchasing mascara, a woman stopped with her little daughter and let her try on some eye shadow and lipstick. Ok, it's fun to do girly stuff, they were just playing. Cool. But I later spotted a little girl, 5 at the oldest, wearing high-heeled shoes, jeans with gold studs all over them, and a sequined gold shrug over a cropped top.

Another girl in front of me at Bath & Body, about 7 or 8 years old, had jeans tucked into knee-high platform boots that had heavy chains around the ankles. Big, heavy, biker-goth-style boots.

These are just 2 of many I noticed. Hmmmm...

I know it's fun to dress up your babies. I'm "guilty" of letting my son choose to get his ear pierced when he was only 10 years old, after properly educating him and warning him of possible judgment of some small-minded midwesterners. I took slack for that, and so did Brian, but he was prepared and unconcerned.

Is it a complete double standard then, that seeing little girls with lipstick, cropped tops, and high heels totally creeps me out? I want to approach the parents of these kids and say "what in the hell are you thinking? Haven't you seen Pretty Baby? It's your responsibility to decide at what age your daughter can start experimenting with this look, and...and...and...well, I say she's too young! She's SIX! She should have a milk mustache--not Revlon 8-hour China-Red--on her lips! Give her a ponytail and some keds!!!"

Lord, I'm turning into a sensible-shoed, old fart schoolmarm.

Random Thoughts & Photos

Random Thoughts

1. Can anyone recommend the world's greatest mascara? Really. Comment or e-mail me immediately.
   
2. Same goes for a body moisturizer.
3. Mary Janes require entirely too much attention to socks.

Random Photos
[Click on the photos for an enlarged view.]

1. Here's a "snap" I took Sunday afternoon. I'm feeling smug about it's cuteness--look at that little popped balloon that just happened to match the bike's color! And someone out there already wants to frame it, how great is THAT?

2. I've heard rumors about this guy for some time, and so went out hunting for him Sunday afternoon. This is the fun kind of stuff I think up to take Mother to do: Cemetary Photography.

Boo!

I'm not sure what drove me to believe that a "dusk" pic would be a better one, but I actually went back to that cemetary...in the country...while the sun was going down...FAST. Look, it was creepy as hell: I left the car door open, the car running, dashed out for my pix, and ran back to the car with my heart beating against my breastbone. Oh, grow up! The daytime pix were better, but not phenomenal....still...how does this head make ya feel?

3. I accompanied a friend to PetSmart the other day, and got bored of conversation algae: brown vs. green. I wandered around and found this naughty chew toy. I don't know what else to say.

4. Multiply this star by about 40 million, and you'll have the a bedspread that my mother crocheted for my Great Aunt Evelyn in the mid 70s. A few years ago, Aunt Ev decided that GodForbid anything happen to her, the spread should be returned to my mother. Mother begifted it to my for my 40th birthday.

Mind you, this is not a "coverlet"; it is a bedspread that will cover a kingsize bed to the floor on all sides. It is enormous and beautiful, and currently encased in an Amish-made glass and oak case in my home.