How to Not Impress Me

About five years ago, we faced the point in life in which we required a new washer/dryer set. We had some money for this purpose, and for much the same reason I own, love, and whisper sweet nothings to a Dyson Animal, we came home with the Maytag Atlantis washer and dryer that have the hood ornaments. Nothing says “I’ve arrived” like hood ornaments on applicances. I am mildly disappointed that they aren’t full-on figurines, but we’re not Rockefellers here, we’re just us.

My argument in favor of this was that washers and dryers are USED and used daily, in intense fashion. We have three children, I said, and three dogs. I wash everything. We should get good ones, good ones that will last. So we did.

A year ago, the dryer broke. I opened up the phone book and found The Appliance Doctor. They sent a guy. This guy, he had a lot of tattoos. Not the artistic kind, the “done some time” kind. He liked my tattoo and we had that conversation that anyone with ink has ten times a day. “Where did you get it done?” “Oh, at Oasis 7, Chuck Chapin did it, he’s awesome.” The guy says, “Oh, I get my work done in El Paso at this great place, they do really sick work.” I say, “What’s it called?” and he says, “Pricks.”

Places I will never seek permanent body work at, number one: Pricks.

So this year, this week, the washer begins to emit a toe-curling scream as it spins. I call The Appliance Doctor.

Are you surprised that the same guy showed up? Me either. He says, “Hey! I remember you, you have a cool tattoo!” Yes I do, thanks, the washer is this way, it makes a noise, please fix it.

He fixes it. As I am writing the check, he says, “Hey, so, a friend of mine, he opened a tattoo joint on the East Side of El Paso, it’s totally cool.”

“Oh really?” I say, being polite, “What’s it called?”

“Uh, wait, I have a card, oh, yeah, here it is. SCUMBAGS.”

“Scumbags?”

“Yeah, yeah, Scumbags.” pause. “It’s REAL classy, REAL nice.”

Entry number two? Your line has been filled in.

If I Get Spit On Even One More Time

The Smallest of the Fries pitched a fit from Holy Hell today because I, horrible woman and worthless mother that I am, TURNED OFF THE XBOX.

Yes, I did, and I’d do it again.

For all of my tattooed-ness and dramatic hair colored-ness and foul mouth, I am actually a pretty straight laced mother. I don’t buy soda or juice, the children drink water. I don’t buy very much in the way of prepared food (the past two weeks are an exception because I have two teenagers and Hot Pockets were 10 for $20 and if you bought ten it took $5 off of that and if your head didn’t explode before then you’d know that meant they were $1.50 a box and, and, well, these kids eat like there’s no tomorrow). I even pack all of the Smallest of the Fries lunches on Sunday, with each bag set on the counter (labeled, naturally) and two bags in the ‘fridge–one marked “refrigerated lunch” and one marked “snacks” because it’s just easier to be anal, it really is. I’m a pretty rigid mom, we have routines dammit and standards and mostly homemade food. Most important of all is the rule that the Smallest of the Fries shall not watch TV unless he is sick.

Yes. No TV. He gets a movie in the afternoon for “rest time” because he gave up napping at the age of two when I gave up nursing at naptime and he went on a “no boob, no nap” strike that continues seemingly without end. It’s not like I could give in now, you know?

The other day the one other child who lives in our neighborhood came over. I hate this child. This might seem odd, as for one, he is a child and I am a female which means I lurve kids and two, he’s deceptively cute. He’s about half the size of our Smallest Fry. TINY. Little Mister Tiny has a squeaky little voice and unfortunately shaped ears and his hairline starts right above his eyebrows. He arouses sympathy. If that’s not enough, his maternal unit drives a car with a bumper sticker that says, “Don’t be distracted by my MAGNIFICENT TITS.” She doesn’t mean this, of course, she spends a lot of time finding ways to make the MagTits even more distracting than normal, including wearing shirts with laces set 4″ apart to the kindergarten open house. I admit it, I’m distracted.

Okay, so it sounds like I am evil to hate this poor kid, right? His grandmother has primary custody of Mister Tiny and his Even Tinier Little Sister. Child Protective Services had to step in last summer for some reason, and at his birthday party this past May, mother MagTits was all about how she had only gotten two hours of sleep and was really hungover isn’t it sad how you have to slow down when you’re almost 30? To which the Homeless Mom and I nodded and muttered respective mutterings about how sad it all was, having to cut back on the partying. Then the Homeless Mom gathered her five children and they headed off, in 100+ heat, to the bus, still burdened by the sadness of the age-related partying cut backs.

I hate Mister Tiny kid because he’s extremely rude. It comes as a shock, you want to gather the poor little thing into your (markedly less magnificent) bosom and then he walks into your house, looks at your cossetted brat’s eight million toys and announces that he is BORED. To which I, ever compassionate, reply, “Then I think it’s time for you to go home.” So the other day Mister Tiny is at our house and he says to me, “Why don’t you let the Smallest Fry watch TV? MY MOM lets me watch TV anytime I want to. When. Ever. I. Want.” To which I mentally replied, “Well, yes, but if Mother MagTits could’ve bothered to stop smoking when she was pregnant, maybe you’d be a normal size, huh?” But out loud I said, “Well, I think little boys need to be active, is it time for you to go home yet?”

I swear we’re getting to the spitting, just stick with me here. See, summer is really a tough time to maintain the same disciplinary regime that is in place when school is in session. Plus, Comcast gave us this “OnDemand” thing and so we can be true Americans and not just ask for the new Ben 10: Alien Force, we can DEMAND it. Right there is the seat of the problem. We’re modeling this Demanding of things. It should be “OnRequest If You Don’t Mind, Please” if we want civilization to continue.  After the Smallest of the Fries returns from Sports Camp, lately maybe I’d let him DEMAND some Ben10 or SpongeBob. Follow that with the revelation that the Teenaged Brother had allowed him to once play HALO II on the X-Box and you’ve got yourself a monster.

Why? Because I gave in. The Eldest Teen said that while yes, Halo II is rated M and M stands for MATURE not MOM LOVES IT, the Smallest of the Fries can’t get beyond the first level unaided, and spends the majority of the time shooting at walls until the ricochet kills him and he gets to start over. It’s hot, I didn’t want to fight, so fine, play Halo II, just don’t tell Grandma, she’ll shit herself and I’ll never hear the end of it.

Today, then, the Smallest of the Fries starts whining and pissing and moaning to play Halo II, and then about how the Eldest isn’t getting him to the RIGHT level, it’s wrong, it’s all wrong, WHY WON’T THE ELDEST DO IT RIGHT HE’S SO STUPID and I blew a fuse and walked in and TURNED OFF THE XBOX.

Then, the Enola Gay flew over and dropped Fat Man and Little Boy on my house. The Smallest of the Fries used some fight skills gleaned from the game and went after me. When I had him pinned and was saying, in my best Mr. Rogers voice, “You need to settle down, this is unacceptable behavior,” he spit on me. Spat. On Me. His MOTHER.

Yeah.

So two toys went straight to the garbage, one boy when straight to his room, and I have decreed his life to be electronics free for the forseeable future. On the plus side, Mister Tiny kid is unlikely to want to come play here. I pretty much drove him off the other day by offering to let him stay for dinner. He said, “Wull, what are you having to eat?” and I said, “We are having Crab salad and Tortellini salad and you can pick which one you’d like. ” He furrowed his brow/hairline, and said, “I don’t like salad.” To which I said, “Then I bet it’s time for you to go home!” And you know what? It totally was.

I gotta say though, that Mister Tiny didn’t spit on me.

Clearly, I’ve Been Remiss

I was relating to Jesser just this past Friday, as we happily consumed alcohol at his weekly get-together, the hilarity of the Rockobama anecdote. Jesser replied, “Yes, and it apparently was the only thing that’s been worth blogging about since.”

Actually, there is much to write about. The problem with not posting is that once I want to begin to post again there are so many disparate things swimming about that I can’t figure out a cohesive post. Thus, I now officially throw cohesiveness out the window and give you a choppy update.

****

Lately I feel like I should not speak to people. Do you ever observe yourself during or immediately after a conversation and think, “I am an idiot. I should not be allowed to speak to others. That person must think I am a complete nut case.” I talk too fast, I say too much, I fail to be politically correct in situations where I think I should have, I give too much information, I am too loud, etc, etc. I’m fairly sure this is in my head, yet I cannot shake the sensation after nearly every conversation I have that I have made some terrible mistake.

A month or so ago, a woman whose child goes to school with the Smallest of Fries called. This woman is nice enough, but needy. I have tried to avoid being “too” close, but I have sympathy for her as a single mother, a position I held for some years and which I really wasn’t very good at. On the phone, I realized I had started absolutely yammering on and on, as if this were my BFF and I had spent a season in solitary. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me–I’m not interested in having more than what we have at this point, I don’t want a new phone buddy (I hate the phone!) yet, there I was, rambling on. “Shut up, ” I was telling myself, “Shut the hell up already, you sound desperate.”

At Jesser’s I find myself drawn into conversations where my opinion on something is asked and I give it, then later think I have said too much, drawn my position too strongly, lacked diplomacy. I wonder if I am wrong to think that I am safe to simply say how I feel about whatever the issue is, or if I simply say too much or talk for too long or shouldn’t have said anything other than a politely neutral non-opinion.

At the market where I hawk my wares, I have a new neighbor/vendor who is someone I find I like very much. This weekend we realized that we share similar taste in fiction, and discussed our favorite fantasy authors, comic books, etc. I mentioned my love of Charles de Lint, and how much of his work that I have read was part of the Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror anthologies that I collect. I said that I really enjoy those books, but that I no longer read the horror stories. That led to explaining why, and as I finished what seemed like the vomiting up of how my best friend was murdered, I thought, “Shit. That was WAY too much information, Genni. Shut up.” I wasn’t sure–who doesn’t look shocked to hear that such a thing has happened? How would I feel if she told me something similar? I wouldn’t be offended, I would be sad for that person, I wouldn’t think they were weird or needy for explaining something that happened to them. But I left consumed with worry that she might think I was weird, or needy, or strange.

Conversations with people I am closer to also seem strewn with hidden mines, and I am sure that I am stepping on them throughout. I hang up the phone or leave a conversation thinking, “I should have said that instead, or, that was stupid, crap, that wasn’t what I meant, either, geez, they must think I’ve lost it.” I suspect that this comes from work I am doing on relationships, on re-defining myself. I am typically a person who keeps their opinion to themselves and doesn’t presume to judge. Now I am trying to find a balance where I don’t feel I am repressed, so perhaps that’s why I am nervous about what I say and declare in conversation. It’s hard to free myself from the yoke that others impose on me, and the sensation of free-fall is disorienting.

***

Saturday, July 12, was the anniversary of when sgt. gennimcmahon and I met and began this love affair that has lasted for twelve years. In the strange date coincidence that has been a big part of our relationship, it also would have been John Kuca Jr.’s 40th birthday. I note that and add that I have no idea what it means that I note it, except that it reminds me of the tremendous tragedy that is such a part of my life now. I am still so angry at how easily he manipulated me and others around him, and shocked by how close I was to what happened while not realizing it until it was too late. I don’t ask myself why I didn’t see it because I understand that part, but I do wonder and wonder why didn’t -Ray tell me how bad things were with him? Why was she so determined to keep the state of her marriage a secret? And why from me? Of course I am sure that even if she had to pretend to the rest of the world, she didn’t need to pretend to me. Yet I also know that had she intimated what her reality was truly like, I would have been most likely to have acted–it would have forced a decision that she clearly wasn’t able to face.

And then the other side of that day–twelve years with sgt gennimcmahon. I marvel at such a length of time, and that I am still quite interested in him, in where our lives will go together, in what we will have made in another twelve years’ time. My first marriage lasted less than two years, my longest relationships prior lasted for fractured four year periods. I will never be one of those who claim a perfect marriage, or suggest that true love means everything is easy. People are damn annoying and it’s hard to live with them. But it’s like anything that is really hard work in that it’s got the biggest rewards for staying the course.

***

Yesterday, July 13, my father would have been 63 years old. He died exactly 8 1/2 years ago on January 13, 2000 (on sgt gennimcmahon’s birthday—see what I mean about weird dates with us?). I wonder what he would think this year? His father died, and I did not attend his funeral or feel any deep need to reconnect with that side of my family. There is so much he has missed, and so many times that I have missed him. My decision to leave real estate nearly three years ago came about after attending a little craft fair and realizing that my dad would’ve been much happier had he followed his creative muse. Coupled with the fact that when he finally did determine and pursue what he really wanted to do (be a nurse, he was a people person) it turned out he only had a few years left to live, I decided that life is too short to waste in a job that you hate. So here I am, hawking the wares at craft fairs and the like, and I know my dad would love that. He is still a presence, even if he is also gone.

***

That catches us up for the most part. I am trying to list bags everyday on etsy, so visit my shop if you are in need of a little fun to carry about. I am on a deadline for naked raku that will be part of the very first show in a new gallery in Ipswitch, Boston, and my neck is killing me from bending over pottery for two hours every evening. I’m definitely doing what I want to do—I spend all day each day being creative, and my only regret is that I can’t work faster and more. Sgt. gennimcmahon and I are talking about committing to this house we hate and remodeling with the goal of making it either saleable or worth living in within two or so years. It’s hard to even clean a house that grates on my nerves at every turn, and once the diaster next door moved in, we sort of went into a state of shock. We’ve decided that we will outlast Crae Z. and her madness, and if we make this house nice enough, we might even get to where we don’t notice her. Think “secure compound” or “fortress” or “Yes, those are real alligators in the moat, so fuck off.”

Sometimes it IS Fun to be a Mommy…

The smallest of the fries on the way to day camp yesterday:

SoF: Mom?

Me: Yes, sweetie?

SoF: What is this word they keep saying on the radio and TV that I don’t know what it means?

Me: What word is that?

SoF: Uh, Rockobama?

Me: A wrestler, sweetie, from WWF.

SoF: Oh. Cool. Can we meet him?

It’s MeMe Friday

Okay, Ilyka tagged me and I’m coming up with that (Kevin, I am working on your infinitely more complicated tag as well, so this one can be an appetizer) and while I was sitting here not working on purses, I happened on Diary of an Anxious Black Woman and decided that what she is up to looked like fun. So, first, for Ilyka, here are the instructions for the mess she got me into:

List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring summer. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

I don’t tag people much ’cause I don’t know anybody, but if you would like to play along you can leave your seven in comments.

Mine:

1. MIKA Love Today. I could listen to this fifteen times an hour and not get tired of it.

2. Everclear Thrift Store Chair. Possibly the best song they ever recorded.

3. Nelly Furtado I’m Like a Bird. This is a total guilty pleasure, but I love her voice.

4. Tori Amos Ireland. There isn’t a bad song on the whole Beekeeper CD.

5. Plain White Ts Hey There Delilah. Did I already use my guilty pleasure card?

6. Jah Wobbles featuring Sinead O’Connor Visions of You.

7. Missy Elliot Work It. Uncensored version, naturally.

Okay, check that off the list, move to the one I stole from Diary of an Anxious Black Woman:

This really appealed to me on a variety of levels, and now I’m really craving some soft-shell crab sushi. Mmmmm…..

Okay, here’s how this works:

rules:

A. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
B. Pick an image, using only the first page.
C. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s mosaic maker.

These are the questions:

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. What is your favorite drink?
7. What is your dream vacation?
8. What is your favorite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One Word to describe you.
12. Your flickr name. Because I blog under my real name without spaces, it didn’t work, and after trying about thirty ideas I went with “green gypsy” because I was tired of thinking about it and it relates to the costume I’m creating for the local Renaissance Faire in the Fall.

That one was excellent fun, I have to say, and I could waste more than an hour on it, but that’s not making me any money. If you do one and don’t have a blog, upload it to flickr and link in comments.

It Always Has to be Complicated

Loyal readers noticed that for a day or so this week the blog suddenly went away, requiring a password and a wordpress account, a pound of flesh and a promise to never, ever send me your first born (that last bit is still firmly in place, so go un-tape the priority mail box and let junior out, please). That came about because someone whom I had asked to respect my privacy where my blog was concerned chose to disregard that request, read it, and was unhappy with what they found. So I shut the whole mess down to give myself some time to think about it.

While I’ve never said so publicly, I’ve silently agreed with criticisms leveled against those bloggers whose families are fodder for their blogs and who have therefore created a sort of product out of their children/marriage/relationships that means any interaction must be viewed as potential material to bring in the cash. I’m uncomfortable with that. In a way, I fear that for those who are truly earning a living as a blogger, it’s kind of like the grandparent who spends every family gathering obsessively photographing or filming it. They’ve isolated themselves behind an observational lens that separates them from the experience their family is having because they are looking through the camera, thinking about lighting and focus and how to compose a good shot. The same is true of blogging–when every interaction with your spouse, every cute thing your kids says, every moment must be viewed through the lens of the internet and how to best capture it for a post, you lose a connection to yourself.

It isn’t simple. The grandpa with the camera loves his grandkids and wants to capture every moment. The mommy blogger with the precious two year old who refuses to potty train loves her kid and wants to share the ups and downs with a larger community. Sometimes the greatest infusion of encouragement comes from saying, “Wow, I’m going through X with my kid/husband/parent and I don’t know what to do” and having someone comment that they’ve gone through the same thing, here’s what worked for them. The balancing act of blogging happens at the intersection of where blogging is good for the blogger vs. unfair to the blogged about.

I don’t blog anonymously, but I don’t include the names of my family or friends beyond what they leave in comments. During a period of time of great strife in my household, I have blogged about what kid A or kid B is up to in terms of how I am feeling and what I am going through. It was called to my attention that this wasn’t okay with the person(s) being blogged about, so I have removed some content because I agree, it might suck to find out your mom/wife/friend is blogging about you. Yet, on the other hand, where do my rights as a person who needs to talk about what I’m going through come in? That’s an easy question to answer until you add “on the internet” or “in a public, open access forum”. And if I decide that my rights don’t extend to discussing specifics of what Kid A or Kid B did or said this week or what issues I’m having in my marriage or how crazy my or someone else’s mother drives me, then does my blog cease to have any value? I would be bored by purses, dog pictures and artwork, both as a blogger and as reader.

 Off the top of my head, I can make a list of people I’d prefer didn’t read my blog because I am pretty sure they’d be hurt or angry: my mother, my grandmother, my inlaws, my employers, my husband’s employer, the IOGG, the drunk biologist, the Event, Still Water, etc. It would be uncomfortable at BEST.

So, that leaves me looking at my freshly sanitized blog and wondering if this is maybe not such a good idea. If maybe it’s time to rejoin the world of the Not-Internet and keep a diary if I want to write about myself. I mean, I could say that in terms of the person who read this blog, FINE, I won’t blog about YOU, but that’s not really the issue. The issue is whether or not I can write a letter to the Whole World about anyone I want. Were I to go off and start a completely anonymous blog, I’d be writing to myself and no one else, since my only web presence to date is under my real name. Right this minute, I have issues with realtionships I’d dearly love to blog about, but I feel I can’t. I’m not sure if it’s the right way to go about sorting out my feelings. I’m not sure that the benefit to me is worth the potential harm to someone else who didn’t give me permission to hang their dirty laundry out on the web, even if it does allow me an avenue by which to sort out my feelings and interact with them more successfully in the end.

 

UPDATE: Or, as someone I pay to advise me pointed out, I am the Mommy, and I make the decisions. So if I say that the blog isn’t someone else’s business and they choose to read it, then reader beware. I’m getting one of those shirts that says “because I’m the Mommy, that’s why” to remind me that I spend way too much time explaining myself. Which doesn’t make the above less relevant or meaningful, it just reminds me about who is in charge around here.

Why My Studio (and the Puppy) is Coated in White Dust

The gallery owner from Montana will arrive at The Event’s studio today (like, right NOW) to decide what naked raku pieces he will be taking to Livingston. He actually saw the work a week or so ago, before I had seen anything fired, and from the smoke The Event is blowing up my ass, he really liked my stuff. I’ve been cranking out pots this week in order that he might have a strong group to choose from. Last Friday I went to The Event’s studio to snap some shots of finished work and see how they came out, but my camera battery claimed exhaustion after three photos.

Anyway, here are two shots I managed before the camera curled up in its beddy-bye basket to make mimis:

  

That second one was my first experiment with shading, which basically means I brush down layers of the glaze that I am etching as I work (It turns into a powder that is finer than dust, and I’m not exaggerating in terms of how much white shit there is on everything in my studio, animate and inanimate alike). I’m really happy with it, and expect that it will soon be on its way to Montana. I will be going to photograph the rest of them tonight (with a well rested and quite refreshed camera) as well as to hear about what was selected and any feedback concerning my work. Given the way things have been going, I really hope it’s positive, glowing feedback.

And Some Perspective

If you had already read the previous post, you might notice now that I edited out some of my more snarky commentary concerning my husband. We had argued yesterday, it wasn’t a good day, but I realize maybe I should be more cautious as to what I say in a public forum. Last night at about 9:20 one of my closest friends, my neighbor, my “spiritual mother” called us. She said, “Genni, I need help” and I was already flying out the door even as I was trying to find out what was wrong. Her partner was unconscious, and sgt gennimcmahon, came right behind me. As I called 911, sgt gennimcmahon started CPR. My friend’s partner had suffered a heart attack about a month ago, but was doing quite well. He was only 66, and although CPR was started within minutes and the EMS response time couldn’t have been faster, his spirit was already gone. After an hour and a half of shocking him, loading medication after medication, the ER doctor told my friend that he had been coded for far too long. We went in and they turned off the machines and we stayed with him until his stubborn body let go at 11:30 pm.

This man, he was a rascal. He was infuriating, egotistical, loud and at the same time funny, generous and often very kind. My favorite memory of him will always be the day the Smallest of the Fries marched up to his house with a plastic sword and this man, he leapt out the door with a colander on his head and his own plastic sword and they battled it out. Not many grown men will do that for a little kid.

Today we will help my friend make calls. They were not married, he was estranged from his family, it will be messy. She is without a job, everything in her life is completely uncertain, and he didn’t get around to drawing up a will to protect her, so there will likely be no benefits for her. It’s a disaster, and in the midst of that, my arguing with sgt gennimcmahon seems pretty meaningless. I was never prouder to be his wife when he unhesitatingly laid that man on the floor and started CPR, apologizing as he did so, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you but the ambulance is on the way, so hang on.”

We’ve had about four hours of sleep, and today I will help my friend make arrangements and calls and all the business of finishing up his affairs as best we can. At some point in the future, sgt gennimcmahon and I will talk about our fight yesterday, but not now–much more important stuff is happening, and reality has pointed out that despite our current woes we know when to set that aside to attend to the immediate, which tells me all I need to know about our marriage today.

The Battered Ego as Contained by an Aging Body

Yeesh. I am not lying when I say that my whores? They have been moaning a lot lately. It’s that joyous late 30s shift as my body struggles to straddle the fence between havin’ babies and shutting down the baby factory. At this point, I pretty much feel that my body is sending the message that I could have more babies, but damn, it wouldn’t be pretty. Which, by the way, is fine—I am firmly out of the baby business. BUT, I am noticing a significant loss of youthfulness. My way of physical sloth is revealing itself as I age. Shit’s sagging around these parts, the hair is gray, the underarms wiggle and waggle disturbingly when I wave (hello or goodbye, it doesn’t matter, and yes, that’s research I’ve engaged in). Suddenly I’m wondering if I shouldn’t start buying clothes in the grown up lady department instead of the juniors. I even ordered a swimsuit from the “swimdress” section of Newport News, and found that unless the “dress” part of the swimdress is brushing my knees, it’s not really helping anything–but damn, the built in “Shape F/X” makes it hard to breathe. (I suspect that all the fat squeezed by the F/X promptly shifts down to my thighs, which, in case anyone from Newport News is reading this, doesn’t seem to much help the self-confidence situation).

I’m aging. I’m having a hard time with a kid. Marriage is hard work.

This past weekend, we went to a big shindig at the home of sgt gennimcmahon’s boss. This boss, he made a lot of money as a financial guy, so he doesn’t really *have* to work. As we stood in the room with the indoor pool (bigger than our house), and his perfectly stunning wife welcomed us in her very short dress that topped her very fabulous legs (no children, over 40, breast cancer survivor–in the way they might make a Breast Cancer Barbie) I felt even more goofy that I had after the 17,000 outfits I had tried on prior to arriving and thanked the good dog that I hadn’t gone with the shorter skirt. After all, my streaky fake baked “natural glow” (natural only in the way that, say, jaundice is natural) and calloused feet and wide ass were plenty to contend with under normal circumstances. It was not a relaxing sort of party, because what with the dazzling wealth and the open bar and the band and, yeah, the pool (from which one could watch the horses), it included a veritable small town Who’s Who. Sgt gennimcmahon is a civil servant, so when the grossly obese politician hugs me and says, “Yer mah buddy, arencha dear?” I have to smile and say yes. I have to nod and be polite about the troubles some developer’s very decorative wife is having with finding a good, private, Christian school.

It’s not fun in that way that fun is usually fun.

As it turned out, The Event and Still Water were there, which was lovely, they were convincing a couple we know to come see some of my pottery at The Event’s studio. This couple is one that I would swear on a stack of bibles is married so that no one need question their straightness when, seriously, these two people are NOT gettin’ busy unless he’s pretending to be even more effeminite to her Butch. We went to a party at their home once and since then, she’s managed to snub me or “forget” who I am half a dozen times. We will pretend that she is just that intimidated by me. I had even complimented her on her Spam earrings (there’s a museum and they sell jewelry, who knew?) at her party, and she doesn’t know that I spent part of the time in the kitchen with a tiny crab leg hanging out of my mouth because I was intimidated by the tiny crab leg appetizers. When The Event brought us together she had to cover her snobbery (although women in Talbot’s “comfort” clothes, give me a break, snobbery is your only defense when you’re wearing pastel plaid campshirts and coordinating melon pedal pushers) by saying, “You change your hair so much that I just never recognize you–but of course your tattoo is how I know it’s you!” Whoops, just gave yourself away, sister, since the tattoo is always with me–not like I can leave IT at home.

The Event has been on this tear that Still Water wants to give me drawing lessons, which I had ignored largely because The Event, he’s excitable, and Dude, I can draw already, okay? It didn’t occur to me that at this party, that subject might come up again. Ah, but it did, and it was Still Water who asked if I wanted lessons, and I said, well, you know…..and she said that she really thinks I have talent, but I could really go a lot further with better drawings skills….Or, was I happy with my work as is? To which I said that of course one is never entirely finished learning, so, well, unless I’m dead I’m not figuring I’ve reached my zenith or anything, and somehow now I’m going to have some lessons.

That this wounds my ego is strictly, STRICTLY my problem. Because I am speaking truly when I say that I could always learn more, I could always get better. I think that this is being offered to me because they see talent, they wish to foster talent, and they think they can help. It’s just, you know, I’d really like to be the sort of fantastic, amazing talent who is already drawing rings (perfectly shaded and balanced) around everyone else in the world. In which case, of course, I wouldn’t be making pots for craft fairs, now would I? I certainly wouldn’t be making purses. I have, often, wished I had stronger technical skills, that when I wanted to draw something I just could–that the drawing of something wouldn’t be the hardest and most consuming part of the process and that I would end up with something that was just like I wanted it, not an approximation. So, I can suck it up and take drawing lessons and keep my fragile ego out of it.

It will come as a shock to no one, I hope, that I am human. After the disaster with that wretched gallery owner, I was delighted to find that I didn’t take it at all personally. I’ve got plans for three shows in the fall, all of whom are juried, and I’ve been confident that acceptance to them is a non-issue. Two of them were suggested to me by The Event, and I’ve been accepted to the least discriminating of those already. The other was a show in El Paso, and I paid a measly five bucks to submit three images to the jury. I was surprised, then, to find that they had rejected me via a letter that arrived today. As I was pondering that, The Event called, asking if I’d gotten my letter, how we needed to decide where to put our booths, and I said, well, see, they shot me down. To his credit, The Event was shocked. He apologized for getting in when I did not, and came over to give me a pep talk. I realize that there are plenty of reasons, not related to my work, as to why they didn’t take me. Somebody’s BFF might make purses from the asses of used jeans, and so they didn’t want to lose all their business to me. Or, I might be so fucking talented that I’ll make everyone else there look bad, right?

But it all just leaves me feeling like shit. The hard stuff that is happening right now–parenting challenges, marital challenges, therapy and self-improvement–that’s plenty. When the things I usually fall back on (”I’m a good artist” “I’m a fantastic purse maker” “I have mad sewing skills” “I’m attractive and youthful looking” “I’m not a Freak”) start to shift on me, damn.  I don’t need a letter telling me they don’t want my stinkin’ purses. I don’t need reminding that I could draw better.

The world doesn’t really care what we feel up for, though, so this is a point where I need to learn how to manage my ego so that I can be more resilient. Resilience is something I’m going to need a lot of, especially since there is still the really seriously juried show to apply to, and I’m going to be a parent for the rest of the forseeable future, and I would like to remain married. 

Team Kennel Cough Kicks Tail

Despite her pensive expression, Trixie is actually happy to know that two of her three new dog family are coughing until they throw up. This confirms that Team Kennel Cough has succeeded, and she will be just fine. If she weren’t a dog who doesn’t speak English, I’d say she is reflecting on the fact that just two days after she came home, the shelter euthanized her entire litter.

Trixie got lucky, as did we—this is a smart, easy to train dog. We’ve had her just over a week and despite her illness, she is sometimes going outside, by herself, to use the facilities. She sits, we’re about halfway there on “lay down” and last night she put herself to bed. Seriously, she walked right into her crate and laid down. The night before, in an unbearably cute moment, she climbed into a laundry basket full of dirty clothes, made a nest, and proposed that she sleep there for the night. We compromised and put some laundry in her crate for her to snuggle with.

Thanks for all the good wishes. Maybe we should set up a paid hotline for other puppy rescuers. We could have Team Kennel Cough, Team We Caught the Parvo Early and Team Worms. Think we’d make any money?

 

UPDATE: Trixie returned to the vet today, where we were told that Yes, she looks great, Yes, it’s good that the other dogs are sick, but No, we cannot entirely rule out Distemper as of yet. We’re 80-90% sure that we’re okay, but until a few months (yes, MONTHS) go by, there will be a small, malingering doubt loitering about the back of our minds. But we pay that no mind I tell you! Trixie has gained weight, she’s 4 months old, not 2 months old, and she’s good as gold. So sayeth I. Just, you know, cross your little toe or something.