Niff.Dot

>
Indeed.

So in the course of human events when it becomes necessary to decide upon a “just woke up with a cold” breakfast food, do not opt for Cheerios sans milk. The reason I say this, as well as the reason I know this, is because oftentimes when a cold has made itself known to your immune system, your immune system reacts by way of creating an inhospitable environment for said organism. ergo, a sore throat. Sore throat + unmoistened Cheerios = supreme discomfort.

Hypothesis tested, lesson learned. Noted.

I think soup may be in order for lunch. If I can make it to lunch. I am dying, after all.

Ah. Interesting segway here. Ready? Here goes.

So. Wednesday. Walking to work from the bus stop.

I take the bus to work, and as such I usually have a good 3/4-mile culmulative trek from my front porch to my desk. More often than not this is a nice, pleasant peaceful stroll through some of the more eccentric parts of Pioneer Square.

Eccentric can be a rather subjective term.

So. As I said. Wednesday. Walking to work from my bus stop.

As I turn the corner onto second ave. south I feel a tug at my sleeve. I look down, and find myself trapped in some random Japanese-horror flick remake.
Attached to the hand tugging persistently at my sleeve was a ragged-looking old woman, seemingly homeless with thinning hair and – I shit you not – blind in one eye.

Like I said. Japanese-horror flick remake. Right here amidst my Wednesday morning stroll.

The fact that she tugged on my sleeve is not what I found startling. Nor was it the scraggly gray hair, the no-longer functioning right eye. No, it was none of these things which completely jarred me and threw my entire morning into one befuddled turmoil.

It was her words.

As she peered up at me, with her one good eye, she rasped at me out of the corner of her gnarled lips, drooling slightly as she spoke…

“You’d do well to make your peaces, missy…”

side note: what the $@$%&*!@???

I’m sure the confusion registered completely on my face as she continued:

“I see a curse…over your head…”

Ahhh…hmm. Yes. You know, I was just thinking that same thing. Thanks for clarifying that for me.

When something like that happens to you before your day has even begun, it tends to set a tone, despite your best efforts…

It was at this point when Dan reminded me that he had experienced a rather odd feeling on the previous Monday that something unpleasant was going to occur to someone in his life. Brilliant. I had forgotten about that, most likely because I had brushed it off as I believe not in such things.

And I still don’t.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must call my mother and apologize for tormenting her when I was a teenager.

Voulez-voulez-vous karma.

>Didn’t ya know?

At least Zoe thinks so.

Why is it so ruddy hot? Didn’t the meteorological forces that be get the memo that this is the Pacific Northwest and we weren’t meant to reach temperatures of 98 degrees, even if it is July? Perhaps they were busy with the new cover sheets on their TPS reports.

Being a transplanted Texan, the heat does not bother me as much as some. It is rather amusing watching these PacNW-ers mope around, lethargic and morose, bemoaning to all those who will listen about the oppressive heat. You should try going to college in San Antonio while it’s 102 outside and your black Jeep Cherokee with tinted windows has been sitting in the sun for 10-odd hours absorbing heat like a tin can. I had to buy a steering wheel cover to shield my hands from the possibility of second-degree burns. Then, perhaps, complaining is warranted.

Yet here I sit, whining about the fact that my hair won’t behave in this weather. What a bullshit hypocrite am I. Eh. My blog, my double standard.

Of course, I venture to say the reason so many PacNW-ers complain about the ruddy heat is in part due to the fact that most residences in Seattle do not come equipped with air conditioners. In Texas, the Port-a-Potties have a/c. Perhaps I should cut them some slack. The people, not the Port-a-Potties. Of course, being a Port-a-Potty has it’s downsides…I won’t go into that now, however. Though I would find it amusing.

Ah, Madison has come in to say hello. Madison is a cat who enjoys sleeping, chasing bugs and humping door frames. I won’t go into that now, however.

I now have things to do which have nothing to do with my blog. I am trying to catch up, I promise. But I won’t go into that now.

Voulez-voulez-vous procrastination is the key to getting nothing done.

>Having several tumultuous things happening in my life all at once as of late, I have been rather piss-poor at keeping up with my blog-reading. And writing. But that’s none of your business.

So last week I decided to see just what was happening in the blogosphere, and learned of Magazine Man’s recent Blaze

incident. I felt for he and his family, having two dogs myself that I also consider to be part of my family, and felt thankful that both were home and safe.
Until this morning.
I receive a panic-stricken call from my husband.
“Duke…he…got out…can’t…find…him…helpmehelpmehelpme!!!!”

Shit.

Duke has…issues. I have questioned his sanity before. He is a beagle. Four years old. We acquired duke three years ago next month when we still had my boxer, Kaia, who passed a month later after his acquisition due to kidney failure, and Duke was a true comfort. Actually, comfort is the wrong word. Distraction would be more accurate.
Duke was a rescue dog. He had been removed from a home due to abuse and placed in foster care, which is where we found him. He was sweet, and cute, and had us completely snowed. He knew the score. We did not, and thusly took him home.

I’m not how sure of this you are, but beagles tend to be…loud.
And hyper.
And troublesome.
And obnoxious…destructive…mischevious.

And as such, Duke qualifies. For the ruddy honors program at that. He’s an overachiever.
And a raging cleptomaniac. Preferably when it comes to bright yellow tennis balls. At the dog park. This makes the Labs very put-out.

But I digress.

Hours are spent searching for my wayward canine. The house sits on a sort of greenbelt, which basically translates into a 5-acre or so forest with lost of trees and underbrush, perfect for a 13-inch beagle to get lost in. Which he did. I remained hopeful.

We gave it the ole college try, interrogating neighbors and passers-by, informing them that yes, he was tagged and microchipped and would they be so kind as to call blah blah blah. Everyone seemed eager and willing to help, and thusly restoring my faith in humanity. Of course, they hadn’t met duke yet, so their attempted philanthropy was completely objective. Duke has a way of changing people’s minds.

After several hours of fruitless searching, we, heartbroken, decided to start over in the morning.

This is where Duke’s cleptomania came in rather handy.

I receive a call at work the next day from Bryan, who informs me that he had gotten a call from a neighbor a couple of doors down who knew of our plight and as such called us immediately when he spotted our vagabond dog. Although it wasn’t so much of a spot as it was a…blur. You see, this neighbor of ours was playing with his children in their front yard. With…give ya three guesses…

Bright yellow tennis balls.

In the midst of a lofty toss to his daughter, our neighbor sees a smallish, black, brown, and white mass dart out of the woods, abscond with the ball mid-throw, do a pretty impressive U-turn, and stand staring at them, tail wagging furiously, with a “what?” expression on his face.

So needless to say we now have Duke back. I did miss the little bastard.

So I will try and write more. I’ve noted that though I may not have many comments posted on my blog, I sure do get a lot of people bitching at me that I don’t blog enough. Oh, the pressure!!!

My life is settling a bit so I promise I will work on it. I have pieces due for a cafe show for my paintings that I’m working on, a job interview on Friday, and a huge life altering situation that I am not going to go into on my blog, because, again, it’s none of your business. Ha.

Voulez-voulez-vous _______.

>

I just watered my bamboo. It seems grateful.

I like my bamboo. It and I have been in a relationship for over a year. We don’t communicate too well verbally; I consider it more of a mental and emotional co-existence.

It is also grateful that I haven’t killed it off yet. I think it may have witnessed the African Violet’s demise. I’ve tried to reassure it that due to it’s low maintenance requirements it was in no real danger, but I am afraid my assurances of health and longevity are unconvincing.

So I shall tend it and care for it and ensure it’s survival, for I am fond of my bamboo as I feel it adds a certain aesthetic to my desktop environment.

In the meantime I will consider the possibility that my emotional well-being may in fact hinge on the availability of popsicles and as such, due to a lack of supply, I teeter on the edge of insanity.

I fear the worst.

If anyone has any words of advice or consolation I welcome them in abundance.

So now I shall spend the evening with my mournful bamboo suffering through the predictable DT’s of withdrawal. The tremors have ensued and I eagerly await the hallucinations associated with the discontinuation of frozen concoctions.

Voulez-voulez-vous frozen concoctions.

>Into the pool that is the blogsphere.

Still a little cold, but yet…not…unbearable.

Perhaps I’ll just wade for a bit.

All of my belongings are now in my new home. It’s fabulous, though in various stages of disarray. I would like to consider myself content. I would like to say I have closure. However….

Deep in the foothills of the Snoqualmie valley…

A sinister evil lies, waiting…

For my return.

The evil known as…

“The pathetic-looking disaster you left in your old apartment that you now have to clean up, you slovenly unkempt folk!”

Bollocks. Wish I could just sweet-talk someone into cleaning it for me. Thanks to my moving expenses, I can’t afford to pay someone. If only I could coast through life on nothing more than my wit and charm. Alas, what a fickle world.

There is, however, another issue at hand. An issue that reaches far beyond just soap scum and toilet rings. An issue that I myself was afflicted with some time ago that now, thanks to my recent home purchase, has the potential to resurface. An issue that makes the cleaning segment of our transition seem like getting a manicure.

Yes, I am speaking of…

(dramatic pause…)

The Paint Creep.

Dum dum DUMMMMMM!!!!

There is a bit of history here. So pull up a chair, grab some cocoa and a spatula, and prepare to be completely underwhelmed.

Bryan used to travel for his job. A lot. Which was fine, except…I should not be left unattended for too long. Not because I am clingy and emotionally needy, but because I tend to engage in activities that, though not considered unacceptable or taboo, I would not normally undertake in completely supervised situations.

Thus I speak of the Paint Creep.

Dum dum DUMMMMMM!!!!

The Paint Creep, ladies and gentlemen, starts out innocently enough. An accent wall, nothing more, nothing less. Your stark, sterile, operating-room white walls are suddenly transformed into a warm, cozy environment by one unassuming red wall. Accent wall. Lovely. You are at peace. Life is good.

But no one tells you…oh, no…they don’t dare. They want you to have this life experience all on your own. What they don’t tell you, is accent walls can be like…well, crack. You paint one, it looks nice. Well, if one looks nice, then what about two? Ah, yes. Hunter green. On the opposing wall in the dining room. Splendid. Damn, that felt great. Green. I have accomplished something. I am Martha-fucking-Stewart. I am a god of interior decor. My work is now…complete.

Until your husband is sent to Spokane for 3 weeks on business and you are left sitting alone in your apartment with oodles of time on your hands doing what…?

staring at the walls.

The Paint Creep saga continues.

The green accent wall in the dining room begins to ooze around the corner into the hallway. But oh, it is the loveliest shade of green. Who doesn’t like green? Indeed. What harm can it do? It just compliments my paintings so well. Besides, I’ve still got an entire gallon of this stuff, why let it go to waste?

Ah, yes. Green hallway. Splendid.

I feel I have led into this in such a way as to eliminate the need for elaboration.

As with most experiences in life, the joy is fleeting. Because for some strange reason, the management of my apartment complex is of the opinion that since I felt it was necessary to paint so many damn colored walls in my apartment, that they felt the need to inform me that I’d damned well better paint them back.

Bastards.

So thus I go. The fireplace wall, the dining room wall, the landing and even the damned stairwell. This weekend. This is indeed going to suck. I just want to live in my new studio for a couple days. I’ve been on an artistic hiatus ever since house-hunting began, I am beginning to experience withdrawal. I am in a creative drought. Good thing I can quench my thirst in the blogsphere wading pool.

So now I shall put my water wings away and dive into the kiddy end of the blogsphere until I have finally rid myself of this apartment once and for all. Oh, what a happy day that will be.

Voulez-voulez-vous water-based primer.

Oh, and don’t let me forget to blog next about my new studio. It’s…stellar…

>Coprolite is fossilized dinosaur dung. My universe as a whole is much more complete now that my mental vocabulary has been refreshed by this elusive term. ‘Twas one of those instances where the word is just on the tip of your tongue but to your utter dismay and despair it shies away into the obscure terminology abyss. We get the keys to our house today…’twill all be over soon, then I will slowly begin my “reintegration into the blogsphere” process. It will not be pleasant, but must be done.
That is all.

Voulez-voulez-vous escrow

>Technorati Profile

>I’m not sure if it was in a previous blog, or a conversation, or just a random thought flitting about in my head at one point, but…I owe an apology.

Home Depot is one of my favorite art supply shopping destinations. Lumber, nails, staple guns, paint, brushes…the place is a veritable artists’ utopia. Save for one thing.

The home improvement yuppie shopper.

The Louis-Vuitton clad women in their clickety-click mules shuffling about the paint department, their kids running amok amidst the potted plants. Their pussy-whipped husbands discussing crown molding and lighting fixtures whilst scratching their asses. These materialistic suburbanites mindlessly consuming to make their home the most tricked-out ornate monstrosity in all of their sprawling clear-cut master-planned community. I loathed them. I sent them leering glares as I tried to wedge behind them to get to the Oops! paint section. I hoped they’d all rot in hell.

Today Bryan and I went to Home Depot. I did not go for nails. I did not go for wood glue. Or caulk. Not staples not dropcloths nor lumber.

I went…

(dramatic pause…)

…to price lighting fixtures.

(gasp!)

Indeed.

Thus, I owe an apology. I apologize for not only judging them so harshly, but also I apologize that they also happen to be complete horse’s asses. But that’s another blog altogether.

We don’t close ’till the 15th but I’ve already joined the ranks of these laminate-flooring automatons. Although I feel I should be in a separate branch altogether, as my house is not in a sprawling clear-cut master-planned community. My house was not built in 2005 with automated everything and garden tubs in every bathroom. My house is not a cookie-cutter nightmare.

This is my house. This is my 1968 remodeled rambler with no automatic garage door openers, no automatic sprinkler systems, no jets in the bathtubs. Hell, it doesn’t even have a microwave, which might prove problematic for me as I have no culinary skills whatsoever. My house has amazing landscaping, 3 acres of state-protected forest in its backyard, and is teeming with so much character and personality it makes my skull crack. In a good way. Whatever the hell I mean by that. Makes no sense but yet I keep it going. Should I let it go now? Indeed.

So now I shall direct you
here
to see photos of my new abode, since re-posting them in my blog would be not only redundant but keep me from my hard-earned bath. I’ve been dismantling my studio all day. I’m offending myself.

voulez-voulez-vous mi casa, su casa

>Please understand one thing. Yes, I have been lazy. A tad neglectful perhaps. But I assure you it was for a good cause.

For the first time in my 30+? years, I own (o, co-own…sorry honey…) a house.

<a href="http://www.windermere.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=Listing.ListingDetail&ListingID=7117802
“>Ch-ch-ch-check it out.

I will return with details when I am far less busy and overwhelmed.

nite.

voulez-voulez-vous-mortgage.

>in this life more beautiful than a well-stretched and primed canvas. The well-formed corners, the resonating “thummm” when you tap the center…it just strums the tuning fork in your loins, I tell ya. Shivers down your spine, even.
I have spent the last 2 days on this beast. Assembling the frame, gluing and nailing the corners, then stapling the canvas on two staples one side at a time, which means staple staple, stand up, go to opposite side, squat down, staple staple, stand up, go to the right, squat, staple staple, etc. whilst pulling the canvas as tight as possible over the frame for each staple, which leaves serious chafing and blisters when you are finished. Please keep in mind this canvas is approximately 3.5 X 4.5 feet dimensionally, and the staples are about 3/4″ apart. I will begin to accept your sympathies now.
Once that’s done, the canvas needs to be sprayed with water and allowed to dry two or three times to encourage the canvas to shrink in order to remove any wrinkles or creases that may have occurred. This particular canvas took several times in strategic areas with a water-filled Febreeze bottle and a space heater. I was getting pissed. Bryan knew I was fussing. As a joke, he comes down to my studio, my sacred haven, points and jokingly declares, “hey, ya got some wrinkles!”. I was not amused. I banned him from my studio. He is no longer welcome. But after a few more hours of process, complete and total tautness was achieved. I then told my husband to kiss my ass.

The priming is the last step, and the most time-consuming. The first coat of gesso (basically thin, white paint) goes on (but I use white latex wall paint as it’s more durable and cheaper). Once it dries, it has to be sanded sown with fine-grit sandpaper to remove the little fuzzballs that inevitably appear. Then you put another coat of primer on. Sand. Prime. Sand. Prime. By now the primer should be opaque and smooth enough to work on. If not, it is about this time that you lapse into a catatonic schizophrenia or set your studio on fire. Fortunately for me, neither was necessary this afternoon. But I still have one coat to go. I shall report back tomorrow.

People just don’t appreciate how much labor goes into building your own canvas.

I have found that building my own canvas creates a much stronger emotional attachment to my work. Which also increases my difficulty in parting with them. Which is something I need to work on.
My paintings, all 27 of them, have been occupying the walls of my apartment their entire lives. The only ones viewing them are me, my husband, and the rare guests we occasionally invite over.
For this I have been reprimanded by more than a few.
Apparently my paintings never leaving my home is an insurmountable waste.

So naturally the process of shooing them out the door requires incentive and motivation on my part. I need to have slides taken. I need to send these nonexistent slides out. I need to get my ass in gear. I need to get some freaking self-confidence about my work.

*sigh*

voles-voles-vous introspection.