Niff.Dot

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Working on a painting that is not…well, working.

I hate it when that happens. I usually have to step back from it a while otherwise I end up over-working it which usually results in the piece looking muddled and crap-esque.

What’s worse is that this painting is a commission so I have a deadline which invariably works its way into my painting-psyche and in essence prevents me from achieving my goal of painting perfection.

I am making this way more complicated than it needs to be.

So, I shall submit some random B.S. here as to take my mind off of painting and more on typing in hopes that by using separate parts of my brain might assist me in this process.

So, some thoughts that have crossed my mind as of late:

1. I need to make time to get the fluids on my jeep checked.
2. I need to get those damn paintings done. No, wait…that’s counter-productive.
3. I should probably get my hair trimmed. It’s reached the middle of my back and that’s way too long for someone going on thirty.
4. Damn, I’m going to be thirty.
5. Will Smith is hot.
6. I think I’d like to learn Latin.
7. “Lost” is the coolest show on TV since “The X-Files”.
8. Oh! “Lost” is on tomorrow!
9. Why do I have a stomachache?
10. I think the dogs need to go out.

Okay. Time to get back to this thing. I need to get proportion and value back on track here. Wish me luck.

Over and Out.

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I’ma jus’ gonna hang upside-down offtha couch all evening. Anything that does not require the use of my feet.

Feet are pretty pissed off. So they’re out.

Knee’s not too happy either. Tripped over a parking block walking up from the employee lot and tanked it. Fortunately the car I clung to in order to break my fall did not have a car alarm, otherwise it may have raised some eyebrows with the valet attendants. Unfortunately, the fall was not broken, nor was my knee, however, a rather impressive bruise ensued:

I kick ass with injuries. Grew up somewhat of a tomboy.

Arm went through a glass door when I was seven, scars and stitches aplenty.

Impaled myself on a picket fence when I was eight, so the back of my left upper thigh is beautifully mangled. Little bastard next door was chasing me, so I assign the blame to him.

Hit a dog on my bike when I was fifteen, knocking off my two front teeth and chipping off a chunk of my kneecap which required surgery to repair. Serious road rash down the center of my face, which can be catastrophic to a girl in high school.

Broke my foot, but that was covered in a previous blog.

Sliced my leg open on the handle of a printing press in my college printmaking class, requiring (another) tetanus shot.

Sliced my fingertip off whilst slicing oranges.

More concussions than I care to count.

My husband says I am a medically high maintenance individual. And exceptionally clumsy.

I prefer to be called a bad-ass.

Voulez-voulez-vous bad-ass

>Ridin’ along in my automobile
My baby beside me at the wheel
I stole a kiss at the turn of a mile
My curiosity runnin’ wild

Cruisin’ and playin’ the radio
With no particular place to go.

Ridin’ along in my automobile
I’m anxious to tell her the way I feel,
So I told her softly and sincere,
And she leaned and whispered in my ear
Cuddlin’ more and drivin’ slow,
With no particular place to go.

No particular place to go,
So we parked way out on the Kokomo
The night was young and the moon was bold
So we both decided to take a stroll
Can you imagine the way I felt?
I couldn’t unfasten her safety belt!

Ridin’ along in my calaboose
Still tryin’ to get her belt unloose
All the way home I held a grudge,
But the safety belt, it wouldn’t budge

Cruisin’ and playin’ the radio
With no particular place to go.

>
So.

Here’s the thing:

This dude in Idaho claims that Katrina was in fact the doing of Japanese gangsters known as the Yakuza.

Yep. Apparently, the Japanese, still harboring a bit of resentment over Hiroshima, hooked up with the Russians and acquired this electromagnetic-generator-ground-based-microwave-transmitter thing that is alleged to crate hellish weather systems at the touch of a button in specific locations selected by the user.

Apparently the Russians invented the storm-creating technology back in 1976 and sold it to others in the late 1980s, and is now the property of the Yakuza.

Ah.

(Warning: Tangent)

Damn…I slept too long. Aimed for a post-work-30-minute-catnap that turned in to a 2.5 hour snooze that was finally disrupted by my dogs realizing that it was indeed dinnertime and that I had slept quite long enough.

They are in fact correct, but I will not let them know this.

(Tangent Completed.)

So thanks to this new information we have enough intelligence to know that if there is another hurricane on the gulf coast, it will not be Sue or Amy or Bobbagadoosh…it will be…

(suspenseful pause…)

Hurricane Yakuza.

The name will drive fear into the hearts of millions.

You have been warned.

Voulez-voulez-vous Yakuza.

Postscript: If this Yakuza theory turns out to be indeed accurate, I will feel like a complete asshole, and will promptly submit a retraction-blog.

>I am in distress. I am flabbergasted. I am…dismayed.

Granted, since I do work in a restaurant, I have come to expect a certain level of ignorance in my co-workers; being the only one employed there with a college degree (art, hence the restaurant job, but still…), or even a high school diploma, I realize that some topics of conversation are well beyond their realm of knowledge.

But this was catastrophic.

Out of 5 co-workers this morning, ranging in ages from 19 to 45, not one of them had the slightest idea who Robert E. Lee was.

Not one.

I’m not expecting everyone to like him, nor agree with his cause, but acknowledgement of his existence would have sufficed.

Dear God.

My brain is having difficulty processing this.

Not one knew of “Stonewall” Jackson, Jefferson Davis (Thanks to the penny they had some vague idea who Abraham Lincoln was…) Ulysses S. Grant…nada.

As I said…distress.

I am finding myself developing a slight sense of elitism in my work environment. This is not a characteristic I wish to encourage. I do not find it to be a positive aspect of human nature. It is arrogant, presumptive, and unappealing.

I find it difficult to subdue.

I am going to Hades.

Voulez-voulez-vous Hades.

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I got a new baggy long-sleeved white Reebok shirt. I like long-sleeved white Reebok shirts. Actually, they don’t necessarily have to be Reebok. I like those athletic-baggy-breathable-non-100% cotton chingaleros that don’t shrink when you wash them.

Men’s clothes rock. They’re comfortable. An aspect that seems to be unimportant in women’s fashions. Women’s clothes suck. I mean, I own some dresses and skirts and a couple of (gasp!) pink sweaters, but for the most part, when I’m at home, the gym, or going to the grocery store, men’s clothes is where it’s at.

Granted, I do not wear men’s jeans…with my small waist and ample hips, it’s just not a possibility. But I’ll slip on my husband’s sweat pants faster than a mo-fo. Commando. A bit of information he oftentimes is not too happy about. (I mistakenly thought he’d find it sex-aaay. Humph. Men.

Now, I know most men love those chicks who wear the ass-crack jeans and midriff shirts. That’s their prerogative. But seriously, there are so many chicks that wear them who should NOT wear them. I work in a four-star restaurant and you wouldn’t believe how many chicks not only come dressed in jeans, but jeans fitting so that you can see their cellulite peeking through the back of the suede-covered chairs. And I have to walk back-and-forth through the dining room with these chunky little eyesores all over the damn place. Come on, guys…that is SO not hot.

I’m just glad I’m married. When I was 20, jeans still had a waist and you could get a decent bra for $10. Now the jeans hang off yer ass and the bras are $40 apiece and must come from Victoria’s Secret. Fortunately, if I want to make my husband chase me into the bedroom, all I gotta do is strip nekkid, which costs nuthin’. And that’s not to say I let myself go just because I’m married…I mean, I take care of my skin, eat healthily, love the Chappelle show and pro basketball…I just find so many non-superficial aspects of our relationship so much more appealing than thongs and belly-chains.

And honestly, me and women my age (30) are just way too old for that shit. Come on. Grow up already.

Besides…I enjoy the fact that I am 5’11” with cute moderately-sized guns and could bench press two of these uber-waifs then hurl them down a flight of stairs. Chicks with priorities that fucked up need to have their asses kicked.

Of course you primordial catfight-loving men would love to attribute this to jealousy. Bah. I am so much more kick-ass than chicks who invest their time in shopping and tanning salons. Actually, in some miniscule way, I pity them. Being that involved with your appearance has to be exhausting. And the constant competition that ensues in public venues can’t possibly be good for your self-esteem. What is going to happen to these girls in fifteen years? (shudder).

I am fundamentally different than most women even my age. I go to sporting events with my husband and actually watch the game, drink beer and have garlic fries. I kick ass at Grand Theft Auto and Unreal Tournament. I have a table and miter saw in my studio, and handle all the home repairs as my husband isn’t what I’d exactly call tool-savvy. A lot of the women I know that are my age are into velour jogging suits and Tommy Hilfiger tennies for their toddlers, play dates and competing with other soccer moms via their collection of Tiffany jewelry and Louis Vuitton handbags. Not I. I have fun with my life. I carry a CamelBack backpack. I have no Tiffany jewelry. I compete with no one – I don’t need to. I have a fantastic marriage, a great family, awesome dogs, talent, a good, well-paying job, intelligence, and legs that can squat-press 250 lbs. Like I said, I kick ass.

Anyway, that’s enough. This is bordering on being so long as to become boring.

Vouolez-voulez-vous kick-ass

>Ooh la la.

What the hell am I going to write about here? Bollocks.

I suppose I could just do the usual, “so, today I…”

I went to work. I came home. I went to the gym. Came home again. Watched “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” and ate a nectarine. And some sushi. Bryan came home, hugs and kisses. Popped chicken in oven for Bry. Fed and walked the dogs. Took a bath. Now here I sit.

(sigh).

Damn, I suck. This is a “why bother” entry.

Oh! Wine! I cracked open my Syrah! Que Syrah Syrah…

You know what? Screw y’all. I ain’t writing anything today. Whaddya think o’ that?

voulez-voulez-vous why bother.

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I am waiting.

Patiently.

Who am I kidding…I have no patience.

whenever I order anything off the net I find myself going mad waiting for it to arrive. Little Miss Instant Gratification, that’s me.

In this particular instance I ordered three things; two from Amazon.com and one from a site called JetPens.com.

From Amazon I ordered two books: one called ‘Generations’ and the other is ‘Piece by Piece’, a biography of Tori Amos. The second is pretty self-explanatory, the first, I thought it best to do a little ‘cut and paste’ summary:

Book Description
William Strauss and Neil Howe posit the history of America as a succession of generational biographies, beginning in 1584 and encompassing every-one through the children of today. Their bold theory is that each generation belongs to one of four types, and that these types repeat sequentially in a fixed pattern. The vision of Generations allows us to plot a recurring cycle in American history — a cycle of spiritual awakenings and secular crises — from the founding colonists through the present day and well into this millennium.

There.

So, the third item, the one from the JetPens site, is a set of 8 pens with the finest point to date: 0.18mm. About the width of two human hairs. Came out in Japan…apparently the Japanese have an even larger affinity for fine point pens than I do. I am a self-confessed card-carrying pen junkie. I do not wish to calculate the dollar amount of the pens I’ve had in my possession, past or present. Rapidoliner, Koh-i-noor, Staedtler, Rotring, et-ce-te-ra et-ce-te-ra. I love drawing in ink, hate drawing in pencil. Too fuzzy. For all my pen and ink drawings I do the preliminary sketch ONLY with my Koh-i-noor Rapidomatic mechanical drafting pencil, 0.5mm.

(I just had a flash to Forrest Gump giving his narrative about how much he “loved using his Flex-o-Lite ping pong paddle”).

I find it ironic that I can spend hours with a 0.25mm pen drawing a cathedral in minute detail yet find it insufferable to wait 3 bloody days for my packages to arrive. As does my husband. I puzzle him on many levels. I think I provide interest and amusement in an institution (marriage) which is typically stereotyped by monotony. So he giggles and goes on.

My attention to detail makes it difficult for me to be expressive in my painting. I’m so busy trying to be meticulous that all emotion and expression is lost via a template and ruler. And a small-ass paintbrush. That’s why I like painting so much with filberts, flats and brights; painting on the edge gives much more precision than the tip of a round. (My apologies to those who passed up art class in high school and have no idea what I’m talking about. Too bad for you).

Stop, children…what’s that sound…everybody look what’s goin’ down…

Voulez-voulez-vous goin’ down.

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24 hours later and I’m still reeling. I got to see Tori Amos. Live. In concert. Last night. She was phenomenal, as I knew she would be. It was surreal; listening to someone’s music for years and watching every TV appearance does not even hold a candle to seeing them in person. It was overwhelming. (To understand why I sound so creepy at this point, please see post from Thursday, 09/01). She started out with a couple songs from her latest album, and my composure remained intact. But when I heard the opening notes for “Crucify”, it was all over. I lost it. I was sobbing like a 2 year-old girl. (sigh). I was one of those lunatic fans you see at concerts and you do the “cocked-eyebrow-out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye-look” and inch a little closer to your companion as you believe in safety in numbers. Her piano playing was brilliant; she would have one hand on her Bosendorfer piano and the other on a Hammond organ and sitting betwixt them would belt out her amazing lyrics with nary a falter. The girl can multitask. The most humorous part of the show was when she did a Tori-esque rendition of Anita Ward’s “Ring my Bell”. Even my husband (such a good sport! I love him for that…) couldn’t help but smile at that one. So amidst glasses of Riesling and Naiah and I melting into big puddles of fan-goo the night was absolutely fantastic. The men-folk did very well and enjoyed their merlot and shop-talk, though Bryan was more than a tad disappointed that Cornflake Girl was not in the lineup. So since I am a kick-ass wife I played it for him on the car ride home.

I think he is now officially Tori-ed out.

I will now sign off as I only got 4 hours of sleep last night and had to go into work at 6 am this morning with a minor hangover. I hereby call dibs on tickets for the next tour. (yet another sigh). Ah, she is my goddess.

Voulez-voulez-vous goddess.

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In the process of cleaning my house I have come to realize that I am something of a pack-rat. This arose thanks to my recent post about nostalgia and I recalled that in my bedroom closet resides a Pound Puppy, a butt-nekkid Cabbage Patch Kid by the name of Marceline Eda, and a set of handmade Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. I have a pair of buckle-shoes that can now house my large toe, and principal awards from the first grade. I have random boxes in closets and cupboards containing report cards, homecoming ribbons, pressed flowers, photographs, birthday cards, school announcements, pictures, and various construction-paper cutouts. All four of my yearbooks and one of my husband’s rest on the bookcase.

I keep these things to remind myself that I am a being of substance, that I have a past that includes elementary school, art classes, playing the recorder, my first boyfriend, Madonna. I have this unfortunate problem which prevents me from remembering events in my life. So many times my husband will ask me, “Remember when I introduced you to…?”

I do not.

I never remember. What I do know is that my first address, which I had until I was 10, was 16025 SE 134th St. Renton, Wa. 98056. I know that when I was 8 my phone number was (206) 255-7057. I do not know who has that number now. Perhaps I should call it and see.

I remember the four base pairs of DNA are adenine, guanine, thymine, and cytosine. I know the quadratic formula, Pythagorean theorem, Kingdom-phylum-class-order-family-genus-species, a cornucopia of architectural terms, French. I know the lyrics to hundreds of songs.

But I cannot recall the inside of the church where I was married, visiting Mount Rushmore, what me and Bryan’s first apartment looked like. Unless I have studied it, committed it to memory, or have a photograph of it, in my brain, it doesn’t exist.

A study concluded that most people with temporal lobe epilepsy (like myself) have memory problems. This fact has helped me in a small way, convincing me that I am not insane. When I was a teenager my parents used to get angry at me when I would forget things, saying that I just didn’t think they were important enough to remember.

They are important. I have boxes and boxes to prove it.

So though I may be the subject of mockery for my sentimental attachments to goofy pieces of my long-ago past, these relics help me to understand that I am not just now; this moment. There were events and happenings before now that were also “me”. I have a tendency to look at my past in the third-person, as if I’m remembering someone else. Despite the mementos, I still have this problem. This makes me feel damaged; I am missing out on my own life.

But through my photos and dozens of journals I have kept since I was 11, I can piece together a life past that helps me understand my life now. My journals help me realize that it is not lost; the words in my own writing help me understand that it is indeed me who is telling the story, and it feels safe. Another reason why family is so important. They are my connection to my past; witnesses to a life that I may not be able to remember.

So now that I realize that I have strayed from a funny story about my butt-nekkid Cabbage Patch and into a reflective insight into my own mental infirmary, I think I shall get back to my cathedral painting and say enough of all this sentimental babble.

Am I not merciful?

Voulez-voulez-vouz merciful.