Some random thoughts over the past couple of weeks.
There was a time when a flu that would let me shed 14 pounds in 5 days would have been cause for celebration and envy. In actuality, it stinks. There is nothing cool about a body that won't do what it is supposed to do.
Snuggled under quilts with a bad movie on TV, ginger ale over ice on the bedside and 2 dogs pressed against you for warmth is not a bad way to get better. Having a sweetheart that runs and fetches anything that he thinks might make you feel better is the sweet icing.
Watching Mom in the hospital has been a revelation about aging. Her skin is baby soft and hairless, her thinking is childlike, her needs are simple and to deny them makes her irritable. We truly do become children again.
Hospitals do not have enough staff. We do not have the best health care in the world. Not by a long shot. Not sure what will happen if we don't take it on.
I've been accepted to every show I entered. I am stunned, grateful and frozen. Where do I start? Aaargh!
I have the best friends in the world. People care about me and my family. They have shown it in so many ways and I am absolutely humbled by it.
It is a joy to know my son and his fiance will be home in a couple of days. I love them and miss them and it is so great to have them in driving distance finally.
I have decided that the new dog is 7 pounds of juvenile delinquent. He can open a child proof cap on a pill bottle. He turns on the computer and watches YouTube.
The library thinks I lost 3 books. They are right here in my special library tote bag. It's been that kind of month.
I need to go to the studio and make stuff.
Wednesday, April 20
Sunday, April 3
dear Allentown Arts Festival-redux
OK, all is forgiven. You found me presentable this year and even gave me the spot I asked for.
What changed this year? Well, just going by the number of shows that have extended their app deadlines and/or notification dates this year, maybe there is a smaller pond from which to fish? Or maybe you just had smarter jurors this time around. Matters not. I have a good show steps from my front door. All is well.
Now, as for Three Rivers Arts Festival in Pittsburgh...what is up with YOU? I applied to your show as a backup to A'town, hoping that if I got a "no" from one I might get a "yes" from the other, rescuing my weekend. I carefully checked the notification dates and "withdraw" dates so that I could avoid throwing booth money at a show I wasn't doing. Your notification date was 3/10. Then it was 3/25. Then it was 4/1. Still nothing. Are you kidding me?
A fellow artist, familiar with the show, says they are still working on booth layout. That makes no sense to me. This show has been going on for decades. Why would you do the booth layout after the jury chose the artists? Wouldn't you have the layout and then place the artists in the existing grid? Makes no sense.
Here's the thing. We all have a season to plan. We cannot plan until you tell us whether or not we have your show. If we don't get the shows we applied to we have to find others. This is how we earn a living, people. Don't play with us!
There is a love/hate relationship between the folks who plan the shows and the ones who exhibit in them. I know we can be a pain. Not following the setup rules, pushing the boundaries of our spots out into the aisles, sending in fuzzy jury images, bouncing checks, complaining about our location, our neighbors, the coffee you provide. But what we need from you is pretty simple. Respect for the fact that while this is a once a year festival for you where you get to wear badges that say you are responsible for this fun event, for us it is a mortgage payment. The word "festival" means little to us. It is a job. Oh, most of us love the job, no question, but that doesn't mean we are immune from the frustrations that come from any job.
So, Pittsburgh, sorry I won't be there in June to try your show and make a stop at Ikea. I'll be in my own neighborhood, saving hotel fees and gas. But I sure wish I knew what was really going on down there. Because that layout excuse makes no sense. I wish you luck.
What changed this year? Well, just going by the number of shows that have extended their app deadlines and/or notification dates this year, maybe there is a smaller pond from which to fish? Or maybe you just had smarter jurors this time around. Matters not. I have a good show steps from my front door. All is well.
Now, as for Three Rivers Arts Festival in Pittsburgh...what is up with YOU? I applied to your show as a backup to A'town, hoping that if I got a "no" from one I might get a "yes" from the other, rescuing my weekend. I carefully checked the notification dates and "withdraw" dates so that I could avoid throwing booth money at a show I wasn't doing. Your notification date was 3/10. Then it was 3/25. Then it was 4/1. Still nothing. Are you kidding me?
A fellow artist, familiar with the show, says they are still working on booth layout. That makes no sense to me. This show has been going on for decades. Why would you do the booth layout after the jury chose the artists? Wouldn't you have the layout and then place the artists in the existing grid? Makes no sense.
Here's the thing. We all have a season to plan. We cannot plan until you tell us whether or not we have your show. If we don't get the shows we applied to we have to find others. This is how we earn a living, people. Don't play with us!
There is a love/hate relationship between the folks who plan the shows and the ones who exhibit in them. I know we can be a pain. Not following the setup rules, pushing the boundaries of our spots out into the aisles, sending in fuzzy jury images, bouncing checks, complaining about our location, our neighbors, the coffee you provide. But what we need from you is pretty simple. Respect for the fact that while this is a once a year festival for you where you get to wear badges that say you are responsible for this fun event, for us it is a mortgage payment. The word "festival" means little to us. It is a job. Oh, most of us love the job, no question, but that doesn't mean we are immune from the frustrations that come from any job.
So, Pittsburgh, sorry I won't be there in June to try your show and make a stop at Ikea. I'll be in my own neighborhood, saving hotel fees and gas. But I sure wish I knew what was really going on down there. Because that layout excuse makes no sense. I wish you luck.
Tuesday, March 29
addicted to hope
Mom is in the hospital again. This time it was almost the end. And she did it to herself because she is an addict.
Don't picture an 88 year old woman sucking on a crack pipe. No, for that we could have found an intervention. Mom is addicted to her mail. She doesn't get a whole lot of "real" mail. A few bills, her bank statement, sales fliers. Those are not her drug of choice. The monkey on her back is sweepstakes. The promise of a check with her name on it.
We started to become aware of this when she would force upon us bags of cheap goods. Pot scrubbers, key chains with lights on them, a talking calculator. Turns out she was ordering them from Publishers Clearing House which, of course, says no purchase necessary, but why would they sell stuff to entrants if it didn't matter? Well, Mom analyzed her odds and decided it was worth 20 bucks in Taiwanese junk craft to up her odds of having the van pull up to her house with that big check and a dozen roses. After perusing her checkbook and finding almost weekly checks written to "PCH", I contacted them and threatened them with a lawsuit if they didn't stop preying on my Mother. Their mailings stopped, but they apparently sold her info to every bottom-feeding profiteer out there because she started becoming a "finalist" in dozens of contests. Daily. All she had to do was send 5/6/20 bucks to "reserve" her finalist spot. She sent them cash because she knew we monitored her checking account.
Mom lives on $1000 a month. Period. And there are low life con artists out there, looking to snag a piece of that. Daily.
Oh, we tried to reason with her, but a creeping case of dementia makes it harder and harder for her to exercise any judgment. Why would they send these to her if it was a lie? These are big companies! No. Mom, these are small cellar dwelling companies with a mailing list of the most vulnerable and gullible and desperate amongst us. Add to them the plethora of "address label" charities that send her the little 5 cents strips with her name and a bunch of tulips on them and ask her for a donation to cover the cost and support the children/the sick/the mission/the American Indians/veterans. She must have thousands of return address labels.
She is also a prime target for Social Security warnings (send us 60 bucks to help us fight for your benefits) and various and sundry other political causes (Obama is stealing your health care and wants to kill you)
My brother, bless him, lives near Mom and goes there every day to check on her and bring in the mail that he patiently goes over with her, piece by piece. She has been known to slip out a particularly glossy and promising "You may be a winner!!!!" envelope and hide it until he leaves, but he's on to her.
Mom's mailbox is at the curb, surrounded by a mound of snow. She has to navigate 4 steep steps and a slippery walk to get there. She promised to never attempt it alone and my brother promised to always make sure her mail was brought in. A few times she called him and said not to bother coming, that she had her mail and he would explode. And make her promise again.
But the idea of being able to gather up the 20 + promises of a grand life that crowd her mailbox daily and go through them alone, without the voice of reason, without the dashing of hope, is too much for an addict to ignore. When Bob called to tell her he was delayed a half hour but would be there soon to get the mail, she saw her chance. She put on her boots and her warm coat, grabbed her cane, and made her way to the curb. She got there, but the snow behind the box stymied her. She put one shaky foot on the mound of snow and reached for the little pull down door and lost her balance, landing hard on the sidewalk and breaking her hip.
Mom has a serious heart condition which makes surgery extremely risky but without it, she would spend her remaining days bedridden and so, as a family, we had decisions to make.
Listen up, you pathetic leeches. You who prey mostly on the elderly. You who reach into their pockets and snag pathetic offerings to your promises of riches. You who then turn around and sell their info to other leeches so that the mailboxes spill over with ever increasing visions of security and well-being that many seniors can only dream of in this life. Listen up.
We had to sit with cardiologists and internists and orthopedic surgeons to decide how to help this suddenly frail woman. We had to decide whether to put our Mother's life on the line. We had to sit with her all day and sleep by her hospital bed during the night when the hallucinations made it impossible for the staff to control her without tying her down. We had to watch them wheel her up to the OR, knowing that might be the last time we would see her. Then there was the 4 hour wait for the surgeon to tell us how it went. And now the 48 hour wait to see if she can maintain the toughness that got her through surgery.
And all because she went to get her mail. Because she wasn't able to wait a half hour. Because an addict waits for the pusher, becoming more anxious every hour. You lured her out there. To get her 5 bucks added to the sad little pile of other contributions you bleed from the poor, the desperate, the innocent.
The surgeon says Mom is tough. So am I. There has to be a way to put you creeps put of business and if I have to take you on one by one, I swear I am going to try. Enough of your teeny print disclaimers that nobody over 65 can read.
One. by. one.
But first, I have a Mom in ICU to tend to. There is only one promise of hope that matters now. The hope that she will survive this and maybe walk again. No fine print.
She may be a winner.
Don't picture an 88 year old woman sucking on a crack pipe. No, for that we could have found an intervention. Mom is addicted to her mail. She doesn't get a whole lot of "real" mail. A few bills, her bank statement, sales fliers. Those are not her drug of choice. The monkey on her back is sweepstakes. The promise of a check with her name on it.
We started to become aware of this when she would force upon us bags of cheap goods. Pot scrubbers, key chains with lights on them, a talking calculator. Turns out she was ordering them from Publishers Clearing House which, of course, says no purchase necessary, but why would they sell stuff to entrants if it didn't matter? Well, Mom analyzed her odds and decided it was worth 20 bucks in Taiwanese junk craft to up her odds of having the van pull up to her house with that big check and a dozen roses. After perusing her checkbook and finding almost weekly checks written to "PCH", I contacted them and threatened them with a lawsuit if they didn't stop preying on my Mother. Their mailings stopped, but they apparently sold her info to every bottom-feeding profiteer out there because she started becoming a "finalist" in dozens of contests. Daily. All she had to do was send 5/6/20 bucks to "reserve" her finalist spot. She sent them cash because she knew we monitored her checking account.
Mom lives on $1000 a month. Period. And there are low life con artists out there, looking to snag a piece of that. Daily.
Oh, we tried to reason with her, but a creeping case of dementia makes it harder and harder for her to exercise any judgment. Why would they send these to her if it was a lie? These are big companies! No. Mom, these are small cellar dwelling companies with a mailing list of the most vulnerable and gullible and desperate amongst us. Add to them the plethora of "address label" charities that send her the little 5 cents strips with her name and a bunch of tulips on them and ask her for a donation to cover the cost and support the children/the sick/the mission/the American Indians/veterans. She must have thousands of return address labels.
She is also a prime target for Social Security warnings (send us 60 bucks to help us fight for your benefits) and various and sundry other political causes (Obama is stealing your health care and wants to kill you)
My brother, bless him, lives near Mom and goes there every day to check on her and bring in the mail that he patiently goes over with her, piece by piece. She has been known to slip out a particularly glossy and promising "You may be a winner!!!!" envelope and hide it until he leaves, but he's on to her.
Mom's mailbox is at the curb, surrounded by a mound of snow. She has to navigate 4 steep steps and a slippery walk to get there. She promised to never attempt it alone and my brother promised to always make sure her mail was brought in. A few times she called him and said not to bother coming, that she had her mail and he would explode. And make her promise again.
But the idea of being able to gather up the 20 + promises of a grand life that crowd her mailbox daily and go through them alone, without the voice of reason, without the dashing of hope, is too much for an addict to ignore. When Bob called to tell her he was delayed a half hour but would be there soon to get the mail, she saw her chance. She put on her boots and her warm coat, grabbed her cane, and made her way to the curb. She got there, but the snow behind the box stymied her. She put one shaky foot on the mound of snow and reached for the little pull down door and lost her balance, landing hard on the sidewalk and breaking her hip.
Mom has a serious heart condition which makes surgery extremely risky but without it, she would spend her remaining days bedridden and so, as a family, we had decisions to make.
Listen up, you pathetic leeches. You who prey mostly on the elderly. You who reach into their pockets and snag pathetic offerings to your promises of riches. You who then turn around and sell their info to other leeches so that the mailboxes spill over with ever increasing visions of security and well-being that many seniors can only dream of in this life. Listen up.
We had to sit with cardiologists and internists and orthopedic surgeons to decide how to help this suddenly frail woman. We had to decide whether to put our Mother's life on the line. We had to sit with her all day and sleep by her hospital bed during the night when the hallucinations made it impossible for the staff to control her without tying her down. We had to watch them wheel her up to the OR, knowing that might be the last time we would see her. Then there was the 4 hour wait for the surgeon to tell us how it went. And now the 48 hour wait to see if she can maintain the toughness that got her through surgery.
And all because she went to get her mail. Because she wasn't able to wait a half hour. Because an addict waits for the pusher, becoming more anxious every hour. You lured her out there. To get her 5 bucks added to the sad little pile of other contributions you bleed from the poor, the desperate, the innocent.
The surgeon says Mom is tough. So am I. There has to be a way to put you creeps put of business and if I have to take you on one by one, I swear I am going to try. Enough of your teeny print disclaimers that nobody over 65 can read.
One. by. one.
But first, I have a Mom in ICU to tend to. There is only one promise of hope that matters now. The hope that she will survive this and maybe walk again. No fine print.
She may be a winner.
Sunday, March 13
my new babies
No, no, no. Not that kind. Please, we'd be talking real medical miracles were that the case.
This is a new Simplesong baby. I'll be at the Small Press Book Fair next weekend and I thought it would be a good time to expand my book jewelry line.
(And the art gods say; "Yes, Pat, perfect time to work on miniatures. When you are blind in one eye. Brilliant.")
Should have listened. It was very frustrating. I need one of those magnifiers on a stand. It was close to impossible to make the chains and figure out the tiny gluing spots.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My book pins and book earrings sell very well at certain venues. The Book Fair is a perfect place to sell them. I've been toying with the idea of book necklaces since I started making books, but I could never come up with a design that pleased me. Regular case bound teeny books have a tendency to yawn open after they've been hanging about your neck for a few hours. I hate how that looks. Stab binding on something that small would require different needles and cord and templates and I get tired just writing about it.
Then it came to me. Often when I can't sleep, I design things in my head. One night I was drifting off when the light dawned. Accordion books. Of course! I would have to figure out the closure, of course and make up a template and I've never been good at folding the accordion but I could manage. And what teeny bits of material it would use. Stuff that would have been tossed as too small to be of use.
I was excited.
There was trial and error and I'm still in the error phase, but here is Baby #1:
and here is Baby#1 slightly opened so you can see the accordion
And a couple more:
The tough part is figuring out how to afix the little elastic cord that holds the book closed. I am so clumsy now with my lack of depth perception and reduced peripheral vision. I fumble and lose bits or use too much glue or put glue where it should not be. Stuff like that. And don't even let me start on the chain and jump rings.
I made a few tonight that came out much better so I think I'm getting the hang of it. And a friend thinks she knows someone with a standing magnifier I can use while I'm waiting for my sight to return. That would help.
I realized today that even though trying to make my widgets with this handicap has made me very creative in my choice of expletives and in the vocalization of my bursts of frustration, I am happy in my little attic studio with the traffic humming 3 stories below and the pigeons dancing on the roof next door and huge snow flakes sailing by my window. It is quiet except for my TV and the occasional growl of frustration. It is my place to be.
That's the real View from the Attic :)
This is a new Simplesong baby. I'll be at the Small Press Book Fair next weekend and I thought it would be a good time to expand my book jewelry line.
(And the art gods say; "Yes, Pat, perfect time to work on miniatures. When you are blind in one eye. Brilliant.")
Should have listened. It was very frustrating. I need one of those magnifiers on a stand. It was close to impossible to make the chains and figure out the tiny gluing spots.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My book pins and book earrings sell very well at certain venues. The Book Fair is a perfect place to sell them. I've been toying with the idea of book necklaces since I started making books, but I could never come up with a design that pleased me. Regular case bound teeny books have a tendency to yawn open after they've been hanging about your neck for a few hours. I hate how that looks. Stab binding on something that small would require different needles and cord and templates and I get tired just writing about it.
Then it came to me. Often when I can't sleep, I design things in my head. One night I was drifting off when the light dawned. Accordion books. Of course! I would have to figure out the closure, of course and make up a template and I've never been good at folding the accordion but I could manage. And what teeny bits of material it would use. Stuff that would have been tossed as too small to be of use.
I was excited.
There was trial and error and I'm still in the error phase, but here is Baby #1:
and here is Baby#1 slightly opened so you can see the accordion
And a couple more:
The tough part is figuring out how to afix the little elastic cord that holds the book closed. I am so clumsy now with my lack of depth perception and reduced peripheral vision. I fumble and lose bits or use too much glue or put glue where it should not be. Stuff like that. And don't even let me start on the chain and jump rings.
I made a few tonight that came out much better so I think I'm getting the hang of it. And a friend thinks she knows someone with a standing magnifier I can use while I'm waiting for my sight to return. That would help.
I realized today that even though trying to make my widgets with this handicap has made me very creative in my choice of expletives and in the vocalization of my bursts of frustration, I am happy in my little attic studio with the traffic humming 3 stories below and the pigeons dancing on the roof next door and huge snow flakes sailing by my window. It is quiet except for my TV and the occasional growl of frustration. It is my place to be.
That's the real View from the Attic :)
Saturday, March 12
Long way to go for a fish fry
I live in Buffalo, NY, where Friday fish fries are a sacred institution. People here tend to eat out a lot anyway, but I challenge you to find a place with a decent fish fry on a Friday night, especially during Lent, where there isn't an hour wait for a table.
So, when my friend, Shaun, asked me to be part of a fund raiser for the arts at a local school and suggested that we would get a fish fry dinner at a reduced rate, I was in! Well, truth be told I am a sucker for fund raisers for the arts, but for the sake of this blog let's pretend I was seduced by fried fish, macaroni salad, coleslaw and french fries. To be a true B-Lo fish fry you need rye bread, but the dense artisan bread they served was yummy.
There were only a few of us selling our wares, but it was a fine group. Quality work, interesting mix, reasonable prices (we brought our "small" items), but we didn't sell much. Most of the folks were there to inhale fish and listen to their kids sing and play drums.
But it was a good thing to do. It was my "warm up" for the coming season. I have the book fair next weekend. I love the Book Fair. And then a Women's Conference. I needed to see how much of a problem working with one eye would be.
Well, it stinks! I swear it is a total pain and a frustrating exercise. Although my medically trained son assures me I am imagining it, I feel that not only do you lose depth perception, but you don't perceive color properly. I have to wear reading glasses because my right eye is over-corrected for distance with a contact lens. Never one to waste money on frivolity, I got few pair at the Dollar Store. I spend several hours a day looking for said glasses. The dance goes something like: pat the top of your head, then your jeans pockets, then spin to look at the table behind you, spin again to check the computer desk, stomp your foot, repeat.
I will adjust to this. I have no choice. There may be cursing involved and I will admit to feeling tears of frustration creeping over my still achy eye ball at odd moments. But I was able to put together a respectable collection for the show
So, how was the show? Well, once we paid for our dinners (at a reduced rate of 5 bucks), donated back 20% for the fundraising, bought tickets for the Chinese auction and grabbed a couple of brownies from the sweets table, we basically earned a cheap fish fry and gas money. But that's OK. I got to see a few folks I really enjoy. I got back in the swing of things.
I also came to grips with the limitations I will be dealing with for a month or 2. If you hurt your foot or tail bone or something that's way different than having a wonky eye. I mean, your eye is RIGHT THERE! No matter what you do, the wonky eye is RIGHT THERE. Between you and the rest of the world. You can't put a thick sock on it, take an Advil and keep going.
What I'll probably do is work in one hour shifts or until I start cursing, whichever comes first. And I'll stop whining now, too. Video of the Japan quake are playing in the background as I write this and it occurs to me that although my personal world has recently been rocked a bit, the earth beneath my feet is solid. Perspective. I keep finding that in odd places lately.
So, when my friend, Shaun, asked me to be part of a fund raiser for the arts at a local school and suggested that we would get a fish fry dinner at a reduced rate, I was in! Well, truth be told I am a sucker for fund raisers for the arts, but for the sake of this blog let's pretend I was seduced by fried fish, macaroni salad, coleslaw and french fries. To be a true B-Lo fish fry you need rye bread, but the dense artisan bread they served was yummy.
There were only a few of us selling our wares, but it was a fine group. Quality work, interesting mix, reasonable prices (we brought our "small" items), but we didn't sell much. Most of the folks were there to inhale fish and listen to their kids sing and play drums.
But it was a good thing to do. It was my "warm up" for the coming season. I have the book fair next weekend. I love the Book Fair. And then a Women's Conference. I needed to see how much of a problem working with one eye would be.
Well, it stinks! I swear it is a total pain and a frustrating exercise. Although my medically trained son assures me I am imagining it, I feel that not only do you lose depth perception, but you don't perceive color properly. I have to wear reading glasses because my right eye is over-corrected for distance with a contact lens. Never one to waste money on frivolity, I got few pair at the Dollar Store. I spend several hours a day looking for said glasses. The dance goes something like: pat the top of your head, then your jeans pockets, then spin to look at the table behind you, spin again to check the computer desk, stomp your foot, repeat.
I will adjust to this. I have no choice. There may be cursing involved and I will admit to feeling tears of frustration creeping over my still achy eye ball at odd moments. But I was able to put together a respectable collection for the show
So, how was the show? Well, once we paid for our dinners (at a reduced rate of 5 bucks), donated back 20% for the fundraising, bought tickets for the Chinese auction and grabbed a couple of brownies from the sweets table, we basically earned a cheap fish fry and gas money. But that's OK. I got to see a few folks I really enjoy. I got back in the swing of things.
I also came to grips with the limitations I will be dealing with for a month or 2. If you hurt your foot or tail bone or something that's way different than having a wonky eye. I mean, your eye is RIGHT THERE! No matter what you do, the wonky eye is RIGHT THERE. Between you and the rest of the world. You can't put a thick sock on it, take an Advil and keep going.
What I'll probably do is work in one hour shifts or until I start cursing, whichever comes first. And I'll stop whining now, too. Video of the Japan quake are playing in the background as I write this and it occurs to me that although my personal world has recently been rocked a bit, the earth beneath my feet is solid. Perspective. I keep finding that in odd places lately.
Saturday, March 5
can you see me now?
There is a reason for the latest bloglessness. It started a few weeks ago.
I noticed that there was a shadow at the bottom of my field of vision. Now, I am the sort of person who thinks "Ach it will go away, give it a few days". This, of course, is why I am now getting chemotherapy, but I digress.
The shadow became blobs. Picture a lava lamp. Now picture that action happening in your eye. OK, I'm calling someone.
It took a few days for each Doctor I called to referreferrefer until I landed in the spiffy wine colored leather examining chair of Dr Henry Lee who tsked and said I had a detached retina. Lovely.
He tried a procedure in the office that involves injecting a bubble of gas behind the retina to slap it back against whatever part of the eye it got detached from. But, a few days later we could tell it wasn't going to work and I would need surgery. Lovely.
Of course, by this time the reality of losing sight in that eye was helping me agree to anything they thought might help. Put my eye in a pickle jar for a week? Sure!
So, off we went to the hospital, my nerves all a jangle, my resolve intact. The wait was torture, but they had to put drops in my eye every 45 minutes for a while, so we watched TV and chatted and pretended that I was not going to have my eye sliced up in an hour.
Now, I have to say that I have never been one to drink much or do drugs. High on life, as they say. The few times I have been overserved I have made a fool of myself. Not hard to do since I teeter on the brink of foolishness just in the regular course of my day. So when the Anesthesiologist, who looked like one of the Doobie Brothers, promised to make me "mellow", I was reassured but hoping that I wouldn't start singing the "A" side of The White Album.
There was no singing, but there was also no pain and I was certainly mellow. Mellow enough to remark that they might want to remove "Blinded by the Light" from the operating room playlist. This resulted in general laughter amongst the disembodied voices and a discussion of what the line "dressed up like a ...." really was. I said "deuce" before I drifted off to nap for a bit. Not sure if they agreed or not.
I was home before dark, a cone over my eye. The next day we saw the Doc again and he said that although I wasn't totally out of the woods yet, the retina was now fully attached. Yay.
So now we wait. And hope that my sight will slowly return. The procedure they used, a sclera buckle, is aggressive surgery and it will take 6 weeks or more for us to know just how much better I will be. I think I can still do my craft, even with just one eye, but don't ever let anyone tell you depth perception is no big deal.
So, that's where I have been. I went 30 years without needing a doctor for anything related to illness. I got smug. OK, I am humbled now. I get it, OK? Cut it out!
Now here's the cute part. At first, after the easy procedure, I was told I had to sleep sitting up. Luckily, I have a big cushy chair with a big cushy footstool, so I bundled myself into it, with pillows strategically placed and hoped for the best. Russell came down with his pillow and a blanket and I asked what he was doing. Well, what he was doing was sleeping on the couch to be with me. I assured him it was OK for him to sleep in bed, I would be fine. He could not imagine leaving me alone downstairs. And so for a few days there we were. Me in the chair, Russell and the dogs on the couch.
I may be blind in one eye, but some things I can see crystal clear, right from the heart.
I noticed that there was a shadow at the bottom of my field of vision. Now, I am the sort of person who thinks "Ach it will go away, give it a few days". This, of course, is why I am now getting chemotherapy, but I digress.
The shadow became blobs. Picture a lava lamp. Now picture that action happening in your eye. OK, I'm calling someone.
It took a few days for each Doctor I called to referreferrefer until I landed in the spiffy wine colored leather examining chair of Dr Henry Lee who tsked and said I had a detached retina. Lovely.
He tried a procedure in the office that involves injecting a bubble of gas behind the retina to slap it back against whatever part of the eye it got detached from. But, a few days later we could tell it wasn't going to work and I would need surgery. Lovely.
Of course, by this time the reality of losing sight in that eye was helping me agree to anything they thought might help. Put my eye in a pickle jar for a week? Sure!
So, off we went to the hospital, my nerves all a jangle, my resolve intact. The wait was torture, but they had to put drops in my eye every 45 minutes for a while, so we watched TV and chatted and pretended that I was not going to have my eye sliced up in an hour.
Now, I have to say that I have never been one to drink much or do drugs. High on life, as they say. The few times I have been overserved I have made a fool of myself. Not hard to do since I teeter on the brink of foolishness just in the regular course of my day. So when the Anesthesiologist, who looked like one of the Doobie Brothers, promised to make me "mellow", I was reassured but hoping that I wouldn't start singing the "A" side of The White Album.
There was no singing, but there was also no pain and I was certainly mellow. Mellow enough to remark that they might want to remove "Blinded by the Light" from the operating room playlist. This resulted in general laughter amongst the disembodied voices and a discussion of what the line "dressed up like a ...." really was. I said "deuce" before I drifted off to nap for a bit. Not sure if they agreed or not.
I was home before dark, a cone over my eye. The next day we saw the Doc again and he said that although I wasn't totally out of the woods yet, the retina was now fully attached. Yay.
So now we wait. And hope that my sight will slowly return. The procedure they used, a sclera buckle, is aggressive surgery and it will take 6 weeks or more for us to know just how much better I will be. I think I can still do my craft, even with just one eye, but don't ever let anyone tell you depth perception is no big deal.
So, that's where I have been. I went 30 years without needing a doctor for anything related to illness. I got smug. OK, I am humbled now. I get it, OK? Cut it out!
Now here's the cute part. At first, after the easy procedure, I was told I had to sleep sitting up. Luckily, I have a big cushy chair with a big cushy footstool, so I bundled myself into it, with pillows strategically placed and hoped for the best. Russell came down with his pillow and a blanket and I asked what he was doing. Well, what he was doing was sleeping on the couch to be with me. I assured him it was OK for him to sleep in bed, I would be fine. He could not imagine leaving me alone downstairs. And so for a few days there we were. Me in the chair, Russell and the dogs on the couch.
I may be blind in one eye, but some things I can see crystal clear, right from the heart.
Thursday, February 10
loose ends
Mom had a minor heart attack a couple of weeks ago. After a few days in the hospital they determined her heart was in pretty bad shape but she was not a candidate for surgery. They basically sent her home to enjoy the rest of her life, a period of time that might be weeks, might be months. She may outlive us all. Nobody knows.
So, in addition to dealing with the sadness of this whole thing, we are doing businesslike stuff. Rifling through her "special boxes" digging out wills and deeds and insurance policies and delicately asking what her wishes are just in case, what if, should the time come...
In one of her special boxes, we found an old driver's license with a note clipped to it: "Bob, this is the picture for the paper". She must have liked the way her hair looked that day. It is quite the bubble. And then a poem cut from a magazine about not grieving, she is always with us, which brought tears to my brother's eyes.
Combing through the mundane bits of a person's life can be an awakening. Most women of my Mom's generation left their jobs behind to raise their families and their lives seem to be measured, not by recognized accomplishments, but by loads of laundry and pots of homemade soup. I remember watching my Mom iron. She ironed everything. She ironed Dad's underwear. She ironed sheets and towels. Some items got spritzed with water, some were sprayed with starch and the house would fill with the warm smell of clean. It was comforting and frightening at once. I feared that my life would be like hers. Stuck in a kitchen, behind an ironing board, in the basement laundry room.
So I pursued college with a vengence. I dreamed of the Peace Corps, of writing a great novel. I would be a Mom with a life. I would work, earn money, be valuable.
But will it be much different when I finally take time to look back? What will be in that special box? A deed, an insurance policy. Who will remember how I fought to be different?
Perhaps what matters, in the end, is not the paperwork of a common life, but the life itself. I'm sure it was not all ironing and sweeping for my Mother, no matter how my adolescent eyes saw it. There had to have been moments of great passion, of love, of joy, laughter. I remember how the folks would get all dressed up for the occassional "affair" which involved dancing in fancy clothes, not illicit activity. I remember the dining room table surrounded by friends, drinking coffe, eating pastry, laughing. I remember the backyard pool and the parties of grownups that seemed too old to be having such fun in so little clothing, but they were probably just in their 40's.
And my parents loved each other, stayed true. Raised 2 kids who turned out OK. Worked hard for what they had and took pride in that.
There's no paperwork for accomplishments like that, no award certificates. Nothing to put in special boxes or folders tied with string. When the time comes, the taking care will be in the hands of her children, their spouses, their children. A constellation of souls that would not exist if not for her, a legacy of love.
It is enough. It is more than enough.
So, in addition to dealing with the sadness of this whole thing, we are doing businesslike stuff. Rifling through her "special boxes" digging out wills and deeds and insurance policies and delicately asking what her wishes are just in case, what if, should the time come...
In one of her special boxes, we found an old driver's license with a note clipped to it: "Bob, this is the picture for the paper". She must have liked the way her hair looked that day. It is quite the bubble. And then a poem cut from a magazine about not grieving, she is always with us, which brought tears to my brother's eyes.
Combing through the mundane bits of a person's life can be an awakening. Most women of my Mom's generation left their jobs behind to raise their families and their lives seem to be measured, not by recognized accomplishments, but by loads of laundry and pots of homemade soup. I remember watching my Mom iron. She ironed everything. She ironed Dad's underwear. She ironed sheets and towels. Some items got spritzed with water, some were sprayed with starch and the house would fill with the warm smell of clean. It was comforting and frightening at once. I feared that my life would be like hers. Stuck in a kitchen, behind an ironing board, in the basement laundry room.
So I pursued college with a vengence. I dreamed of the Peace Corps, of writing a great novel. I would be a Mom with a life. I would work, earn money, be valuable.
But will it be much different when I finally take time to look back? What will be in that special box? A deed, an insurance policy. Who will remember how I fought to be different?
Perhaps what matters, in the end, is not the paperwork of a common life, but the life itself. I'm sure it was not all ironing and sweeping for my Mother, no matter how my adolescent eyes saw it. There had to have been moments of great passion, of love, of joy, laughter. I remember how the folks would get all dressed up for the occassional "affair" which involved dancing in fancy clothes, not illicit activity. I remember the dining room table surrounded by friends, drinking coffe, eating pastry, laughing. I remember the backyard pool and the parties of grownups that seemed too old to be having such fun in so little clothing, but they were probably just in their 40's.
And my parents loved each other, stayed true. Raised 2 kids who turned out OK. Worked hard for what they had and took pride in that.
There's no paperwork for accomplishments like that, no award certificates. Nothing to put in special boxes or folders tied with string. When the time comes, the taking care will be in the hands of her children, their spouses, their children. A constellation of souls that would not exist if not for her, a legacy of love.
It is enough. It is more than enough.
Tuesday, February 1
Dear Allentown Arts Festival:
I love you, I do. When I first started coming to your show, I was wearing tie dye and fringe, my hair was in two braids like Pocahontas and I was probably barefoot. OK, not much has changed except the braids but I digress..
It was a rite of Spring to break out the light weight clothes and come out into the sun, blinking, like a bear emerging from a cave. I fell in love at your show a couple of times. I was manhandled by a cop and tear-gassed once. I don't know how many times I claimed the window seat at Gabriel's Gate just so I could watch the people. I thought those artists in the white tents were the most exotic beings imagineable and I envied them their lifestyle.
Then I became one of them.
When I first started to apply, it was one rejection after another so I eventually gave up on it. But by then I was getting accepted to shows that were much more competitive and it perplexed me. Some local artists claim that you like to fill the show with artists from more glamorous places like California and Iowa, so we locals have a hard road.
I tried again and started to actually be accepted once in a while. The first year I flashed back to my college, braid days and smiled thinking that some of the folks wandering the streets might actually find me exotic, too.
But now you are starting to get on my nerves. I read and folded and unfolded and read again the app this year which is exactly the same as every year except for changing the dates and the cover picture. Slides instead of digital images. I mean, does anyone even make slides anymore? I can think of no other show that is so out of touch with the millenium. And no place to write in descriptions of what the jury is seeing. Oh, I type my own up and attach it. I imagine most do. But it makes me wonder if you even know what you are seeing as that slide projector whirrs away. Do you know I made the paper that covers that book? Do you know that mirror is actually cast paper? Or do you just see book, mirror, nothing unusual? That's too bad, because last time I was set up next to a man selling tacky metal whirly gigs that I would bet the farm were imported. His slides must have been killer.
So I unfolded the app again and considered whether you were worth it. I decided you were not, but I would apply anyway, with whatever slides I had left over from the Crusades, and I would damn well write up descriptions of what you were seeing, but I was no longer in love with you. It's not you, it's me.
It's me because I have no patience for a show that requires the best of me and then rejects me in favor of metal whirly gigs. I deserve better. It's me because I am one of the few hand bookmakers left in this region and you jury in about 250 jewelers-or so it seems.
It's me because I actually live in your neighborhood and when I don't get accepted to exhibit, I have to watch thousands of people walk by my house to get to you to buy things from everybody but me.
The irony is that I live in your neighborhood because I fell in love with you back then. With your funky old houses and trendy shops and restaurants and the people who got to live there. I visited just once a year, but it was enough.
So, thanks for showing me where I would eventually live, because I may not love you so much anymore, but I love my neighborhood and, in a sense, you gave me that.
Let's not break up, let's just take a break. Like Ross and Rachael. I am free to apply to another show, you can offer to let me back in your life and I'll consider it. Meanwhile I'll be dating other shows, seeing what they have to offer, happily burning CD's or applying on line. Like it's 2011, not 1968.
I don't wear braids any more. Or tie dye. Now it's your turn to grow up.
I'll be waiting, right here in the neighborhood.
It was a rite of Spring to break out the light weight clothes and come out into the sun, blinking, like a bear emerging from a cave. I fell in love at your show a couple of times. I was manhandled by a cop and tear-gassed once. I don't know how many times I claimed the window seat at Gabriel's Gate just so I could watch the people. I thought those artists in the white tents were the most exotic beings imagineable and I envied them their lifestyle.
Then I became one of them.
When I first started to apply, it was one rejection after another so I eventually gave up on it. But by then I was getting accepted to shows that were much more competitive and it perplexed me. Some local artists claim that you like to fill the show with artists from more glamorous places like California and Iowa, so we locals have a hard road.
I tried again and started to actually be accepted once in a while. The first year I flashed back to my college, braid days and smiled thinking that some of the folks wandering the streets might actually find me exotic, too.
But now you are starting to get on my nerves. I read and folded and unfolded and read again the app this year which is exactly the same as every year except for changing the dates and the cover picture. Slides instead of digital images. I mean, does anyone even make slides anymore? I can think of no other show that is so out of touch with the millenium. And no place to write in descriptions of what the jury is seeing. Oh, I type my own up and attach it. I imagine most do. But it makes me wonder if you even know what you are seeing as that slide projector whirrs away. Do you know I made the paper that covers that book? Do you know that mirror is actually cast paper? Or do you just see book, mirror, nothing unusual? That's too bad, because last time I was set up next to a man selling tacky metal whirly gigs that I would bet the farm were imported. His slides must have been killer.
So I unfolded the app again and considered whether you were worth it. I decided you were not, but I would apply anyway, with whatever slides I had left over from the Crusades, and I would damn well write up descriptions of what you were seeing, but I was no longer in love with you. It's not you, it's me.
It's me because I have no patience for a show that requires the best of me and then rejects me in favor of metal whirly gigs. I deserve better. It's me because I am one of the few hand bookmakers left in this region and you jury in about 250 jewelers-or so it seems.
It's me because I actually live in your neighborhood and when I don't get accepted to exhibit, I have to watch thousands of people walk by my house to get to you to buy things from everybody but me.
The irony is that I live in your neighborhood because I fell in love with you back then. With your funky old houses and trendy shops and restaurants and the people who got to live there. I visited just once a year, but it was enough.
So, thanks for showing me where I would eventually live, because I may not love you so much anymore, but I love my neighborhood and, in a sense, you gave me that.
Let's not break up, let's just take a break. Like Ross and Rachael. I am free to apply to another show, you can offer to let me back in your life and I'll consider it. Meanwhile I'll be dating other shows, seeing what they have to offer, happily burning CD's or applying on line. Like it's 2011, not 1968.
I don't wear braids any more. Or tie dye. Now it's your turn to grow up.
I'll be waiting, right here in the neighborhood.
Sunday, January 23
part two: found
At the end of part one, I was off to keep a date with a young man named Oliver. Let me tell you about him.
I was at work one day, waiting for a line of ticket buyers that never showed because they all bought on line that morning. We were all surfing the web to stay awake. I had been contemplating adding another dog to the fur contingent of our family. Quincy is a great dog, but he is powerful and active and capable of dragging me down the street if a squirrel should cross his path. He is also Russell's dog pretty much. He literally stares at him with love sick eyes, I swear. And lays across his lap whenever the need arises. Which is always. When Billy and Leisha had us babysit their dogs a while back, Q was happy and entertained and it seemed to calm him.
So, I was surfing rescue sites. At a great place called Joyful Rescues I found several pups that fit our needs. I filled out the application and waited to see if we were approved. My neighbor called the next day to say they had called her for a reference. I was happy that they really did check on potential adopters.
So, the next day, off we went, in a snow storm, to Cuba NY. Waaay too far to go on a snowy day, but off we went anyway, into the beautiful hills of the Southern Tier. GPS and the site's own directions got us there. Up this hill and down that one. Until we saw the sign and, taking a deep breath, asking each other if we were sure, we followed the cacophony of barks and howls to the main building.
We were met by Joye, the amazing woman who now devotes her life and home and land to the cause of saving abused and abandoned animals. The building is set up so that the pups can enter and exit at will, running free in their enclosed, huge yard. There is a dog house for new kids to get acclimated and a cat house which we did not visit because we already have two of those. The dog I had initially been drawn to was pending adoption and the other was off running in the huge yard. Joye said he seldom came inside, I knew he would not be happy in the city. But we have some new dogs, she said and off we went to the dog house.
There we saw 3 dogs that grabbed our hearts. A white, wiry haired terrier mix with a joyful attitude, a dachshund/terrier mix that was adorable and affectionate and a Yorkie that scooted out of his cage when the door was opened and went off to round up the other guys for a romp. All were perfect, but Russell picked up he Yorkie and he snuggled right into Russell's neck and went limp with love. Uh oh, I thought.
I love Yorkies. They are incredibly cute and funny. But I picture Legally Blonde with the little dog in designer duds. Or Paris Hilton toting one in a Gucci bag. This is not me, folks. I am a Golden Retriever kind of woman, looking for a dog just a bit smaller than that. A dog I can walk, that would nap on my lap. This dog weighed less than a can of Folgers. OK, I said, give him to me. And he snuggled into my neck and sighed. I tried looking at the other dogs, but "Casey Dean" had our hearts back in his cage at the dog house. We'll sleep on it, I told her. OK, Joye agreed, but I'll just hold him for one day.
We talked all the way home. Pros and Cons. Would Q take to a dog that was about the size of his favorite stuffed toy? He tears stuffed toys apart. Did I really want a 6 pound dog? Is that really a dog? He is so cute. And affectionate. Casey had been turned in by his owners because they said he was skittish around the kids. I think kids and toy dogs are a bad mix often. Joye agreed. The dog was fine in the dog house. She thought the problem was the kids. But you can't turn them in.
By the time we got home we had pretty much settled on a new name for the pup...Oliver. And I knew we would call Joye in the morning to say we wanted to adopt him.
Oliver was being neutered that day and, if all was well, we could pick him up close to home at one of their adoption events at a PetSmart. Done deal.
It was a joyful scene at PetSmart. Dogs everywhere-on leashes and in the arms of the volunteers. Go get your dog, one of them said, smiling, and we took him from the arms of a volunteer that was loathe to let him go.
They gave us lots of free stuff for him and coupons to help pay for the rest. We got him a collar and leash that matched his colors, a teeny bowl and we were off. As we were leaving, one of the volunteers raved about Ollie's new Burberry leash and collar. I had purchased designer duds for a dog. I was doomed;
On the way home, my neighbor Jolene called to tell us she had found a "hoodie" for Oliver and I laughed and laughed. Oh Lordy.
First stop at home was, of course, across the street to see Jolene and introduce Oliver to the rest of the pack. And to try on his Winter gear.
OD on cuteness. What had I become?
And so, Oliver found a new home and we found a new dog and he is adjusting just fine.
Quincy thinks we're nuts and he's not quite sure Oliver is a dog.
It will all work out. Lotsa love in the air.
I was at work one day, waiting for a line of ticket buyers that never showed because they all bought on line that morning. We were all surfing the web to stay awake. I had been contemplating adding another dog to the fur contingent of our family. Quincy is a great dog, but he is powerful and active and capable of dragging me down the street if a squirrel should cross his path. He is also Russell's dog pretty much. He literally stares at him with love sick eyes, I swear. And lays across his lap whenever the need arises. Which is always. When Billy and Leisha had us babysit their dogs a while back, Q was happy and entertained and it seemed to calm him.
So, I was surfing rescue sites. At a great place called Joyful Rescues I found several pups that fit our needs. I filled out the application and waited to see if we were approved. My neighbor called the next day to say they had called her for a reference. I was happy that they really did check on potential adopters.
So, the next day, off we went, in a snow storm, to Cuba NY. Waaay too far to go on a snowy day, but off we went anyway, into the beautiful hills of the Southern Tier. GPS and the site's own directions got us there. Up this hill and down that one. Until we saw the sign and, taking a deep breath, asking each other if we were sure, we followed the cacophony of barks and howls to the main building.
We were met by Joye, the amazing woman who now devotes her life and home and land to the cause of saving abused and abandoned animals. The building is set up so that the pups can enter and exit at will, running free in their enclosed, huge yard. There is a dog house for new kids to get acclimated and a cat house which we did not visit because we already have two of those. The dog I had initially been drawn to was pending adoption and the other was off running in the huge yard. Joye said he seldom came inside, I knew he would not be happy in the city. But we have some new dogs, she said and off we went to the dog house.
There we saw 3 dogs that grabbed our hearts. A white, wiry haired terrier mix with a joyful attitude, a dachshund/terrier mix that was adorable and affectionate and a Yorkie that scooted out of his cage when the door was opened and went off to round up the other guys for a romp. All were perfect, but Russell picked up he Yorkie and he snuggled right into Russell's neck and went limp with love. Uh oh, I thought.
I love Yorkies. They are incredibly cute and funny. But I picture Legally Blonde with the little dog in designer duds. Or Paris Hilton toting one in a Gucci bag. This is not me, folks. I am a Golden Retriever kind of woman, looking for a dog just a bit smaller than that. A dog I can walk, that would nap on my lap. This dog weighed less than a can of Folgers. OK, I said, give him to me. And he snuggled into my neck and sighed. I tried looking at the other dogs, but "Casey Dean" had our hearts back in his cage at the dog house. We'll sleep on it, I told her. OK, Joye agreed, but I'll just hold him for one day.
We talked all the way home. Pros and Cons. Would Q take to a dog that was about the size of his favorite stuffed toy? He tears stuffed toys apart. Did I really want a 6 pound dog? Is that really a dog? He is so cute. And affectionate. Casey had been turned in by his owners because they said he was skittish around the kids. I think kids and toy dogs are a bad mix often. Joye agreed. The dog was fine in the dog house. She thought the problem was the kids. But you can't turn them in.
By the time we got home we had pretty much settled on a new name for the pup...Oliver. And I knew we would call Joye in the morning to say we wanted to adopt him.
Oliver was being neutered that day and, if all was well, we could pick him up close to home at one of their adoption events at a PetSmart. Done deal.
It was a joyful scene at PetSmart. Dogs everywhere-on leashes and in the arms of the volunteers. Go get your dog, one of them said, smiling, and we took him from the arms of a volunteer that was loathe to let him go.
They gave us lots of free stuff for him and coupons to help pay for the rest. We got him a collar and leash that matched his colors, a teeny bowl and we were off. As we were leaving, one of the volunteers raved about Ollie's new Burberry leash and collar. I had purchased designer duds for a dog. I was doomed;
On the way home, my neighbor Jolene called to tell us she had found a "hoodie" for Oliver and I laughed and laughed. Oh Lordy.
First stop at home was, of course, across the street to see Jolene and introduce Oliver to the rest of the pack. And to try on his Winter gear.
OD on cuteness. What had I become?
And so, Oliver found a new home and we found a new dog and he is adjusting just fine.
Quincy thinks we're nuts and he's not quite sure Oliver is a dog.
It will all work out. Lotsa love in the air.
Saturday, January 22
part one: lost
This was to be a busy day. First, early in the morning, bring samples of my widgets to be perused by the folks from the Junior League. They have a bi-annual event during which they have designers redecorate a city mansion and then charge folks like 10 or 15 bucks to walk through the rooms and be inspired. Or, in my case, depressed. Who lives like that?
But I digress.
During this event, they have a "boutique" featuring work of local artisans for sale. Well, the artisans are not for sale. Syntax alert. Their work is for sale. My friends who participate in this, rave about the sales and the promptness of payment, etc. I have been invited to participate often and never get to it. I was determined to follow through this time.
All you need are samples and I had some of everything except large journals. So, I bought some pretty new papers and worked up two journals...tasteful, not overly artsy fartsy...packed them up with easels and pretty table cover and actually got on the road at the time I had determined to be perfect. I was so proud. We never leave on time. Never.
We got to the show house with time to spare but nobody was there! We drove around a bit and pulled into the parking area and it was a quiet as an ACLU meeting in Wasilla. Uh oh. Russell asked if I was sure this was the place. Of course not! Nobody is here! This is obviously not the place! I don't know the place! And I have 20 minutes to get there. Wherever it is. I was not being my most charming self at this point.
I pulled out my iPhone, found the original email, opened the attachment, made it big enough to read, scrolled, scrolled, there! I was supposed to be in Cheektowaga. What? in 15 minutes. It started to snow sideways. I despaired. Russell said he was going for it, what did we have to lose. And off we went. We had to be there no later than 9:30 and everyone had to be out of the building by 9:45. It was 9:15.
No pressure.
We pulled into the lot at 9:26. Russell is a driving god. He came to a stop, I jumped out with my box of widgets, pulled open the door and skidded to a stop in front of the Ladies at the Table. They were nice but there was a definite unspoken tsk tsk in the air. They checked me in. I had to wait to be escorted into the jury room, tick tock tick tock, and the next set of doors opened.
We were allotted about 3 feet of table space for all our stuff. The people to my left had spread out into about a foot of that, the folks on my left the same. Can't blame them. I was in the finals of The Great Race on the Kensington while they were artfully placing their treasures. One of the organizers explained to the trespassers on my left that they had to move over a bit. They grumbled but complied. I got my widgets artfully arranged and made arrangements with a much loved fellow carnie to retrieve them for me in the afternoon. (Because we had an important appointment at 11. More on that in the next installment)
An unexpected treat was meeting a fellow artist that I "knew" only through on line forums and a reference from a fellow artist. Stefani sews beautiful, intricate patterns on paper. Paper! A woman after my own heart for sure. She was sweet and funny and she brought me a pin she made. I never think to do lovely things like that.
Well, truth be told, I sometimes have a passing thought about doing something like that but I seldom do. I'm too scattered to be thoughtful perhaps?
Anyway...mission accomplished. The League will send me a letter telling me what, if any, of my widgets they deem worthy for their boutique. Until then, who knows?
But I had an appointment to keep with a young man named Oliver that I thought might make some big changes in my life. I had an hour to get there.
No sweat.
But I digress.
During this event, they have a "boutique" featuring work of local artisans for sale. Well, the artisans are not for sale. Syntax alert. Their work is for sale. My friends who participate in this, rave about the sales and the promptness of payment, etc. I have been invited to participate often and never get to it. I was determined to follow through this time.
All you need are samples and I had some of everything except large journals. So, I bought some pretty new papers and worked up two journals...tasteful, not overly artsy fartsy...packed them up with easels and pretty table cover and actually got on the road at the time I had determined to be perfect. I was so proud. We never leave on time. Never.
We got to the show house with time to spare but nobody was there! We drove around a bit and pulled into the parking area and it was a quiet as an ACLU meeting in Wasilla. Uh oh. Russell asked if I was sure this was the place. Of course not! Nobody is here! This is obviously not the place! I don't know the place! And I have 20 minutes to get there. Wherever it is. I was not being my most charming self at this point.
I pulled out my iPhone, found the original email, opened the attachment, made it big enough to read, scrolled, scrolled, there! I was supposed to be in Cheektowaga. What? in 15 minutes. It started to snow sideways. I despaired. Russell said he was going for it, what did we have to lose. And off we went. We had to be there no later than 9:30 and everyone had to be out of the building by 9:45. It was 9:15.
No pressure.
We pulled into the lot at 9:26. Russell is a driving god. He came to a stop, I jumped out with my box of widgets, pulled open the door and skidded to a stop in front of the Ladies at the Table. They were nice but there was a definite unspoken tsk tsk in the air. They checked me in. I had to wait to be escorted into the jury room, tick tock tick tock, and the next set of doors opened.
We were allotted about 3 feet of table space for all our stuff. The people to my left had spread out into about a foot of that, the folks on my left the same. Can't blame them. I was in the finals of The Great Race on the Kensington while they were artfully placing their treasures. One of the organizers explained to the trespassers on my left that they had to move over a bit. They grumbled but complied. I got my widgets artfully arranged and made arrangements with a much loved fellow carnie to retrieve them for me in the afternoon. (Because we had an important appointment at 11. More on that in the next installment)
An unexpected treat was meeting a fellow artist that I "knew" only through on line forums and a reference from a fellow artist. Stefani sews beautiful, intricate patterns on paper. Paper! A woman after my own heart for sure. She was sweet and funny and she brought me a pin she made. I never think to do lovely things like that.
Well, truth be told, I sometimes have a passing thought about doing something like that but I seldom do. I'm too scattered to be thoughtful perhaps?
Anyway...mission accomplished. The League will send me a letter telling me what, if any, of my widgets they deem worthy for their boutique. Until then, who knows?
But I had an appointment to keep with a young man named Oliver that I thought might make some big changes in my life. I had an hour to get there.
No sweat.
Saturday, January 15
motivational studies
It's that time of year. Before I can go any further with jury slides and stocking up, I need to clear a path into my studio. It's the usual disaster, the normal chaos conglomerate, the gates of hell for anyone with one organizing gene.
I've been waiting for something to spark me, get me up the stairs, rev my clean-up engines and it came in a gallon jug.
PVA
Sigh, the book maker's drug of choice. Soft, white, creamy PVA from the adhesive distributor. This is not like the stuff you get in a bottle of Elmer's. It is thick and luxurious, it makes you want to glue something. It makes you want to clean your room so you can put that pretty jug in a place of honor.
It's like when you get new drapes and it makes you Spring clean the room. I remember once, as a teenager, a new purse made me clean my bedroom. Silly, but who knows what makes the mind work?
Oh, the jug will get all smeared up and the glue will dry up some and by the time I've reached mid-point the charm will be gone. But by then I will have made tons of books and be moving on to another incomprehensible motivator.
I can only imagine what my planned April buying trip to Hollander's will prompt. If a gallon of glue gets me to clean a disaster area, a trunk full of new papers may get a new roof on the house.
Well, better get back to it. Can't crack open the gallon until I have the proper work space ready.
Gotta respect the muse, after all.
I've been waiting for something to spark me, get me up the stairs, rev my clean-up engines and it came in a gallon jug.
PVA
Sigh, the book maker's drug of choice. Soft, white, creamy PVA from the adhesive distributor. This is not like the stuff you get in a bottle of Elmer's. It is thick and luxurious, it makes you want to glue something. It makes you want to clean your room so you can put that pretty jug in a place of honor.
It's like when you get new drapes and it makes you Spring clean the room. I remember once, as a teenager, a new purse made me clean my bedroom. Silly, but who knows what makes the mind work?
Oh, the jug will get all smeared up and the glue will dry up some and by the time I've reached mid-point the charm will be gone. But by then I will have made tons of books and be moving on to another incomprehensible motivator.
I can only imagine what my planned April buying trip to Hollander's will prompt. If a gallon of glue gets me to clean a disaster area, a trunk full of new papers may get a new roof on the house.
Well, better get back to it. Can't crack open the gallon until I have the proper work space ready.
Gotta respect the muse, after all.
Saturday, January 8
same thing this year
I do this every year. Wait until the very very last minute to get an important app in the mail, sending Russell off to the Post Office minutes before it closes, yelling after him.."make sure they postmark it today!!!"
Why do I do this? Not only did I wait until the last day to apply, I decided that just to make the day pop the bulb on the stress-o-meter, I would make new books for the images, using a technique I not only haven't mastered, I hadn't even tried yet.
I may be punishing myself for dirty deeds in a past life or, more likely, letting my control freak rule the day.
When I had a "real" job, working for the *gasp* government, I would always sign in at 2 or 3 minutes after my start time. Every single day. For years. 2 minutes late, 3, 4 5 minutes late. Every day. This would make Russell nuts as he navigated city traffic to get me there on time while I cleaned out my wallet or finished that library book that was due yesterday. Then, while watching the Today show as Russell beeped the car horn for me to hurry, I heard a psychiatrist type say that people who were habitually late were control freaks.
Eureka. Yes, I could not change anything about my awful, stressful job, but I could make them wait for me. Aha. That one thing I had control over. Made perfect sense.
Now, this show I applied to this afternoon at 5:28 (the Post Office closes at 5:30) is one of my favorites, but a few years ago they started cashing the check for your booth fee before the jury even met. Usually, shows hold the checks until they know who is accepted. Not this place. They cash the check, hang onto your money for 2 months and eventually tell you if you actually bought something or if you will be getting a refund. It is outrageous, unprofessional and unfair to artists who traditionally don't have a lot of extra cash to throw at speculation before the season even starts. But nobody complains because they love the show and don't want to make enemies.
So, I guess my warped psyche tells me to apply at the last second, literally.
Anyway..that's done, but the pictures we took at 4:52 didn't come out great. I may have hurt myself this time, but maybe in a way I want to tell this place to take this app and shove it.
On the plus side, I did finally make a traditional "cased-in" book and I enjoyed it.
It has opened up a whole new area for me and now I can do the photo albums and address books that people always ask for.
So it was a good day after all. Once the app was mailed, we went to deliver a frame that was a special order and I felt that lovely relief that happens when all the things I've been postponing are done. You would think that might encourage me to be more timely in the future. Oh please.
Next app is due at the end of the month and I need to have slides made for it. Now THAT is gonna be a challenge. Slides take a few days. I feel the excitement building already.
Why do I do this? Not only did I wait until the last day to apply, I decided that just to make the day pop the bulb on the stress-o-meter, I would make new books for the images, using a technique I not only haven't mastered, I hadn't even tried yet.
I may be punishing myself for dirty deeds in a past life or, more likely, letting my control freak rule the day.
When I had a "real" job, working for the *gasp* government, I would always sign in at 2 or 3 minutes after my start time. Every single day. For years. 2 minutes late, 3, 4 5 minutes late. Every day. This would make Russell nuts as he navigated city traffic to get me there on time while I cleaned out my wallet or finished that library book that was due yesterday. Then, while watching the Today show as Russell beeped the car horn for me to hurry, I heard a psychiatrist type say that people who were habitually late were control freaks.
Eureka. Yes, I could not change anything about my awful, stressful job, but I could make them wait for me. Aha. That one thing I had control over. Made perfect sense.
Now, this show I applied to this afternoon at 5:28 (the Post Office closes at 5:30) is one of my favorites, but a few years ago they started cashing the check for your booth fee before the jury even met. Usually, shows hold the checks until they know who is accepted. Not this place. They cash the check, hang onto your money for 2 months and eventually tell you if you actually bought something or if you will be getting a refund. It is outrageous, unprofessional and unfair to artists who traditionally don't have a lot of extra cash to throw at speculation before the season even starts. But nobody complains because they love the show and don't want to make enemies.
So, I guess my warped psyche tells me to apply at the last second, literally.
Anyway..that's done, but the pictures we took at 4:52 didn't come out great. I may have hurt myself this time, but maybe in a way I want to tell this place to take this app and shove it.
On the plus side, I did finally make a traditional "cased-in" book and I enjoyed it.
It has opened up a whole new area for me and now I can do the photo albums and address books that people always ask for.
So it was a good day after all. Once the app was mailed, we went to deliver a frame that was a special order and I felt that lovely relief that happens when all the things I've been postponing are done. You would think that might encourage me to be more timely in the future. Oh please.
Next app is due at the end of the month and I need to have slides made for it. Now THAT is gonna be a challenge. Slides take a few days. I feel the excitement building already.
Tuesday, January 4
patty and mom go to the doctor
Mom was due for a physical, I had an appointment for a follow-up. We both go to the same husband and wife team. I get Rob, she gets Jennifer. It seemed logical to schedule her on my day. Save a trip. Get all the ucky out of the way in one shot.
They called Mom first and I went with her, telling the nurse where I would be when they got to my turn. Mom likes me to be with her, even though, in the process, I've come to see more of Mom than my eventual therapist would like. A guy I'll call "Mike" came in to take her vitals. I don't know what Mike is in the hierarchy. Nurse? Tech? PA? I know that every time I've take Mom to the Doctor, "Mike" has taken her BP and stuff and made notes in a laptop and regaled us with stupid jokes and forced conviviality. He means well.
When Mom was complaining about waiting and asking for a pillow for her back and quizzing him on office protocol (i.e why am I waiting?) he and I exchanged amused glances and, at one point I pantomimed loading a gun, pulling back the catch and shooting myself in the temple which sent Mike into peals of laughter.
He left us to wait in the examining room. You know that room. The one with all the scary looking stuff, no TV, no magazines, nothing to amuse you while you wait. And wait.
After 5 minutes she started. Where were they. They forgot her. We've been waiting a half hour. sigh. sigh. louder sigh. I tried to amuse her. No way. After about 10 minutes that her brain computed as an hour, she stood and marched resolutely to the door, ignoring my "No! Sit!" Quincy listens when I say that. Mom doesn't. She pulled open the door and ran into Mike. He reassured her that she was next, that the PA she was seeing that day was taking care of someone who was sicker than they thought and she would be in as soon as possible.
I shot the imaginary gun onto my mouth that time and he cracked up again. Then he left, closing the door behind him.
We chatted a bit, Mom and I. She asked me what my middle name was and I told her "Elaine" and she frowned and said "where did I come up with that??" and then for some reason she asked if I had a scar from my surgery. I laughed and told her I had a doozie. She wanted to see it. Anything to amuse her, I unzipped my jeans and pulled
them away from my tummy to show her. She gasped, touched the scar gently and whispered "I had no idea". I zipped up and sat down. Show and tell over, I thought.
Suddenly, she brightened up, announced that she had a hysterectomy once (Yes, I remember, it was in 1972) and that she didn't "leave marks". Then, to my horror, she stood, unzipped her slacks and pulled her clothing down to her never regions. At this point her never regions were about 3 inches from my face. You think I'm kidding abut eventual therapy. Look, she crowed, no marks. Nobody can believe I had surgery. I mumbled something complimentary while trying to look past her at something more appetizing, like the clogged artery illustration on the far wall and pondering how many people had told her it didn't look like she had surgery. Who else had she shown? The mind reels.
OK, Mom, I said, the doctor should be in soon. zip your pants. And she attempted to do just that except it was clumsy to gather her undies and girdle and slacks all at once and pull them up and something had to go and it was her slacks.
She was holding her other things against her never regions while I bent to grab the slacks that had puddled at her feet and that's when Mike opened the door.
I'll give you a moment to ponder the scene.
What's going on in here? he laughed and he and I fell helpless into a fit of giggles.
Comparing scars, I told him while pretending to stab myself in the gut with a huge sword.
Your Doctor is ready he told me and he escorted me to my little room, leaving the door open. I heard him briefing the Dr: "BP good, not sick, looks good, great sense of humor"
Mom and I left, both of us with glowing reports from our respective medical professionals except she needs an appointment for her eye problems and I really need to find that therapist.
They called Mom first and I went with her, telling the nurse where I would be when they got to my turn. Mom likes me to be with her, even though, in the process, I've come to see more of Mom than my eventual therapist would like. A guy I'll call "Mike" came in to take her vitals. I don't know what Mike is in the hierarchy. Nurse? Tech? PA? I know that every time I've take Mom to the Doctor, "Mike" has taken her BP and stuff and made notes in a laptop and regaled us with stupid jokes and forced conviviality. He means well.
When Mom was complaining about waiting and asking for a pillow for her back and quizzing him on office protocol (i.e why am I waiting?) he and I exchanged amused glances and, at one point I pantomimed loading a gun, pulling back the catch and shooting myself in the temple which sent Mike into peals of laughter.
He left us to wait in the examining room. You know that room. The one with all the scary looking stuff, no TV, no magazines, nothing to amuse you while you wait. And wait.
After 5 minutes she started. Where were they. They forgot her. We've been waiting a half hour. sigh. sigh. louder sigh. I tried to amuse her. No way. After about 10 minutes that her brain computed as an hour, she stood and marched resolutely to the door, ignoring my "No! Sit!" Quincy listens when I say that. Mom doesn't. She pulled open the door and ran into Mike. He reassured her that she was next, that the PA she was seeing that day was taking care of someone who was sicker than they thought and she would be in as soon as possible.
I shot the imaginary gun onto my mouth that time and he cracked up again. Then he left, closing the door behind him.
We chatted a bit, Mom and I. She asked me what my middle name was and I told her "Elaine" and she frowned and said "where did I come up with that??" and then for some reason she asked if I had a scar from my surgery. I laughed and told her I had a doozie. She wanted to see it. Anything to amuse her, I unzipped my jeans and pulled
them away from my tummy to show her. She gasped, touched the scar gently and whispered "I had no idea". I zipped up and sat down. Show and tell over, I thought.
Suddenly, she brightened up, announced that she had a hysterectomy once (Yes, I remember, it was in 1972) and that she didn't "leave marks". Then, to my horror, she stood, unzipped her slacks and pulled her clothing down to her never regions. At this point her never regions were about 3 inches from my face. You think I'm kidding abut eventual therapy. Look, she crowed, no marks. Nobody can believe I had surgery. I mumbled something complimentary while trying to look past her at something more appetizing, like the clogged artery illustration on the far wall and pondering how many people had told her it didn't look like she had surgery. Who else had she shown? The mind reels.
OK, Mom, I said, the doctor should be in soon. zip your pants. And she attempted to do just that except it was clumsy to gather her undies and girdle and slacks all at once and pull them up and something had to go and it was her slacks.
She was holding her other things against her never regions while I bent to grab the slacks that had puddled at her feet and that's when Mike opened the door.
I'll give you a moment to ponder the scene.
What's going on in here? he laughed and he and I fell helpless into a fit of giggles.
Comparing scars, I told him while pretending to stab myself in the gut with a huge sword.
Your Doctor is ready he told me and he escorted me to my little room, leaving the door open. I heard him briefing the Dr: "BP good, not sick, looks good, great sense of humor"
Mom and I left, both of us with glowing reports from our respective medical professionals except she needs an appointment for her eye problems and I really need to find that therapist.
Saturday, January 1
return from Oz
That's what the holidays feel like. Like your life was picked up by a whirlwind and dropped into an alternate existence where everything is real but different and time slows down, shifts into a neutral gear. Every aspect of your life seems affected by a sort of seasonal vapor. Your work hours are different, strange decorations permeate everything from the front office to your bosses desk. Employees feel compelled to bring in cookies and chocolate popcorn.
And your house! Your house takes on a new identity, alternating between wrapping central to gingerbread cottage. I mean, my mantle never looks like this:
It is more likely to have stacks of unopened mail, a dog brush and a bowl of pennies on it. But for Christmas, we sweep away the normal detritus for a more celebratory clutter.
And then there is the tree. I love our little tree.
But it is a temporary visitor. In a few days it will be a pathetic little branch at the side of the road and the furniture will be pushed back into its usual place and a bucket of magazines I am truly going to read this year will take its spot.
And so life revs up again and that brief foray away from life as we know it ends. Bills appear in the mailbox. Paperwork needs organizing. Books of paint colors lie open on the dining room table waiting for us to make a decision. My first application for the 2011 show season is due a week from today and I have no pictures, no beautiful items with which to wow the jury. And I won't even think about the laundry.
Maybe the best thing about the Winter solstice, no matter what your personal spirituality calls you to celebrate, is this communal escape from real life. From problems and worries and responsibility. We gather together as friends, as family. For every nut job that honks at you in traffic you can't control, there are dozens of strangers who smile and wish you Happy Holidays. People that a few weeks ago would have brushed by with a "scuse me". It is somehow appropriate that the finale of the season is the beginning of a new year. We have ended the year with a trip away from the things that consume us and we return rested and ready to take it all on again. With new resolve and a sweet belief that this time it will all be better.
That is what I wish for all of us. The ability to continue to believe in ourselves. Follow our own yellow brick road. There may not be answers at the end of it, but oh! the journey.
And your house! Your house takes on a new identity, alternating between wrapping central to gingerbread cottage. I mean, my mantle never looks like this:
It is more likely to have stacks of unopened mail, a dog brush and a bowl of pennies on it. But for Christmas, we sweep away the normal detritus for a more celebratory clutter.
And then there is the tree. I love our little tree.
But it is a temporary visitor. In a few days it will be a pathetic little branch at the side of the road and the furniture will be pushed back into its usual place and a bucket of magazines I am truly going to read this year will take its spot.
And so life revs up again and that brief foray away from life as we know it ends. Bills appear in the mailbox. Paperwork needs organizing. Books of paint colors lie open on the dining room table waiting for us to make a decision. My first application for the 2011 show season is due a week from today and I have no pictures, no beautiful items with which to wow the jury. And I won't even think about the laundry.
Maybe the best thing about the Winter solstice, no matter what your personal spirituality calls you to celebrate, is this communal escape from real life. From problems and worries and responsibility. We gather together as friends, as family. For every nut job that honks at you in traffic you can't control, there are dozens of strangers who smile and wish you Happy Holidays. People that a few weeks ago would have brushed by with a "scuse me". It is somehow appropriate that the finale of the season is the beginning of a new year. We have ended the year with a trip away from the things that consume us and we return rested and ready to take it all on again. With new resolve and a sweet belief that this time it will all be better.
That is what I wish for all of us. The ability to continue to believe in ourselves. Follow our own yellow brick road. There may not be answers at the end of it, but oh! the journey.
Tuesday, December 21
buying time
What would an extra day cost? I just need one. Really. One more day to bake, to wrap, to shop. It's not a lot to ask, is it? One day?
Can you work Wednesday, Thursday and Friday? my boss asked. Sure.
What was I thinking?
At least the tree is up. A perfect little 4 ft frasier fir. It sits on a table by the french doors and it makes me smile. We found it at Home Depot of all places. It was tied up and leaning on a crate far from the other trees. It called to me. We rescued it, brought it home, and it warmed up and fell into a perfectly symmetrical miniature of a big tree. We put big lights on it, just to be sassy, and favorite ornaments and a string of silver mardi gras beads. She's a beauty.
Stress is part of the holidays, I think. If you're not feeling it, you're forgetting to do something. No other explanation. For years I would have CHristmas Eve at my house, but as the family moved on and out, that fell by the wayside. Now we gather on Christmas Day, my tiny family. It has been just us and my brother's family for years, but now my son lives closer and we will have yet another holiday with him and his fiance. It is such a gift.
And just like that, priorities shift and click into place and it dawns on me that even if I don't bake one cookie, it will not matter to anyone but me. We will still come together and eat and drink and open presents and tell bad jokes and tease. There will be snow. Sounds perfect.
OK, I'm off to bake now. Suddenly it feels like the best way to spend a Winter morning.
Can you work Wednesday, Thursday and Friday? my boss asked. Sure.
What was I thinking?
At least the tree is up. A perfect little 4 ft frasier fir. It sits on a table by the french doors and it makes me smile. We found it at Home Depot of all places. It was tied up and leaning on a crate far from the other trees. It called to me. We rescued it, brought it home, and it warmed up and fell into a perfectly symmetrical miniature of a big tree. We put big lights on it, just to be sassy, and favorite ornaments and a string of silver mardi gras beads. She's a beauty.
Stress is part of the holidays, I think. If you're not feeling it, you're forgetting to do something. No other explanation. For years I would have CHristmas Eve at my house, but as the family moved on and out, that fell by the wayside. Now we gather on Christmas Day, my tiny family. It has been just us and my brother's family for years, but now my son lives closer and we will have yet another holiday with him and his fiance. It is such a gift.
And just like that, priorities shift and click into place and it dawns on me that even if I don't bake one cookie, it will not matter to anyone but me. We will still come together and eat and drink and open presents and tell bad jokes and tease. There will be snow. Sounds perfect.
OK, I'm off to bake now. Suddenly it feels like the best way to spend a Winter morning.
Thursday, December 16
gathering
I am gathering little gifts for my little family. My ancestors, paternal and maternal both, were not prolific reproducers. My brother and I each produced one perfect kidlet. We have lost family members, some way too soon. And so our immediate group can fit into a minivan and have room left over for a hitchhiker.
As my brother and I grew older, it became almost silly to gift each other. There were no things that we wanted that we did not already own. So, we present token gifts to the kids and try relentlessly to find something for Mom that she won't wrinkle her nose at.
Now that my son is expanding our group with the addition of a wife, there is a renewed sense of family. We have gathered with her family and enjoyed them. I love the woman my son has chosen. When they speak of having kids, my heart swells.
They mentioned over Thanksgiving that they wanted to upgrade their iPhones and it was the perfect time to take them to the phone store to get them and scratch that item off the to-do list.
So, no shopping for their gifts. But what I love to do every year is stuff stockings. For my son and his fiance and their dogs and my nephew. It is my fun time. I love searching odd places for fun stuffers. Gathering smiles, I think. Finding the perfect silliness for one of them tickles me, fills me with Christmas spirit.
And I find that while I'm doing this fun shopping, I am really thinking about these loved ones. Sensing them. This will make him smile, I think. This will turn into a family joke. She will love this little trinket. I might not have such a fun time if the family was larger. When the kids were small, shopping was basically checking off requested items from a list while walking the aisle of Toys r Us.
Now it takes imagination.Now, I draw them closer as I turn a tiny trinket in my hand and picture the laughter. It makes me think of what makes each of them tick. It is somehow more intimate, affectionate than schlepping through a mall looking for the perfect "wow" gift.
My brother says that in the midst of all the largess of Christmas, my nephew looks forward most to my annual stocking. He wonders how old he will have to get before I stop making one for him. Silly boy. Never. I will just add one for your wife some day, and then your kids.
Gathering you all close, keeping your smiles in my heart.
As my brother and I grew older, it became almost silly to gift each other. There were no things that we wanted that we did not already own. So, we present token gifts to the kids and try relentlessly to find something for Mom that she won't wrinkle her nose at.
Now that my son is expanding our group with the addition of a wife, there is a renewed sense of family. We have gathered with her family and enjoyed them. I love the woman my son has chosen. When they speak of having kids, my heart swells.
They mentioned over Thanksgiving that they wanted to upgrade their iPhones and it was the perfect time to take them to the phone store to get them and scratch that item off the to-do list.
So, no shopping for their gifts. But what I love to do every year is stuff stockings. For my son and his fiance and their dogs and my nephew. It is my fun time. I love searching odd places for fun stuffers. Gathering smiles, I think. Finding the perfect silliness for one of them tickles me, fills me with Christmas spirit.
And I find that while I'm doing this fun shopping, I am really thinking about these loved ones. Sensing them. This will make him smile, I think. This will turn into a family joke. She will love this little trinket. I might not have such a fun time if the family was larger. When the kids were small, shopping was basically checking off requested items from a list while walking the aisle of Toys r Us.
Now it takes imagination.Now, I draw them closer as I turn a tiny trinket in my hand and picture the laughter. It makes me think of what makes each of them tick. It is somehow more intimate, affectionate than schlepping through a mall looking for the perfect "wow" gift.
My brother says that in the midst of all the largess of Christmas, my nephew looks forward most to my annual stocking. He wonders how old he will have to get before I stop making one for him. Silly boy. Never. I will just add one for your wife some day, and then your kids.
Gathering you all close, keeping your smiles in my heart.
Sunday, December 12
sit. stay.
We had fun at our last show of the year. A small, church show with really fine work for sale and a organization that fed and pampered us and even toasted at the end with a selection of fine wines. By that time I knew I would not be cooking that night. My still-broken foot was throbbing and my back hurt from sitting in a folding chair all day. Plus, the cast that was in place to immobilize the foot, gave new reason for my bad knee to act up.
I took this picture with my phone. Look at what it shows. All those feet, none of them in a cast. Most of them belonging to young kids, the rest to their parental units. I looked in the bar for an empty stool. No luck. I leaned against the end of the bench, but there was really no relief there. Finally, I perched on the edge of a windowsill directly across from the sitters. SInce the windowsill was maybe 3 inches wide and my butt is at least 2 inches bigger than that, it wasn't much help. But it allowed me the opportunity to lean back a bit and extend my casted leg out towards the sitters.
You see, it was incredible to me that not one of them was going to offer me a seat on that bench.
I stared down the Dad who was mesmerized by my "boot" because he kept staring at it. The Mom ignored me, apparently invested emotionally in the video game the middle child was playing.
Now, I don't know about you, but if I was 40 years old, healthy, uninjured, sitting on a bench, and a person hobbling about in a walking cast was standing across from me looking pained, it would be impossible for me to keep sitting there. Wouldn't you hop up and say, oh, golly,what did you do to your leg? Here, take this seat.
Of course you would.
Not this crew. And the lesson to the kids? I guess it was that if you're lucky enough to be sitting down, don't let anyone guilt you into making you stand? They will most likely grow up to be the people who never let anyone into a line of traffic, who bring 47 items into the 10 or less line, who never hold the door open for anyone.
The wait turned out to be shorter than I feared, the food was excellent and I even treated myself to a glass of wine. The sitters didn't ruin my night, they made me grateful for the cushy booth, the perfect salmon and the knowledge that our kids would never sit while an injured person stood before them.
Right, kids?
I am not telling you this to get sympathy. I am setting the stage for what followed.
Russell dropped me off at the door of one of the neighborhood's most popular restaurants and I hobbled in to give our name to the keeper of the gate. There were people waiting, but it looked like a whole lot of people in 2 or 3 groups. Maybe the wait would not be horrible. Or so I hoped, because there was no place to sit. The bench was packed end to end with what appeared to be one family. Mom at one end, Dad at the other, a flock of children between them. The kids ranged from about 10 to 17 and all were engrossed in one form of electronic amusement or another. Except for one boy who was actually reading a book! Wonder of wonders.
I took this picture with my phone. Look at what it shows. All those feet, none of them in a cast. Most of them belonging to young kids, the rest to their parental units. I looked in the bar for an empty stool. No luck. I leaned against the end of the bench, but there was really no relief there. Finally, I perched on the edge of a windowsill directly across from the sitters. SInce the windowsill was maybe 3 inches wide and my butt is at least 2 inches bigger than that, it wasn't much help. But it allowed me the opportunity to lean back a bit and extend my casted leg out towards the sitters.
You see, it was incredible to me that not one of them was going to offer me a seat on that bench.
I stared down the Dad who was mesmerized by my "boot" because he kept staring at it. The Mom ignored me, apparently invested emotionally in the video game the middle child was playing.
Now, I don't know about you, but if I was 40 years old, healthy, uninjured, sitting on a bench, and a person hobbling about in a walking cast was standing across from me looking pained, it would be impossible for me to keep sitting there. Wouldn't you hop up and say, oh, golly,what did you do to your leg? Here, take this seat.
Of course you would.
Not this crew. And the lesson to the kids? I guess it was that if you're lucky enough to be sitting down, don't let anyone guilt you into making you stand? They will most likely grow up to be the people who never let anyone into a line of traffic, who bring 47 items into the 10 or less line, who never hold the door open for anyone.
The wait turned out to be shorter than I feared, the food was excellent and I even treated myself to a glass of wine. The sitters didn't ruin my night, they made me grateful for the cushy booth, the perfect salmon and the knowledge that our kids would never sit while an injured person stood before them.
Right, kids?
Wednesday, December 8
elizabeth
I did not know Elizabeth Edwards. I don't move in those circles. Her life could not be more different from mine. She was accomplished and privileged and celebrated. I am capable, lucky and anonymous.
But I know her. She became real to me when she steadfastly refused to believe her husband was the dog he was later proven to be. That blind trust thing is powerful. Been there.
Her refusal to be defined by an illness or a smarmy husband made me really respect this stranger. Her fight for Universal Health Care was inspiring and welcomed. She seemed like a very cool lady.
I will admit to reading Andrew Young's book about John Edwards and the scandal with that woman. (Elizabeth always asked in interviews that the woman's name not be mentioned and I will respect that here in my little blog, too) He said Elizabeth was not the saint the public perceives. She lost her temper! She got mad at him for pretending to be the baby daddy!
Of all the nerve.
They say John was at her side when she passed. I wonder why. I'll never know.
There was so much more to her than a deceived wife who outclassed the deceiver. But it was that crushing reality that made her one of us. Just an ordinary woman, fighting to save her life. And her love.
I wish her family peace. I wish her children the comfort of memories. If it is true that our souls reunite with loved ones who passed before us, she is with her son. I wish that to be true.
Monday, December 6
Gilda Weekend
I think everyone has heard the story about how Gilda Radner, after battling cancer for some time, said to her husband, Gene Wilder, that it was like being in a club nobody wanted to belong to. Gilda's Club was established as a support facility for those living with cancer and, in Buffalo, it is a beautiful facility bringing comfort and support and beauty to everyone who comes through the door of the renovated mansion.
Every Christmas for some years now, there has been "Gingerbread, Glitz and Gifts", an event in which I have honored to participate for most of those years. My dear friend, Annie Bliss, is instrumental in making this a genius shopping weekend with a beautifully choreographed selection of artisans selling everything from designer jewelry to spices. You absolutely cannot go there without buying a gift for somebody. 20% of everything sold is donated back to Gilda's Club.
I love this show for the good sales and the good friends that are part of the mix. I said to someone over the weekend that one of the best things about being in this business is the people you get to be with "on the job". And so it was this weekend. It was hard to spend just a moment away saying "Hi" to a fellow exhibitor because you either got into a long conversation or ran into someone else and then someone else and there was laughing and gossip and commiseration.
Anyway, I was happy to be on the first floor, what with the walking cast and all, and I think I worked up a decent display for my "mini-mall"
Sales were good, but would have been better had I been able to make up more product. As my friend, Anne, said, I need to cut myself some slack I guess. I feel great, but I'm finding it hard to make up for lost time. So be it.
Some random shots of the event. Still learning the new camera. No I have not read the manual yet. Oh shush.
The season is rapidly coming to a close. One more show and then the "off season" begins. It has been quite a year. Ending the year at this bneautiful place, surrounded by some of my favorite people, leaves me (as one of my show buddies put it) all verklempt.
So let's have a chuckle, shall we?
Oh, how you are missed, Gilda. Hope we did you proud this weekend.
Every Christmas for some years now, there has been "Gingerbread, Glitz and Gifts", an event in which I have honored to participate for most of those years. My dear friend, Annie Bliss, is instrumental in making this a genius shopping weekend with a beautifully choreographed selection of artisans selling everything from designer jewelry to spices. You absolutely cannot go there without buying a gift for somebody. 20% of everything sold is donated back to Gilda's Club.
I love this show for the good sales and the good friends that are part of the mix. I said to someone over the weekend that one of the best things about being in this business is the people you get to be with "on the job". And so it was this weekend. It was hard to spend just a moment away saying "Hi" to a fellow exhibitor because you either got into a long conversation or ran into someone else and then someone else and there was laughing and gossip and commiseration.
Anyway, I was happy to be on the first floor, what with the walking cast and all, and I think I worked up a decent display for my "mini-mall"
Sales were good, but would have been better had I been able to make up more product. As my friend, Anne, said, I need to cut myself some slack I guess. I feel great, but I'm finding it hard to make up for lost time. So be it.
Some random shots of the event. Still learning the new camera. No I have not read the manual yet. Oh shush.
The season is rapidly coming to a close. One more show and then the "off season" begins. It has been quite a year. Ending the year at this bneautiful place, surrounded by some of my favorite people, leaves me (as one of my show buddies put it) all verklempt.
So let's have a chuckle, shall we?
Oh, how you are missed, Gilda. Hope we did you proud this weekend.
Monday, November 29
Thanks a lot-really
This Thanksgiving was going to be special. We were invited to share the day with the family of my son's fiance. After all, come August we would be a family and it was time for us to come together, toast the engagement of our kids, celebrate our blessings.
OK, I was a little nervous about it. I wanted them to like us. I wanted to like them. I love their daughter and I am over the moon that she and Billy are getting married.
So, off we went to Rochester, my brother driving us in his behemoth SUV, the GPS lady chirping instructions. We came bearing pies and ratatouille and wine.
What was it like? Well, it was everybody's dog waiting for something to drop
It was tons of food from everyone's kitchen
It was chilling after dinner with football and new toys
It was desert and coffee
It was the joy of watching the love between the children we shared
There was laughter and teasing and conversation.
It was family.
OK, I was a little nervous about it. I wanted them to like us. I wanted to like them. I love their daughter and I am over the moon that she and Billy are getting married.
So, off we went to Rochester, my brother driving us in his behemoth SUV, the GPS lady chirping instructions. We came bearing pies and ratatouille and wine.
What was it like? Well, it was everybody's dog waiting for something to drop
It was tons of food from everyone's kitchen
It was chilling after dinner with football and new toys
It was desert and coffee
It was the joy of watching the love between the children we shared
There was laughter and teasing and conversation.
It was family.
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