Harshing My Mellow

I know what you've been asking yourself. "Hey, where's all the artwork? What about the paintings? Isn't this supposed to be an art blog? How am I supposed to get aesthetically enriched if this one won't come across with the product? What has she been doing with herself, for heaven's sake? Navigating to this site anymore is just a waste of clicks!" C'mon, now; give a crippled crab a crutch... January is a long, cold month. I got a new phone, and Lisa showed me how to tape my favorite TV shows on the DVR. I finished my resume. Oh, and I made a necklace. Be that as it may, here are a couple new boards I'm working on.

I Got You, Babe!

Punxsutawney Phil is not the only true weather forecasting representative; we could care less if he sees his shadow or not. Around these parts, we gauge the length of the winter season by whether or not David falls in the driveway. He went down for the first time three weeks ago. Granted, I've never actually seen it happen, but I can't imagine that it's anything short of completely hilarious. Besides, he's pretty good with the details . He'll come in with one whole side of his body soaking wet or a brand new pair of pants all tore up. So for me, news like this ranks somewhere between a unicorn sighting and a shooting star. My general reaction is "Oh, man! I missed it again!" Needless to say, Spring seems a long way off this year!

Kit for Kat

Some boys don't even need a kitten around to have a good time playing with cat toys. It would be funner, but not by much. Might be the brown soda that makes them this way. Note to self: Switch to white come sundown.

This is Tuxedo, Kirin's new roommate. As soon as Des and Rory came at him the other night, Mr. Fuzzy Britches beat it under the bed and stayed there for the duration of our visit. He could very well be the smartest cat in the world.

Good-bye, Tonsils!

After your tonsils are removed, your throat will be very sore. You will need a sip of something really, really bad. You will ask for water one hundred times, in different ways. You may briefly consider the possibility that while you were sedated, everyone in charge went deaf and cannot hear your requests for a drink. They offer you some whack ice chips (completely unacceptable)given what you've just been through. Demand to see the manager! Finally, a sympathetic nurse will bring you three teaspoons of water in a teeny weeny cup. To repay her kindness, you may barf up a little on her shoe. Some orderlies hoist you out of bed; they hand you over to your mommy. You fall back asleep for a little bit; you wake up and complain about things, then drift off again. This goes on for a long time, like an hour. When you finally come around, it dawns on you that you're wearing a flimsy surgical garment with clowns on it. You may clutch at your IV in a desperate attempt to free yourself and find your boy clothes. Your efforts are thwarted by everybody in the room. You swallow your pride (which is excruciating given your delicate condition), and pull yourself together as best you can. To compensate for the loss of your dignity, Nurse Jack presents you with an Italian ice. Lemon. It's pretty good. The remainder of your recovery time is spent sitting there on your mommy's lap, while your progress is closely monitored. Even though you weigh 53 pounds and jab at her repeatedly with your elbows trying to get comfortable, she seems cheerful and happy to be trapped like she is, under your inanimate girth. She tells you how much she loves you and what a good job you're doing. She thinks about the day she brought you home from the hospital, after you were born; how quickly the time passes. Oh, great. Now is not the time for her sentimental twaddle! Make sure you remind her that this is the worst day ever. You are thirsty, and you need water. She suggests a different topic for discussion. So you talk about juice, Gatorade and Vitamin Water for two more hours. Mom tells you about this drink called a Slush Puppie; it comes in cherry, cola and blue flavor. She knows where a kid can get one. Remember to make her take you there when you're back in action, which will more than likely be within the week.

Birdgirl, 2009

In the seventh grade, my Catholic school classmates and I were approached with the opportunity to receive Confirmation. At the time, the whole thing seemed like a pretty big event. Nothing like a religious sacrament thrown into an otherwise lackluster school year to liven things up a bit. At first, this one seemed compelling enough, with lots of decision-making potential aimed at piquing the interest of directionless, impressionable youth. To further sweeten the deal, we were offered the choice to add a new name, but it had to be a Christian name that should reflect a saint who you admired and could imitate. Okay. You also got to choose a sponsor, but that person had to a) be a grown-up, b) go to church every Sunday, and c) act all responsible. Sure, there was a new outfit and shoes. And then a party where you only got cards with money in them, and you had to put it all in the bank. You get where I'm going with this? The perks were confusing and rather suspect. Alot of razzle in the dazzle, if you catch my drift. Truth be told, as a self-conscious pre-teen, I couldn't even be counted on to order a pizza by phone without dying of embarrassment, never mind becoming a public witness to Christ. I suppose I was as ready as I was ever gonna be to accept Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior. At twelve, I could use all the help I could get. My father isn't Catholic; he's not a praying man, but he loves God just as much as the next guy. He's the one who suggested Sacagawea as my Confirmation name. He said she was a historical figure, kind and good. Sacagawea sounded exotic, much more clever than Agnes, Patricia or Florence. I couldn't wait to share my holy choice with the teacher. Next day when I saw Mrs. O'Byrne, she told me that Sacagawea (aka the Bird Woman) was the young Indian squaw who accompanied Lewis and Clark on their expedition through the Northwest Territory. She wasn't the patron saint of camping or travel or anything else, for that matter. Mrs. O'Byrne asked me where the brilliant Sacagawea idea came from; with my cheeks burning hot with shame, I gave my old man up as the culprit. Then she asked me what his name was, and that's how I ended up with mine, Mary Elizabeth Gene.
Birdgirl is a stylized interpretation, (closely) adapted from the work of Mike R. Baker http://mikerbaker.com/404/ I looked exactly like her when I was in the seventh grade. Ask anybody. Except Dad, of course. He can no longer be trusted to give a straight answer.

How Does She Do It?

My mom has always said that I must learn to wait patiently for some things. She says it all the time, the same annoying suggestion. If we are on the phone and she says it, I want to smash the receiver into tiny little plastic bits. If we're together in the car and she lets go with this pearl, I want to reach across, open the passenger door and boot her into some shrubbery. It is hard for me to sit and wait. I want to take control of the situation. I want to make things happen, and I want it now. Anxiousness sets in, and then I feel ugly inside because it becomes all about me. Do I give the impression that it's all about me? I don't think I mean to. Well, maybe I do. So glide away on soapy heels,
And promise not to promise anymore.
And if you come around again,
Then I will take the chain from off the door.
I'll never say, I'll never love.
But I don't say alot of things;
And you, my love, are gone.

Okay, time to share! I really enjoy my relationship with God; we have fun. I try to live my life with an attitude of gratitude. I'm clumsy with the prayers, though. Praying is like exercise; I realize that it's good for me, but I just wanna watch this show on how to make non pareils. I generally roll a petition or two around when things get prickly. I know, I'm a pig. Still, Jesus loves me; the bible tells me so. My mom, on the other hand, is a professional prayer athlete - a prathlete. She prays for all of us with the strength and stamina of an Olympic gold medalist. When called upon to help out, Mom follows a rigorous schedule of church visits, candlelight vigils and dedicated novenas to several powerful martyrs and angels at once. She's got all the equipment and paperwork to make a wish, farm the work out and get the job done. Rosary beads, holy cards, maps to the patron saints' homes; whatever you need. She has a pretty good track record for success. It's been a relatively quiet year for divine intervention requests; thankfully, most everybody has remained in pretty decent shape. Nonetheless, I know she's kept praying that Kirin would call. We've all been, in different ways.

Here he is, January's miracle. My eldest boy.
All three of my sons together Tuesday night, for the first time in a very long while. Perhaps the most beautiful thing in the whole world, to see him gather Rory and Desmond up in his arms and lift them together (no easy accomplishment!). To watch how these little guys embrace him as if he were never gone. It's so important to have faith that things can somehow work out; that someone you love can find his way back to your heart.

Cruising on a Sunday Afternoon

Seems as though it's getting easier to fall from a cruise ship these days. This past week alone, two people went missing in separate incidents. The young woman was a passenger, on vacation with family. The gentleman was a stage performer; you'd think he was more familiar with the layout of the vessel. Perhaps tour groups are not providing enough incentive to remain on the boat itself. How unlikely! There's tons of entertainment aboard a luxury oceanliner. Rock climbing, simulated surfing, ice skating; plenty of opportunity to hurt yourself and frighten your loved ones without plunging into icy, shark-infested waters, not to mention ruining everybody else's trip while you're at it. There are easier ways to break up an unhappy marriage than booking an 8 day/7 night vacation, positioning your unsuspecting spouse near a weak railing and hoping for a gusty wind at sunset. Use your imagination! Be flirty and arrange dates with whoever is friendly; recklessly gamble your life savings away in the casino while your husband or wife nervously looks on, nursing a now very costly virgin rumbuck. Your partner will be so fed up with your behavior, he or she will have no choice but to seriously consider filing for divorce as soon as you return to dry land. Don't get me wrong - I love buffets and awkward organized games with complete strangers, but not enough to risk my life on a cruise. How about accidental death that doesn't involve travel? Banana peels, marbles... A barbecue explosion seems plausible. It nearly happened to me this past spring while grilling hot dogs; I forgot I had already turned the gas on. When I flicked the switch, the invisible fireball I encountered took me by such surprise, I became immediately concerned about the condition and location of my eyebrows. And don't even get me started about black ice. I have my children and the elderly terrified of breaking a hip on the black ice. Total body casts for the whole gang! These kids live in fear of being hospitalized during the holidays, where they'll receive only one gift from an unfriendly nurse in an elf costume; my parents have been warned that they'll contract pneumonia, lapse into comas and never regain consciousness. When I see my mom wearing her Keds in the snow, I blow my stack! Last night, Dave told me a story about some Metallica musicians whose tour bus skidded on some Swedish black ice in 1986, pinning the bass guitarist under the vehicle for several hours. When they finally lifted the rig off him, the ropes snapped and the bus landed on him again. That black ice is nothing to joke about. With the details of Cliff Burton's untimely death swirling in my head during our otherwise lovely dinner conversation (He was just a kid!), I finished my tuna fish in silence. Now, where was I? Oh yes, falling from cruise ships. I suppose there's a part of me that just doesn't understand it. As toddlers, Judy and I spent many hours on the rooftop of the apartment building where my folks lived in Manhattan, bouncing balls and playing with dolls in the company of somewhat pre-occupied adults. The women hung laundry and smoked cigarettes while their men drank beers after work and all day Sunday. There we were with assorted cousins, two little girls in matching plaid dresses and red leather slippers. So cute, padding around on the blacktop amidst the chimney stacks and tv antennaes. These are some of my best vague memories, and I guess that's because not once did any of us kids ruin the summer by dropping to our deaths. So, no. I don't get it; and I probably never will.