disclaimer

Okay, so before everyone decides to get all nitpicky on me…yes, every one of the previous blogs has the same date.  The reason they all have the same date is because I have hereby decided that Blogger.com sucks, and as such I have decided to make use of their servces no longer.  Enter WordPress.  However, seeing as how I had invested much time and effort into aforementioned blog, I coul not just let the more clever of my entries go the wayside.  So, thanks to my new illness keeping me homebound, I had the time to copy all of my more treasured entries into my new blog.  However, I could not alter the date as I did so.  So get over it. 

I really should be in bed, but due to my cold I spent about 10 hours sleeping this afternoon, and as such have now found myself to be unintentionally wired.  So here I sit, and not a goddamned thing to write about at the moment.  Shit. 

So, I shall consent defeat and crawl my not-so-happy ass into bed.

when Cameron was in Egypt’s land…

Indeed.

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

Hypothesis tested, lesson learned. Noted.

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

Ah. Interesting segway here. Ready? Here goes.

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

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

Eccentric can be a rather subjective term.

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

As I turn the corner onto second ave. south I feel a tug at my sleeve. I look down, and find myself trapped in some random Japanese-horror flick remake.

Attached to the hand tugging persistently at my sleeve was a ragged-looking old woman, seemingly homeless with thinning hair and – I shit you not – blind in one eye.

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

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

It was her words.

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

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

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

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

“I see a curse…over your head…”

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

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

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

And I still don’t.

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

Voulez-voulez-vous karma.

there are few things…

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

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

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

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

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

*sigh*

voles-voles-vous introspection.

it is risen.

As a tribute to Easter weekend I have decided to take part in my own personal resurrection.

Note: I have not recently delved into the fine art of Necromancy. But I’ll save that possibility for another blog…

No, the resurrection of which I speak is my studio in the downstairs garage. Thanks to winter being so ruddy cold and unpleasant my studio was neglected; I just moved a few of my more important paintings upstairs which made my husband not at all pleased as I kept placing them in rather inconvenient locations throughout the living room. I just closed the door and let my beloved studio sit there for several months as there is no heating and, because of our violent windstorms we suffer here on a frequent basis, the frigid cold air would work its way in, not providing an ideal working environment.

So in a frenzy of boredom and malcontent at having to keep my works-in-progress upstairs, I decided it was time once again to reopen the doors to my studio and get back to work. Unfortunately, I encountered some obstacles.
Despite my own weak efforts, my studio had become an unwilling impromptu storage facility. Christmas decor had taken it’s toll, the old steam cleaner had worked its way in. Folding chairs, bags of old clothes, dog kennels…all of which, unless you are working on a rather odd still-life, are not exactly what you’d call official studio equipment.

Once the extraneous odds and ends were returned to their rightful places, I came across some pieces I had started and completely forgotten about. Which is agreeable, as I do require several active projects going at once. I do this so I can jump from one to the other rather than stagnating on one particular piece for weeks on end and suddenly finding myself resenting it. It’s my thing. Let it go.

Another bonus involved a box of stretcher bars I had ordered some time ago but had never unpacked. Also a bonus. I just have to make sure I have enough canvas on which to stretch it. Then it has to be primed, a subject matter must be decided upon, then I will have yet another active piece to add to my already impressive arsenal of unfinished canvases. I should have them all finished sometime next decade.

So this is where I have parked myself.

I should try and sell some paintings to pay off my ruddy cell phone bill.

voulez-voulez-vous I do not have unlimited minutes.

the forecast today

Fog.

I am in a fog. A depressing creative fog which has impaired my ability to conjure up any wit or cleverness and hence impaired my ability to blog. A blog-fog. Yep. That’s it.

So this is all I’ve got:

I’ve recently decided to alter my typical conversational response from “uh-huh” and “yeah” to indeed. It throws people off a bit. Intimidating, in a way. Most people aren’t prepared for it. We’ve become indeed-desensitized. Intolerant, even. Obsrerve:

- “So, my man callz and say, ‘I want tostadas for dinner’ and I’m like, ‘foo’, get ya own damn tostadas’ and he’s all, ‘bitch…you do-za what’s I say, and I-za wantin’ some tostadas!’”

To which I reply,

- “indeed.”

I am thus presented with:

- “Indeed? What da hellz that, indeed? What, choo tink youz all bettah than e’erybody else? Bitch, ya don’t know shit. Indeed. To hell witchoo and yo’ fancy talkin’”

(Note: the above conversation is indeed fictitious as I could not tolerate conversing with nor being associated with people who actually spoke in that manner. I would have to thump their skull with the Blue Book of English Grammar.)

I think I shall attempt to resurrect other words in the English language that seem to have gone the wayside. I’m sure we can re-integrate them successfully into modern conversational vocabulary. It will take some work, I’m not denying that. But if we band together, things will happen.

Such as:

Feckless: lacking purpose or vitality; feeble, ineffective; careless, irresponsible; from Scottish “feck”, for efficacy, short for effect+less.

(I particulary like this one…)
Chasmophile: a lover and seeker-out of nooks and crannies.

Isn’t that brilliant? It just rolls off the tongue…“chasmophile”…

I’ve got some more alluring yet curious words for you, but since I am a victim of the blog-fog, I shall save them for a later date to preserve blogging material.

Voulez-voulez-vous chasmophile.

Postscript: if anyone has some fascinatingly odd words to contribute, please feel free to leave them in my comments section. I assure you I will accept full credit for them and give no mention of you.

don’t forget the fortune cookies

bloody hell.

So, I’ve been tagged by Dariush, or called out, I suppose, to do the “meme”. I have no idea what the hell a “meme” is, but since I am such an uber-cool friend I shall cater to his whimsy and “meme” away. Here goes.

Tickle Your Pickle:
List seven songs you’re into right now.

* Waiting – Michael Tolcher. Heard it on an HBO promo and thought it was the coolest little ditty.
* Tangled – Maroon 5. Their “bitch go to hell” tuneage strums a chord in my vengeful lil heart.
* La Tortura – Shakira. Booty shakin’ is always a good thing.
* Geek in the Pink - Jason Mraz. I feel like Mrs. Robinson sayin’ this but this baby boy is cute as hell. (She can take her toys outta the drawer, then, cuz I ain’t comin’ home…) Brilliant.
* Don’t Dream it’s Over – Crowded House. Pure nostalgia.
* Enjoy the Silence – Mike Shinoda Remix – Depeche Mode. A kick ass rendition of some classic DM.
* In the Rough – Anna Nalick. One of my few indulgences in poppy chick music.

and one more just cuz Bry and I are Jammin’ to it right now:
* Come Baby Come – K7. Ya gotta gimme lovin’ and ya gotta gimme some…

Band for a Lifetime:
Choose a band/artist and answer ONLY in titles of their songs.

As much as I hate to admit it, Tori Amos.

1. Are you male or female?
Girl. Self-explanatory.

2. Describe yourself:
Sweet Sangria. Sweet indeed.

3. How do some people feel about you:
Strange Little Girl. Not so little, but it’s all I got.

4. How do you feel about yourself:
Little Earthquakes. Just unstable enough to be interesting…

5. Describe your ex-boyfriend/-girlfriend:
The Wrong Band Definitely.

6. Describe your current significant other:
Real Men. Hell Yeah he is.

7. Describe where you want to be:
In The Springtime of His Voodoo. Relevance = none. Coolness = 100%

8. Describe how you live:
A Sorta Fairytale. Although not so sorta.

9. Describe how you love:
Sweet the Sting. (devilish laugh)

10. What would you ask for if you had just one wish:
Snow Cherries From France. Well, why not?

11. Share a few words of wisdom:
The Power of Orange Knickers. Heed.

12. Now say goodbye:
Goodbye Pisces.

*whew*

I am done. All for you, Dariush. All for you.

I suppose this is like a chain letter type of system, so I must share the wonder that is the MEME with others.

Thus:

I hereby tag Shannon and Jason, since Shannon is on spring break and has plenty of time on her hands, and Jason ‘cuz he shall not escape the meme unscathed. Now GO, my young Padawans! Go forth and “meme” unto the world! (And no cheating! Keep your eyes on your own paper! And NO nook-ing!)

The Meme has you…

Voulez-voulez-vous meme

endorphins are the i-ching

I just realized what a depressing fucking blog that was.
What a pissy whiner I am. No wonder no one visits me anymore. I’d just turn them into a load of suicidal zombies. You are right to stay away from me! Get as far away as you can! Flee! Run away…run away!!!

Oh, you do love me. I knew you did.

Lucky for you I went to the gym and worked out my hostilities. Otherwise, the verbal lashing that may have ensued would have left you quite incapacitated and unable to prepare 23 baloney sandwiches for the Earl of Windsor when he decides to visit.

Exactly.

And in case you had forgotten:

The square root of 9 is 3
Red and yellow make orange
It is possible to walk and chew gum at the same time
and let sleeping dogs lie.

That is all. I bid you bonsoir, buenos noches, hugs and kisses.

Voulez-voulez-vous nitey nite.

the other 10%

I have sunken into a self-loathing funk today.

I do this once in a while. The fucked up thing is I don’t know what I’m in a funk about. I’m sure I do, on some subconscious level, but I don’t want to delve into that right now. I prefer deluding myself rather than coping with it and dealing with anything resembling reality.

Reality is overrated.

It’s a trade-off, this. I was on happy pills for 6 years. 6 years. Last July I just up and decided I didn’t want to be on them anymore. The thing is, they weren’t truly happy pills. They were ‘emotional automaton’ pills. I did not feel depressed on them, no. I did not panic, I slept, I did not have chest-tightening anxiety attacks. Goal attained.

I also could not cry. I could not feel unbound joy. Anger eluded me. Romance was absolutely out of the question. I was nothingness…I was emotionless. I am not a cold, unfeeling being by nature. These turned me into something else. I did not like me very much.

So, I did a trial separation. Wanted to see if I’d re-engage in my self-loathing, destructive and panic-stricken behavior without excess serotonin flowing through my brain. If I did, I’d know I’d actually needed them.

Well, I was 90% right.

Today just happens to be one of the 10%. Like I said, it’s a trade-off. Payment due to the gods of non-chemical contentment. Bastards better appreciate it and not spend it all on weed again.

Besides, if people were meant to be happy and elated every minute of every day of every year, it wouldn’t be life. It’d be an episode of Full House.

*shudder*

So here I sit, in my glummy snit.

Side note: ever go through antidepressant withdrawal? It is good times.

I did some research whilst in the throes of the electric-shock sensations reverberating throughout my body and to my utter dismay and vindication (family was convinced I was exaggerating…) found that the symptoms of SSRI withdrawal are likened to heroin.

Heroin.

Observe:

The symptoms associated with heroin withdrawal that are similar to SSRI withdrawal are: nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, restlessness, and leg movements, or jerking. While heroin produces muscle and bone pain, insomnia, and cold flashes with goose bumps (“cold turkey”), which are not identical to SSRI withdrawal, the SSRI symptoms of headache, “electric shocks”, dizziness and hot flashes as well as psychotic mental state (violent anger/hopeless depression, unwanted suicidal/homicidal thinking) are similarly debilitating and certainly result in the return to the use of SSRI’s in the same way that heroin produces that result. Most experts agree that the major withdrawal symptoms peak between 24 and 48 hours after the last dose of heroin and subside after about a week. However, some people have shown persistent withdrawal signs for many months.

That’s the catch. The withdrawal symptoms are so debilitating and intolerable that you go back on them to make the nightmares, twitching, manic depression and blinding flashes of light to go away. The feelings of constant anxiety, panic and despair are so intense you believe that you do in fact need antidepressants. So back to the pharmacist you go.

I was determined. And just shy of psychotic. But my pride remained intact. I was not going to let a bottle of friendly-looking pink pills alter my brain chemistry and turn me into an emotional vacuum, which is what they did. I felt nothing. I had NO sex drive. I was a turnip. So, I flushed the fuckers down the toilet and plodded on. Granted the insomnia was unbearable, the random terror-induced sobbing fits freaked out my co-workers and the inability to form coherent sentences caused me to occasionally question my decision. But dammitall, this had to happen.

So you can see why I’m perfectly willing to endure the 10% just to feel human.

I shall sit in my cozy little funk here and reassure myself that the odds of having two 10% days in a row are highly unlikely.

Again, reality is overrated.

So, yes, I cry. I get angry, irrationally at times. I funk it out on occasion (10%). But I also laugh, make jokes, and find amusement in most facets of human nature. And the sex life ain’t too shabby, either. I’ve got some lost time to make up for, after all.

Voulez-voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

anyone got Noah’s cell phone number?

incredulity

Winters where I live can be pretty brutal. Living in the Cascade foothills makes us particularly susceptible to kick-ass windstorms. For the last several days, we’ve been at the mercy of 35-mph winds with gusts ranging from 45-60 mph. Saturday night we lost power for 5 hours. Garbage cans and recycle bins have been careening down the parking lot. Roofing tiles are being wrenched from houses. Walking the dogs is like trying to run underwater. Christmas lights are even being torn from eaves and windowpanes. In the past we have had trees crashing through rooftops and blocking roadways.

However.

Despite the disabling winds that send your car swerving on the road.

Despite the objects flying at random.

Despite the trees bending dangerously in half.

Despite the inability to breathe with 60mph gusts flooding your nostrils.

There is…one man. Who despite the odds, perseveres, with super-human determination, to do what needs to be done.

That’s right.

My pal.
My buddy.
The piece of shit gooch-muncher who is out to destroy me every Monday morning at 7 a.m.

Dear God.

You ever see something so completely stupid that your brain, at the mere glimpse of it, begins to fold in upon itself?

Happened to me.

Sitting in my poofy oversized recliner, cozy by the fireplace, the scent of peppermint candles floating in the air, content at being safe and snug in my apartment whilst the trees are whipping violently in the wind and freezing rain is crashing against my windows.

Then I hear something.
Faint at first, then gaining volume…not quite sure what…

No no no no….can’t possibly be…

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

The sheer incredulity of it sent my mind reeling. A leaf-blower. In a windstorm.

I think someone needs to re-evealuate his terms of employment. Who does that? Seriously? There have got to be some kind of labor laws against blowing leaves in a windstorm. I mean, at least consider the psychological impact. Doing a job that is so completely futile, trying to complete a task that can never be completed (at least for a few days)…I mean, that cannot possibly good for one’s mental well-being, can it? Do they offer psychological counseling for leaf-blowers in such a situation? This is just so impossibly ridiculous I can’t even function.

Leaf-blower in a windstorm. What the hell.

I think I have may created a new metaphor. “Screen door on a submarine” is SO 5 years ago.

Get with it people. Use it. Share it. Spread it like wildfire.

Meanwhile I will be questioning the future of the human race.

Leaf-blower in a windstorm.

Christ.