tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17893188902458026072024-02-07T19:18:52.451-08:00gobpileUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-64795792022160231112014-05-16T20:11:00.000-07:002014-05-16T20:11:39.539-07:0050 Things About My Mother<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">50 Things About My Mother<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">for Cathy Jean Kelly, 9/11/1958 - 10/12/2011</span></div>
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<span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Inspired by <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2014/05/mother_s_day_essay_about_a_mother_after_she_s_gone.html" target="_blank">Laura Lynn Brown’s essay of the same title,
originally published in </a><i><a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2014/05/mother_s_day_essay_about_a_mother_after_she_s_gone.html" target="_blank">The Iowa Review</a><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">She could just look
at something and make her own, only hers was always better. We teased her about this, and we started
calling her China because she would be happy to sit at her art table and paint
100 of some little thing like a snowman face.
She found joy in making each one have a slightly different smile. Or maybe she’d put a tiny different wrinkle
on each of their noses or twinkles in their eyes. And then she’d sell them for one dollar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">Cathy Jean Kelly
was born September 11, 1958. She always celebrated "birthday week." In 2001, she had no idea the towers had fallen. She was eating dinner with her friends, and they were wearing party hats at the White Bear Inn. She wondered why everyone was staring. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">It was cervical
cancer that did her in. It had spread
all over before we ever knew she was even sick.
For about two years, she had these infections every once in a while, and
her doctor told her they were resulting from a spider bite and that staph
infections were hard to get rid of. They
never checked for cancer, and we never suspected it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">People thought she
was cranky when they’d ask her to go someplace and she’d say, “I don’t know how
I’m going to be feeling. I still have
that spider bite.” I can’t blame
them. Everything she ever said, she said
it with a smile. People can tell when
you’re smiling, even over the phone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">It drove other
people crazy, the way my mother found some way to be happy all of the
time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother went to
Computer Tech in Pittsburgh in the fall of 1976. She didn’t like her roommates. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">7.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My father’s mother
had a Catalina, one of those huge old boat-sized cars. My mother quit college, and she and my father
drove to Florida in it. They were going
to live with a few friends who had already moved down there, but someone peed
on my dad the first night they stayed there.
They rented a lanai that had been turned into a one-room apartment, but
my mom said it had too many windows, so they lived in the car. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">8.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">Her first job was
cleaning hotel rooms in Sarasota. Then
she found a dead woman in one of the rooms.
She came home pregnant. My
grandparents let my dad move in, but they weren’t allowed to sleep together,
even though the damage was done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">9.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">I was born November
14, 1977. Nine months earlier was
Valentine’s Day. I always wondered if I
was conceived in that Catalina.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">10.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">When I was really
little, my mother, my father, and I moved into the upstairs of a house in
Canton, Ohio. The downstairs neighbors
were always cooking something that smelled awful. She imagined it was goats. My dad worked at Timken, and when she dropped
him off at work every day, we went to my grandmother’s house all day until it
was time to go back to Canton and pick him up again. I got to stand up in the front seat. It took almost a half tank of gas in her guzzling
Valiant, a hand-me-down car from my grandpa, but gas was cheap in the early 80s
and she loved to cruise around. It had
an 8-track player, and we rolled the windows down and sang along. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">11.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My father liked to
give my mother black eyes. When my
mother got pregnant with my brother, we moved back in with my
grandparents. My father went hitchhiking
around the country. He sent my mother
letters from all over the place. He sent
her photos of himself with women who looked like her to make her jealous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">12.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";"> My father had bipolar disorder. My grandmother called him “the bastard.” My mother and her friend, Cindy Allender,
used to communicate with my dad and his brother Dan by Walkie Talkie. My grandmother found Cindy’s Walkie Talkie when
they were all seventeen years old and confiscated it. She gave it back to her when my mom and Cindy
were well into their thirties. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">13.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">When she blow-dried
her hair, the blow-dryer always overheated.
Her hair smelled like hot and strawberries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">14.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">After my parents divorced,
my mother dated a short little hairy man named John. One night, my grandmother sat my mom in the
middle of the living room and picked at her hair for hours because John put his
arm around my mom. She said there were
crabs on his arms. It was years before I
understood. I was sad because John
always liked to play Atari. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">15.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">Her second job was
at the jewelry counter at Hart’s department store in Wintersville, Ohio. She loved to detangle the necklaces. She liked to do any kind of little thing that
took hours and drove any normal person crazy.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">16.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My father was
murdered on Venice Beach when I was five years old. My mother had nightmares her whole life that
he faked his death and he was going to kidnap me. This continued throughout my adult life right
up until she died. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">17.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">She had an entire
closet full of high-heeled shoes and fancy dresses and shiny coats. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">18.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">She suffered fools
well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">19.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother had PJ
parties with her girlfriends Cindy Allender and Mary Stacey until they were at
least 28 years old. They brought their
children, and we thought this was completely normal. She always made popcorn balls with melted Red
Hots, and we jumped on the beds. My
grandfather always said we were “raisin’ hell.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">20.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">She really came
into her own as a Tupperware Lady. She
was always shy, but she was talked into it, and once she got going, she found
out she was really good at it. She was
the manager of her own unit, Cathy’s Clowns.
She received a company station wagon every year. We always had a new Oldsmobile. I was a Tupperkid. It was really good while it lasted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">21.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">When she was 33,
she was in a head-on collision with a Napa Auto Parts van. The driver swore he didn’t see her because
the summer sun was shining in his eyes.
She had a crushed ankle and a broken knee, and she had to spend a year
in a cast up to her hip. No more
Tupperware Lady. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">22.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother’s second
husband, Bob, owned carnival games. She
married him to make my father jealous, she admitted years later. The marriage didn’t last long. When he left, his three daughters stayed at
our house. Months later, there was a
woman looking at us every morning when we got on the bus. She turned out to be the girls’ mother. She had no idea where her ex-husband had
taken them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">23.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">Ever since I was in
elementary school, we sold crafts at craft shows and festivals. We always talked all year about what we were
going to make for the next one. My
mother always waited until the night before the show, and we would stay up all
night and make as many things as we could.
It was tradition. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">24.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">All four men my
mother ever dated bought her an engagement ring. She married three of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">25.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">After my mom died,
I went shopping at Reisbeck’s, a grocery store in WIntersville, Ohio where the
old Hart’s department store used to be.
John works there. The John with
the crabs in his arms. He opened up his
line and said, “I can help you over here, m’am.” I went through his line and when he made eye
contact, I said, “I’m Cindy. I used to
be Cindy. Kelly. You knew my mom. She died.
I don’t know if you knew that.” He
said, “That was a long time ago.” I didn’t
say anything else and I never go there anymore.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">26.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother had a
special talent for finding zoos. She
could find a zoo anywhere. We went to
them all, and we rarely ever saw any animals.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">27.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">Once, at a
Tupperware party, she tried to move the demo table away from the television so
she could stand behind it. There was a
man underneath the table watching a football game. He was not to be disturbed, so she stood
beside it instead. My grandmother helped
her carry in and out back then when she was just starting out, and she waited
in the kitchen with the hostess’s pet birds, which flapped their wings
profusely every now and again, right overtop of the buffet table. My mother’s face always contorted into a
grimace when she told the story of why my grandmother whispered, “Don’t eat the
brownies.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">28.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">After my father
died, my mother’s friend Linda Acconcia tried to fix her up. And then Mary Stacy tried to fix her up. And then Cindy Harding tried to fix her
up. Finally, Linda said, “Cathy, you’re
never going to meet a man if you wait for him to show up on your front porch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">29.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">When I was 8, she
met Paul. He stumbled over from the
Village Inn. Drunk. He sat on the back porch with my Grand Aunt
Mary Davis. She wasn’t very
hospitable. A week later, he called my
mother and asked her out on a date. They
were together until the day she died. My
mother wrote in her journal that Linda just didn’t know what porch to look
on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">30.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">A year after the
car accident, she used her settlement money to open The Olde Garage Crafts and
Gifts. She opened up the shop in an old
garage that my grandfather bought off of a guy named Mark Mamula. Mark Mamula bought it off of Paul’s father,
Big Turk, who ran a mechanic shop there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">31.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother’s best
friend was Rebecca Pilati. When they
were young, she would go out by the road and yell across the road, “Rebeeeeeeeeeeeeca,
Rebeeeeeeeeeeeeecaaaaa” until Rebecca answered.
Children didn’t use the telephone back then. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">32.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">She broke a tooth
on a Panera salad once, and after she got home, she tried on my grandmother’s
false tooth to see if it would fit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">33.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">We ate at Pangea, a
fancy fusion restaurant in Pittsburgh, for her birthday when she turned 52. She ordered something with a fruit compote,
and on the drive home, her lips started to swell up. And then her face. By the time we got home, she couldn’t talk
right because her tongue was swollen.
But she said it was worth it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">34.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">After she
recuperated from the car accident, she was told she would never wear another
high-heeled shoe. She had a
bonfire. If she couldn’t wear them,
nobody would wear them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">35.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother’s
favorite websites were Cake Wrecks, Awkward Family Photos, The Blog of
Unnecessary Quotation Marks, Regretsy, and Black and WTF. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">36.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">One of our favorite
pastimes was reading to each other. I
can’t imagine a lovelier way to spend an evening than listening to my mother
read David Sedaris out loud to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">37.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">Her favorite food
was Lasagna. But she never ate lasagna
at a party because at parties people try to be sneaky and put cottage cheese in
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">38.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">When I was twelve
years old, and it was time for “the talk,” my mother and grandmother gave me a
series of books called “The Life Cycle Library.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">39.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">When she was dying,
her friend Annie, who suffers from multiple personality disorder, played the
Viola for her in her hospital room.
Nobody complained. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">40.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">When she was in 2<sup>nd</sup>
grade, she and Rebecca took the shortcut home from school behind the funeral
home. They found a bunch of flowers and
ribbons in the trash, and so they put them around themselves as if they were
beauty pageant sashes, and they sashayed home.
My mother was never allowed to walk home from school again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">41.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">When my mother was
sick, her friend Michelle Thompson gave her a porcelain lamp shaped like an
angel. The lamp had the oddest pattern
of blinking on and off. After my mother
died, the lamp wouldn’t blink anymore. I
told Michelle about it, and she checked with the florist. The lamp was never supposed to blink at
all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">42.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother was
fascinated with how people talk about violence on television influencing
children “nowadays.” She said that when
she was young, when the sirens went off, everyone piled in the car to go see
the actual bloody, gorey accidents. The
more gruesome the better, she told me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">43.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">There were two
philosophies in the house when my mother was growing up. My grandmother wanted to get rid of
everything, and my grandfather wanted to keep it. My mother has been gone since 2011, and I’m
still finding boxes of things I never knew existed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">44.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother was
always keeping something “for good.” She
died before “good” ever got here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">45.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">Any time I ever
asked her for anything, she said, “You can have it when I die,” and now I don’t
care about any of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">46.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">One Christmas when
I was in middle school, my mother told Paul that we were getting him something special. He believed with all of his heart that it was
going to be an air compressor. When the
box was opened on Christmas day, it turned out that she had bought a camcorder. One of those big, huge ones that sits up on
the shoulder. She videotaped every
moment of our lives after that. I
watched those home movies for three days straight after she died. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">47.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">Paul was always
buying and restoring old cars. The best
family car we ever had was the one my mom lost in the head-on collision. It was a 1986 Chevy Caprice Classic, and it
was metallic cherry red with leather seats that made the backs of my legs burn
in the sun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: sl-ApresRegular; mso-fareast-font-family: sl-ApresRegular;">48.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">The first time my
mother told the story about going to Florida in Betty Bateman’s Catalina, Paul
just about spit out his false teeth. He
said, “My father gave that Catalina to Betty.
I been taking care of you your whole life.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->49.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #281b21; font-family: "sl-ApresRegular","serif";">My mother never met
my husband, but she used to talk to him on Skype. One day, he told her, “Aunt Cathy, you have a
treasure, not a daughter.” And she said,
“Oh, I know. Cindy’s a real treat.” And I know the sarcasm was lost on him, but
when we hung up the Skype call that day, she giggled and said, “I love how he
talks to you. I can’t wait to meet him.” </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->50.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->My
mother always called me “Sissy.” The
last message she ever left on our answering machine at home said, “I miss you,
Sissy.” I still listen to it when I want
to hear her voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-86516677519682699582010-03-20T15:47:00.000-07:002010-03-20T16:01:36.490-07:00hEYI am still alive.<br /><br />I promise.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-45807991272130973082009-08-21T16:24:00.000-07:002009-08-21T16:30:53.838-07:00Crazy dream<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XUmnXCH25o20gLXcRM98nZ1y2aXm6DbChoaFbIzJtIo6K3pNknu4QBK7VDRdS6em5Wzk7EJKCnbCFC_Im7MhqyQbiYb4SC-714dco-OYl3Ftc2_joxuAO_8Q8rUbXYaNjnBgl2YNjdw/s1600-h/jellyfishninny.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XUmnXCH25o20gLXcRM98nZ1y2aXm6DbChoaFbIzJtIo6K3pNknu4QBK7VDRdS6em5Wzk7EJKCnbCFC_Im7MhqyQbiYb4SC-714dco-OYl3Ftc2_joxuAO_8Q8rUbXYaNjnBgl2YNjdw/s400/jellyfishninny.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372562175369415746" /></a>My nephew keeps drawing this. <div><br /></div><div>I don't know what it is. But it has several transformations. Sometimes the mouth is on sideways, and sometimes there is nothing written on its forehead. And most of the time it doesn't have a friend. It never has the same amount of legs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lately, he's been having what he refers to as a "crazy dre-eem" in which robots come to our living room and steal all of his toys and his Grammy, who ends up melted in the garage. </div><div><br /></div><div>Crazy dream indeed.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-92223978806942717142009-08-21T15:06:00.000-07:002009-08-21T16:14:06.508-07:00School Yells<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWVUPD1O2VPGu_atw4eGubV02IhmLQ_qzNjsUrMFfcEB5ovH6zwdDPZksKr2Zwa4OfX1Pi72I03NhfCmVU69U9Xsw-HaAZx-JLO5nStpcIyGEbY0NDVtRW9D7784uLhGkefMp44fRNysk/s1600-h/amsterdam+high+school+yells.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWVUPD1O2VPGu_atw4eGubV02IhmLQ_qzNjsUrMFfcEB5ovH6zwdDPZksKr2Zwa4OfX1Pi72I03NhfCmVU69U9Xsw-HaAZx-JLO5nStpcIyGEbY0NDVtRW9D7784uLhGkefMp44fRNysk/s400/amsterdam+high+school+yells.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372553120240323234" /></a><br />I found this in a box of stuff I got from my neighbor's auction. The Amsterdam High School mascot was apparently a Dutchman. And the colors were black and red.<div><br /></div><div>If you click on the image, you can see it larger, so I'm not going to retype the entire thing, but some of my favorites are below, for various reasons. </div><div><div></div><blockquote><div><i>Suzy Q and truckin' on down </i></div><div><i>Come on Amsterdam </i></div><div><i>Go to town</i></div></blockquote><div></div><div>I always wondered about "go to town" (on the sheet, it says "got to town," but the "t" is erased. Sort of). What does "go to town" actually mean? I know it's always got some kind of either violent or sexual connotation when the old timers say it, but I always wonder where it came from. As in WHY it has that connotation. My grandfather used to say it. He would say it about people eating fast, someone getting blown up / defeated / murdered violently in a movie. I really still don't get it but I'll pretend. </div><div><br /></div><div></div><blockquote><div><i>Big chief, Little Chief, </i></div><div><i>Papoose Squaw</i></div><div><i>Amsterdam High School </i></div><div><i>Rah ! Rah ! Rah !</i></div></blockquote><div></div><div>What does this have to do with Dutchmen exactly? </div><blockquote><div><i>Signal Shift, </i></div><div><i>1-2-3-4-5</i></div><div><i>Come on you Dutchmen </i></div><div><i>Skin em' alive</i></div></blockquote><div><i></i></div> Do Dutchmen skin people alive? </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm assuming (and this is Amsterdam, so that could be my problem) that since the town is called Amsterdam, the obvious conclusion would be that the "Dutchman" as a mascot comes from having the town named after the city in the Netherlands, but as the Dutch cut diamonds and grow tulips and stuff, stereotypically anyway, which is where we get mascots, it doesn't make sense. </div><div><br /></div><div>I googled "dutch papoose" and the only thing that came up that could possibly connect the two was a dutch tanker that was later renamed the Papoose, which had a habit of wrecking into things. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unless it has something to do with the Dutch colonization of what's now NYC, and the American Indians that lived on Manhattan Island, and somebody back in the day morphed them. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wouldn't put it past them.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-30916156916049853352009-08-21T12:04:00.001-07:002009-08-21T12:14:27.690-07:00Illustration Friday: Caution<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsev9JRo_JeNy09rUYFDnqa1Vsco0zrQb-8h2grYhqS3T4TgHtIGTqIbrzBIuoZefQ_eYgvHKFDNRW8AwQtEFitGZ5V0H63PB8ufeZaD9D-BU1HOY_nnmbtRSiq6GBkiBe3UUOrDTTN6Y/s1600-h/careful+scan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsev9JRo_JeNy09rUYFDnqa1Vsco0zrQb-8h2grYhqS3T4TgHtIGTqIbrzBIuoZefQ_eYgvHKFDNRW8AwQtEFitGZ5V0H63PB8ufeZaD9D-BU1HOY_nnmbtRSiq6GBkiBe3UUOrDTTN6Y/s400/careful+scan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372497283911476770" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div>This is Adelaide. She likes Pea Soup. <div><br /></div><div>She always burns her tongue. </div><div><br /></div><div>{the shop is painted. pictures coming soon}</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-37250564985406042372009-08-14T19:46:00.000-07:002009-08-14T19:52:09.733-07:00My Hand-bound books<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkKQnjgTDEY6q3s0hqPjkeWI_WCThVtbpE12v4km6Sd7wWGlN6Dc73YSQ0dxeXlPQIa7xqYpFq_2LC6hqMVjHjl7Og_VvD5e2_ItUvLtTwu3GWpreyA4t-J8ycdXjfag2izXA2y3MNtl0/s1600-h/see+and+sew.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkKQnjgTDEY6q3s0hqPjkeWI_WCThVtbpE12v4km6Sd7wWGlN6Dc73YSQ0dxeXlPQIa7xqYpFq_2LC6hqMVjHjl7Og_VvD5e2_ItUvLtTwu3GWpreyA4t-J8ycdXjfag2izXA2y3MNtl0/s320/see+and+sew.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370017078621390002" /></a><br />This is probably my favorite of all the coptic-stitched books I've made. It's really rather large, and I know it's going to make somebody an excellent sewing journal. There are 100 pages in the book (20 in each signature) and the signatures are wrapped in colored paper to divide the book into sections. This and eight others are left in<a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=6183108&section_id=6339431"> my Etsy shop. </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-90400548605783542652009-08-14T19:33:00.001-07:002009-08-14T19:40:46.595-07:00Illustration Friday: Wrapped<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFHgYzN_9ZlA8kbOy3bfmkW0RpEBx4PbOSu5qoxAG3PczVOc5E7j2mhyVDbqx2XqxF5sxLHqUZkoBBcbiloHDpmvPWDcv_yqNiKQn_OOfSUBOFu3a0nZYinWFG5lP7U_4tjBejQCTaSQ/s1600-h/wrapped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFHgYzN_9ZlA8kbOy3bfmkW0RpEBx4PbOSu5qoxAG3PczVOc5E7j2mhyVDbqx2XqxF5sxLHqUZkoBBcbiloHDpmvPWDcv_yqNiKQn_OOfSUBOFu3a0nZYinWFG5lP7U_4tjBejQCTaSQ/s320/wrapped.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370013271817760194" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">2nd week in a row for me completing and posting my Illustration Friday. It makes me feel good to just make something for fun. I don't know why I immediately thought of swings being wrapped up too high to swing them when "wrapped" should have inspired me to illustrate presents or candy, but this is what happened. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-2487334102375954852009-08-10T15:06:00.000-07:002009-08-10T15:52:20.404-07:002010 is 1971 and that makes me happy.<div style="text-align: left;"><i><blockquote>Disclaimer: This post is very cheesy, and though I usually don't do cheese, sometimes it is necessary to indulge the urge to be happy and spread sunshine. </blockquote></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Friends are good. Especially the kind of friend who can go to a yard sale and see something and think, "Oh wow. Cindy would love that." And that's the kind of friend Shaun is.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Yesterday, he went to a yard sale and found me a calendar from 1971. It's a cloth calendar with three cats on it, and it is absolutely ridiculous how <i>me </i>it is. It immediately went up on the wall in my newly-painted, almost-finished, almost organized office space/studio space/press room.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3UTfJLyZXYih2H5o1JORYOiKU_k1ZV6uZIOdhrSHbqsCjQSp0lrJUhJ2yvYQc-7Dn1ZoQv3naqDkGNrqoPdEa3BOaRqzUdIQmMq9PhGGu-U47iDqwSi3gy3XW2H4bD-71Pdj1k5aeJM/s320/DSC_0001.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368461754352781186" /><div style="text-align: left;">Though it's fabulous all on its own, and though it makes my inner Cindy want to do cartwheels that the outer Cindy cannot hope to do, the coolest thing about it is that 1971 is the same as 2010. What luck!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh, happy day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Shaun also hung up my Cindy Train for me the other night, above the door leading out into the showroom (which is not finished yet, but should be soon.)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7BVzkoTw8sI0lHgWuPZfLLPsyRMmOIfv08EmLnr_gUTUTngd6zqcrleMy04sDxFpKpyiH09GzppGpgmkZyq29dP9Od4M2pVZeo6e9ylmZ7hqhkPVdDWZ1XpXPVn-63kr_adNGEAyE3M4/s320/Dsc_0004.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 90px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368463351135435522" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Get on board!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We were cleaning out the games closet one night (still not done) when we found this train. I initially thought that it would have been Bobby's, and never expected it to have any name on it, but when we pulled it from its dusty bag (my grandmother loved to pack everything in plastic bags), not only was it in perfect condition, but it was also very obviously mine. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I now have a new theory about the place from where my love for all things illustrated in the style of Alexander Girard and his contemporaries comes. It's from being a baby with this train on my wall. I imagine that I used to love looking at it. Though I don't know why the baby has to chase the train with all the big kids hanging out the window. Or why the baby has no pants on, but is carrying a suitcase. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-27224180871458651622009-08-07T19:01:00.000-07:002009-08-07T19:18:46.079-07:00Illustration Friday: Impatience<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijQ1LxbnEUPBjYVp-UUoI7WPd-AXzmFwiybr0G0__557pPPEODRQDDSOUIe1ucuYzRKkDsrb78IV9bstYCtWroA7Uc41NC92qgluIoxAus8v5j1FxavAigqinVOG2n5Cy56fHr6WkK-ME/s1600-h/impatience.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijQ1LxbnEUPBjYVp-UUoI7WPd-AXzmFwiybr0G0__557pPPEODRQDDSOUIe1ucuYzRKkDsrb78IV9bstYCtWroA7Uc41NC92qgluIoxAus8v5j1FxavAigqinVOG2n5Cy56fHr6WkK-ME/s320/impatience.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367411538563818498" /></a><br />I always start doing the Illustration Friday, and I never finish it. So I'm posting this today. Whee! The topic was Impatience. I was in a cute mood. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-79152198696664439322009-08-04T16:13:00.000-07:002009-08-04T17:31:28.257-07:00Construction Junction, What's Your Function?Yesterday, Shaun and I went to <a href="http://www.lawrenceville-pgh.com/">Lawrenceville </a>to check out some shops. I've been dying to get inside <a href="http://www.freshheirlooms.com/">Fresh Heirlooms</a> and <a href="http://www.divertidoshop.com/">Divertido</a>, especially, and I figured there would be some others once we arrived there. However, much to my dismay, the entire street seems to be closed on Mondays. Well, except for the coffee houses and <a href="http://www.dozenbakeshop.com/">Dozen</a>. Even <a href="http://www.piccolo-forno.com/">Piccolo Forno</a>, the restaurant about which I was amateur-foodie-lusting, was closed. <div><br /></div><div>So we went on up Penn Ave. to Bloomfield, and struck gold. I have never seen <a href="http://www.constructionjunction.org/pages/deconstruction">Construction Junction</a> so packed full of good stuff. I also did not know - because I haven't been there in a long while - that they started a discount price program, with a percentage off of merchandise based on how long it's been sitting there. </div><div><br /></div><div>The only problem is how to get things home. I don't have money to buy a bunch of stuff right now anyway, but I can dream. Even if I had the money to buy all the stuff I wanted yesterday, I couldn't get it home. Well, without a big truck. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fish that got away included: old square bar tables with colorful tops, probably from some restaurant for $30 each; a weird, old metal cupboard with no top on it for $2.50; 2 old library tables, about 10 feet long by 3.5 feet wide, which were not priced; several old doors that I fell in love with among the hundreds that were almost as cool along the back wall for $25 and up (one was almost $200); a huge display platform on wheels from a luggage store for $25; and these huge cornerstone pylons with flower design on them for $125 each. </div><div><br /></div><div>I did get these treasures, though: </div><div><br /></div><div>4 gallons of paint to repaint the front room of our shop for $5/gallon. </div><div><br /></div><div>1 old dresser, appropriately and charmingly aged and weathered, and missing only one handle, for $15. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yN-ProiUpSJNQVOtLjwoXIfBXuFZKZsn57Uiep-edysTJIylox-qFcT_FbJ5gKS0op3K1hpsN8UCOd9zBAvTzrzVqpYyl8bfmbWKINFwIJaeZw8PKkqgBB4BrOmAV0VhczNhH05qQ0A/s1600-h/dresser.JPG"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yN-ProiUpSJNQVOtLjwoXIfBXuFZKZsn57Uiep-edysTJIylox-qFcT_FbJ5gKS0op3K1hpsN8UCOd9zBAvTzrzVqpYyl8bfmbWKINFwIJaeZw8PKkqgBB4BrOmAV0VhczNhH05qQ0A/s320/dresser.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366256547249452370" /></a><div>& 1 Vintage metal World Book Encyclopedia book cart, $5. </div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe46GG6zArshxLJ89yu9lS6x-hhgAPSOEZmDcJ0HtE9C-CvZLsdOMIr_uX_1EhcnG42WeHmEnc0piO0ZynQZZmQawoH5Ysrc4npz-swqLDxM5hSU72P5AML8RyhFW65aoh7cMgMxSt4Rg/s320/bookcart.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366258646740397026" /><br /><div>All of this had to fit in my car, in which my mother left four lawn chairs. But Shaun squeezed everything in somehow. Then, when we were on our way back down Penn toward the heart of the city again, we noticed several big heaps of stuff. Anyone who knows Shaun knows that he would, under normal circumstances, be adverse to picking through trash on Penn Avenue in the middle of the day, but he came up with a plan. I dropped him off at the corner, and he ran up the street and got ready. Then I waited for a lull in the traffic, and drove slowly down the street with my emergency flashers on, and pulled over. He shoved the following things in the backseat between the lawn chairs, the dresser, the book cart, and all the normal things (books and stuff) that I carry around with me:</div><div><br /></div><div>This old, green metal cabinet drawer, out of which I have already planned a really cool shadow box. </div><div><br /><div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-_n1wgO4ZA-5KgSh6zMV7hoqIdy7EC8JZwUnk_IrSXzEU_Tli7i0Uy1z6LXci3FB17xQqQb2Nfg9wuzPwjeTzpTPE5I-igBhTsUmYcBOjIch1VwQibyj-VOAikSeP4k_C6ZGWEyiHyY/s1600-h/drawer.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-_n1wgO4ZA-5KgSh6zMV7hoqIdy7EC8JZwUnk_IrSXzEU_Tli7i0Uy1z6LXci3FB17xQqQb2Nfg9wuzPwjeTzpTPE5I-igBhTsUmYcBOjIch1VwQibyj-VOAikSeP4k_C6ZGWEyiHyY/s320/drawer.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366258673192363074" /></a><br />2 wood drawers. One of them is definitely cooler (older vintage, completely solid wood) than the other (modern and made of pressed wood, probably mid-to-late 20th century). <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfT7h8ZMoZ7FdDrlPT5IGEqK01nk0g0cbDZMYrd90i-fBnardv-3dBChT6DyvGYO8diSBNwm28TfPeXrhx8OmuwlbnmGjHxz9tpuCgf37qQkTm5sorPtDrsU15Wfsf3IsSePU4L7P4Qc/s1600-h/drawers.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfT7h8ZMoZ7FdDrlPT5IGEqK01nk0g0cbDZMYrd90i-fBnardv-3dBChT6DyvGYO8diSBNwm28TfPeXrhx8OmuwlbnmGjHxz9tpuCgf37qQkTm5sorPtDrsU15Wfsf3IsSePU4L7P4Qc/s320/drawers.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366258660374019746" /></a><br /></div><div>The metal drawer had a label on it that said "programs" and I think that the drawers in general may have come from some kind of teacher's home office. Maybe they retired. It doesn't account for all the sawdust that was in them, but it's a thought. </div><div><br /></div><div>We went to <a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/23/270959/restaurant/North-Side/Legends-North-Shore-Pittsburgh">Legends of the North Shore</a> for dinner, which was incredible. We both had wedding soup, which was probably the best wedding soup I've ever eaten. We also had an appetizer of Mozzerella, which was cut and breaded in-house. I have never eated a fried Mozzerella that good, and the difference has to be that it wasn't frozen in a box for a month before eating. Shaun had a lemon-chicken Rotolo with veggies and mashed potatoes, and I (unusually, but because I wanted the Mama's Gravy) had chicken parmesano, but with the chicken grilled instead of breaded and pan-fried. To my surprise - and delight - the pasta was homemade, too. I will definitely go back there again and again. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't get to do anything in Lawrenceville but window shop, and I didn't get to go to Piccolo Forno, but the day was a good one. August is off to a fabulous start.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-86740126141764996592009-07-31T17:25:00.000-07:002009-07-31T18:18:27.072-07:00Hook, Line, and Sinker<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiKx-LF1SUrJWxbFIC_FhYTfviGcZu4HkZi1pq21Am6slL3Ldzch0gaWxZ6gj_bKfGZ3CFcTXQM_-NU_DggSepROeRO6nFjhyphenhyphen8UqEUjmdal6T1whB9hu9dxg1g-Ruhi0Hwbc6KBSzTcA/s1600-h/DSC_0083.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiKx-LF1SUrJWxbFIC_FhYTfviGcZu4HkZi1pq21Am6slL3Ldzch0gaWxZ6gj_bKfGZ3CFcTXQM_-NU_DggSepROeRO6nFjhyphenhyphen8UqEUjmdal6T1whB9hu9dxg1g-Ruhi0Hwbc6KBSzTcA/s320/DSC_0083.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364790002614064722" /></a><br />Another nephew story. I really should be better about writing down how the little tyke stacks things up and makes trains out of household products and is picky about bathtub toys and how much he loves dumping water from one container into another before he gets too old to enjoy being uninhibited and I forget how fantastic it is to enjoy his childhood. <div><br /></div><div>Last weekend, my mother went to get a shower, and Drake came into the living room and said, "An Ninny, me watch ponjbob?" </div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "No, you know I do not allow you to watch that when I'm here." (Everyone else allows him to watch it, but I really just don't think it's appropriate for a three year old, and I refuse to participate in his watching it). </div><div><br /></div><div>To my surprise, he climbed into my lap and said, "OK me talk you. You talk me, Ninny." </div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "OK. What would you like to talk about?"<br /></div><div>He Hrrrmed a little, and then he answered, "Cor-a-ine" (He's not big on Ls). </div><div><br /></div><div>"What do you like about Coraline?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Ye-ow raincoat" </div><div><br /></div><div>"What else?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Her bwoo hair, make pancakes." (On the Coraline Wii game, there is a pancake-making mini-game). </div><div><br /></div><div>Then he added, "And Wybie." (from the movie, not the book). </div><div><br /></div><div>"What about Wybie?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Him bwack eyes and bwack hands him bwack coat bwack cat bu-unns eyes." As he said this, he made circles with his thumbs and first fingers and put them up to his eyes. Then he began to swish his arms around, and said, "Umm, an Misser Bixsy have him wats go shwoo shwoo on a wines." </div><div><br /></div><div>This explanation of Mr. Bobinsky's mouse circus made me laugh, and Drake laughed, too. Then I asked, "who else lives in Coraline's house?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Drake said, "Euum, the ladies." Then he swished his hands around in the motion he has to make with the Wii remote in order to play the mini-game in the Ladies' rooms. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then he smiled at me and said, "Ninny?" </div><div><br /></div><div>And I said, "What, honey?" </div><div><br /></div><div>He gave me a hug and said, "All buttered up now? Me watch ponjbob?" </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-88182435387847261962009-06-27T17:49:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:52:21.325-07:00We (Don't Really) Want Your Business: Taking Customers for Granted in the Sad, Bad Economy<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">People love to argue, but there is one thing about which it seems that everyone is in agreement:</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The economy is in very bad shape.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">In light of that, businesses and services should be trying to build clientele, reinforce customer relationships, and gain customer loyalties.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">In times of economic hardship, our best bet for financial survival is a revival of the local economy.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Money earned and spent within the smaller community means a better life for all who participate in the economy of that community.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Recently, I went to take the Praxis I exam in Pittsburgh, and on my drive into the city, I noticed a sign on the electronic billboard of a hotel in Greentree.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It said, "We Want Your Business!" It sounds nice, but do signs like this mean anything?</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I think not. In this world full of cliché and trite buzz terms, advertising like this seems hollow and impersonal.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">In writing workshops, people often remark, "Show me, don't tell me."</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Recently, the way that businesses have been "showing me" their appreciation for my patronage is something less than desirable.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The most offensive of the lot is the Amsterdam Post Office.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I stopped going in last year, but my mother still sends things out for me through that branch.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">When the people who work there are not on a personal phone call, they will help customers to a certain extent, but only when they deem appropriate. </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They refuse to give itemized receipts.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They refuse to help customers when it is near closing.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Sometimes they close ten minutes early for no reason.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">However, it's a small town.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">People say it's best to not make waves.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I went to McDonald's a few weeks ago with a friend.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I ordered the number 10, a chicken mcnuggets meal with fries and a drink.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They have a self-serve soft drink bar.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The cashier gave me the wrong size cup.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">When I reminded her that I had ordered a large, she waited until I walked away and said to her co-worker, "Does she really need the large?" When my friend told me that she made that remark, I went to the counter to complain to the manager, who assured me that there was no possible way that the employee would have said that, and that my friend must have been mistaken.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">He is a very articulate person, and very trustworthy, but I went to sit down and eat my then-cold lunch.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Within ten minutes, the original cashier came to our table and said, "I have to come apologize, but I didn't say that." When my friend retorted, and said that she most certainly had said it, she said, "Well, I did what I had to do and apologized, so if you don't want to accept my apology then whatever." Instead of leaving, she kept stammering around, telling me that she was pregnant.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I spoke to two other managers, one of which ended up being the woman to whom the remark had originally been made, but the end result was that the manager sent the only overweight employee out to tell me that the pregnant girl was not "against fat people" and that she knew this because she was fat herself. That's no McExcuse for the behavior.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">These two experiences are not isolated instances.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I have witnessed employees at several local businesses walk into the restroom and sign their initials on the restroom cleanliness check list without even glancing into the filthy stalls.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I have seen checkout lanes closed in the faces of the slow-walking elderly at Wal-Mart.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">At G & J's One Stop, I have had cashiers treat me with such rude and obnoxious behavior that I haven't stepped foot in their store since November. Last week, I went to Arby's, and ordered a Roastburger with no tomatoes.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">When the sandwich came out, it had cheese sauce instead of the cheese slice that comes on it.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">When I complained about it, they made me another sandwich, but put tomatoes on it.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The third time the sandwich came out wrong, I asked for my money back.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The manager did not apologize.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She said, "You know, people make mistakes."</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Yes, people make mistakes.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They make them, and they pretend that it is the customer's fault.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They make mistakes and pretend like they did not.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They make mistakes; they refuse to apologize.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Their employers refuse to apologize.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They are not sorry.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They are indignant.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They are doing the customer a favor by keeping their doors open.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They are providing a service, so they can be obnoxious if they like.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">There are a few hold-outs, however.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Merrin's Market in Amsterdam is one of them.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Family owned and operated, Father Doug and daughter Natalie will order in anything, try to get anything a loyal customer says they're willing to buy.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I told Natalie I like homemade pizza making ingredients.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They sell out fast, but they get them in.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They carry more flavors of the Starbucks Double-Shot canned coffee than anywhere else in Jefferson County, and have more zero-calorie beverage choices than any other store in the area.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They sell good, homemade hot foods like cabbage casserole and beef & noodles, and their meatball subs are the best I've had in Ohio.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">But that's not why I spend my money there. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">What really makes the difference is that when their employees make a mistake, they take care of it.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">They apologize.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It might seem unusual, but they show their customers kindness – a kindness that should not be the exception, but the rule.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So for the McDonald's and Arby's, the post office and Wal-Mart, for the G&J's and the myriad other businesses who take customers like me for granted, I say:</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Talk is cheap; actions speak louder than words; show me, don't tell me.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">When you deserve my business, I'll be back.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-10274167010149414842009-02-25T17:57:00.000-08:002009-02-25T19:15:19.411-08:00Cavemen, human nature, and man versus machineI'm currently taking a graduate course on human development. Nevermind that I've already taken the same exact course before in undergrad, and nevermind that there isn't any new information between the two. It's a different school, a different teacher, but the same hoops for jumping through have presented themselves. <div><br /></div><div>In my world, and through its eternal glass-half-full lens, I see that this is all just means to an uneventful end, in which I teach Secondary English for a few years, pay off some student loans, get my masters and Ph.D in something more meaningful, and move on. </div><div><br /></div><div>My professor is an interesting guy, though. He's got some fun interpretations of the world. One of these is this: That human nature hasn't changed. Everybody always talks about how children are different "these days" and how "in [their] day, school was like" this or that. The thing that people are missing is that the slate, the chalkboard, the stack of paper, the composition book, the Five Star Notebook, and the word processor are one in the same. The students have not changed any. The way in which they see the world - in which we see the world - is what's different. People pick on the methods of moving the knowledge from one person to the next - they don't see what's important - that the knowledge keeps moving. Trying to force old ways on new dogs doesn't work. </div><div><br /></div><div>So my professor said, "People always speculate why people are the way they are. But it's been that way since humanity's beginning. You had Trog running around saying, "Why is Ugg such a jackass?" </div><div><br /></div><div>And I'm sitting here right now wondering the same thing. Why are all these people with whom I go to class such class-A Idiots? Why do people think I'm such a weird bitch? </div><div><br /></div><div>The other day, one of my classmates said that she has a "class full of morons." I don't think women like that need to be educating anyone, or passing those kinds of opinions on to students. Kids pick up on that stuff. When they think that adults around them think little of them, they in turn think little of themselves. </div><div><br /></div><div>And these adults are the same people who think that machines make everything. They think human hands don't make the blue jeans they are wearing, that somewhere, some Chinese man throws a bolt of fabric, a spool of thread, a pair of scissors, a zipper, and a bag of buttons into a big black hole, and somewhere, in another part of the factory, a Pakistani woman drives by on the Wonkatania and blue jeans magically fall out of a chute into the truckbed behind her. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">As if by Magic.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>That is not real. </div><div><br /></div><div>That is the Easy Bake Oven version of the world. </div><div><br /></div><div>What's even more horribly offensive is that the people who manage the places in which things are actually made don't do anything about this modern misconception. They let people think these things. The public's ignorance is their bliss. Why? It allows people to allow other people to suffer all sorts of bad working conditions so that they can buy their pants for $20 and throw them away not when they wear out, but when they grow tired of them. They don't feel bad about using resources because they think that everything is produced by <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">magic machines. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>When I look at photographs of people from long ago, there is something endearing about a coat that's been patched where it's worn. It reminds me of my grandfather. He had this blue quilted winter jacket that he wore out in the wood shop, and it had been mended in a bunch of places. Some of these stitches were done with white thread, and some had been done to match. But they were there. My grandmother fixed it. When a pocket got a hole in it, she sewed it back shut. </div><div><br /></div><div>People don't do that anymore. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">They think the machines will make more.</span> Why not just throw it away. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The machines spit new ones out all the time. The machines will take care of us. </span> </div><div><br /></div><div>I was at an open house at Christmas time. There was a girl selling one of those home party plans like Home Interior, but with a more country bumpkin slant to it. She had these embroidered pictures inside a cheap frame that cost $40. I was trying to sell paintings and artwork, and this girl had these dumb pictures, and I was kind of offended because A) they were so expensive, and so carelessly put together; and B) the person who embroidered it probably didn't get a dollar for doing it. She's probably living in Taiwan somewhere, doing piecework. I said something about it, and this girl said, "That's made by a machine." </div><div><br /></div><div>When I tried to explain to her that machines can't tie knots like what were on this piece of fabric, that machines can't hand-emboider, she said, "Yes they can - they sell embroidery machines at Jo-Anne's." She thought I was stupid. She thought I was a moron because I didn't know that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">machines make everything.</span> This girl couldn't tell the difference between something machine-done and something hand-done. Not that it's important. They think that handmade things aren't as good as machine-made ones. They would rather buy something screen printed than something handpainted. Is that why real art is such an elitist thing? </div><div><br /></div><div>That the majority of people would rather just sit around and think that<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> machines do everything,</span> that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">we should be thankful to them for what they do</span>, and stop trying to make good things with our hands, stop trying to learn, stop trying to find the truth, stop trying to find new truths, make new discoveries? </div><div><br /></div><div>It makes me feel incredibly helpless to think that people don't care that we're proving Plato right. He said that Gold is precious, so you make jewelry, not swords. You don't make crowns out of steel, either. And in this steel belt, where the collars are blue, education is much like gold. Plato thought that people were in society, in the places where they should be, and that you might as well not waste education on people who aren't going to amount to much of anything, anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think back now, on that open house, where all these people were wearing the jewelry that they'd bought from the jewelry party plan girl, and it seems so surreal: </div><div><br /></div><div>The girl in the blue Lane Bryant sweat suit wearing the $50 Coral elasticized bracelet. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Made by machines. </span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Her matching $70 Coral necklace. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Made by machines. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>The old lady with the sparkly rhinestone earrings/bracelet/necklace set. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Made by machines. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>All these women, in their down-homey clothing, wearing overpriced costume jewelry, fauning around over home party plan decor.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Made by machines. </span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Demanding not that the quality of the things they buy be anything other than exactly the same as the other people around them, gobbling up the plastic Christmas clock, the screen-printed tin sign that says "Friends Welcome / Relatives by Appointment" (and in Comic Sans, of all fonts!), the hand-embroidered muslin square in the cheap, glued-together frame. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Made by machines. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>Demanding not that their children receive a good public education, but that their kids "get good grades," as if one was any indication of another. I heard a woman say recently, upon moving her two children from one school to another, that the new school was a better school because her daughter, who had previously been "a C student" was now "an A student" - never thinking that the quality of the teacher may have gone down, that the standards were lower. No. Obviously, what's happened is that her daughter magically became more intelligent because of her mother's wise decision to enroll her in a different school. Yes, that must be it. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">As if by Magic. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div>Demanding that their jewelry, their lives, and their children's educations be made entirely of fool's gold - and wallowing in that paradise. </div><div><br /></div><div> <p style="margin:0in;font-family:Cambria;font-size:11.0pt"><br /></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-48628157920412067652009-02-17T21:38:00.000-08:002009-02-18T12:18:15.904-08:00A Last Summer Anecdote<div>One night, when it was hot and humid (it's Ohio), my brother kept us up until past 4am. </div><div>When my mother went to sleep, she dreamt </div><div>of my father and his father, of that other very stressful</div><div>time in her life. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next day, a man came to the shop, </div><div>smiling. He said he was on his way </div><div>to West Virginia. </div><div><br /></div><div>I did not know him,</div><div>my father's father. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am beginning to have faith in my mother's ability </div><div>to conjure people. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think she is too.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-29669082091578029062009-02-16T22:14:00.000-08:002009-02-16T23:52:02.793-08:00The Book of Good CheerI found this book. It's called "The Book of Good Cheer." The subtitle is "A Little Bundle of Cheery Thoughts" and it's edited by some guy named Edwin Osgood Grover. It's small and the paper is cheerfully yellowed, and there's a cheery little basket of orange flowers illustrated on the title page. The thing is, it's a "wealth of wisdon and good cheer, gathered from all countries and all times" that was published by the Algonquin Publishing Company in 1913. <div><br /></div><div>And I've read through it several times, and I feel no cheerier, no better. </div><div><br /></div><div>One of the quips included says that what we see depends mainly on what we look for. </div><div><br /></div><div>Though I'm often tired of feeling like I see the worst in people, I find that when I try to see the good in them, I feel lousier about it still. </div><div><br /></div><div>For example, a woman in my Human Development class said of her students last week, that she always gets "a class of morons." I yelled at her. I yelled at her in class, and I said that I found it horrifying that she was a teacher and had that shitty of an attitude toward the young people who depend on her to teach them. She had an equally horrible opinion of me, but I found solace in that. I felt good knowing that, in her ignorance, she didn't understand what I was talking about because it was that ignorance that separated us, that gave my anger validity. She couldn't see how self-perpetuating it was for a stupid person to treat an entire group of children as if they were, in turn, stupid themselves. That's what's wrong with public education. It's why I know that I will never be a career teacher, why I know that I could never live with having people like her as colleagues. I can't think of a worse place to be than a teacher's lounge, and yet I'm getting a teaching license so that I can pay some student loans and get my finances straight. I know I'll be a good teacher, but I know that I won't last long at it. A few years, maybe, at most, and then I'll be frustrated enough to direct my aspirations elsewhere, where they should be directed presently, except that this in-between time is necessary. It's necessary so that I can get there. The getting there is important. </div><div><br /></div><div>I often feel like a monster in a girl suit. Embracing that inner-monster, I'll put the book of good cheer on the shelf, and I'll turn to something one of my best and favorite friends said earlier this evening.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Sometimes, it's kind of fun to be a nasty grown-up." </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes. It is. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-67861160508996296492008-11-29T18:02:00.001-08:002008-11-29T18:02:19.675-08:00Tomorrow: Chapbooks, Plain Spoke, Clearing my desk for the new year. Tonight: Sleep.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-19745381905991076172008-10-19T08:51:00.001-07:002008-11-09T13:24:46.393-08:00Bitchy PowerSo my nephew, who is three, comes up to me and says, "Ninny? Ninny Bitchy Power, Bitchy Power. It's in his whisper-whine voice, and I have no idea, obviously, what Bitchy Power is.<br /> <br />Lots of things cross my mind, but none of them make sense. Is it some kind of new cartoon? Some kind of weird superhero power? Austin Powers' niece? I have no idea. <br /><br />At times it sounds as if he's saying powDer, but no, that's not right. I ask him to repeat it. <br /><br />Me: What did you say?<br />Drake: you say<br />Me: No, what did you ask me?<br />Drake: Ninny.<br />Me: Yes?<br />Drake: Bitchy Power. Peeeeeeeez? (This one I know. It's supposed to be "Please." <br />Me: What is Bitchy Power?<br />Drake: Ninny shing ut? <br /><br />OK Now I know it's supposed to be a song. However, I'm still laughing about his rendition of Lip Gloss from a couple weeks ago, and I have no idea what Bitchy Power could be.<br /><br />Me: No, you sing it. <br />Drake: Bitchy bitchy Powder up waa-erpot.....<br /><br />Itsy Bitsy Spider. I had no idea. I guess I'd better start keeping a list of songs kids sing and when I can't figure out what he's talking about, I could try to match it up or something. <br /><br />Otherwise, I'm wondering why my nephew's all running around like "Power to the Bitches!" or something. <br /><br />Not good.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-65326961847852259262008-10-14T10:16:00.001-07:002008-10-14T10:16:32.961-07:00ThriveI just joined Thrive (justthrive.com) because they promised me they would help me watch my money grow. <br /><br />After adding my bank account and other info, this is what they told me: <br /><br />1. I can afford a home worth 72,280.<br /><br />2. I can retire with $0/year. <br /><br />3. I can survive without an income for 0 days. <br /><br />My financial health is 2.8 out of 10. <br /><br />Which of those three things does not make sense? I have no idea how I could afford a house payment right now, even on a 70-thousand-dollar house. Argh.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-71453518229026271022008-10-13T09:14:00.001-07:002008-10-13T09:14:10.160-07:00For everything I scratch off my to-do list, a bunch of other things jump on it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-43753448321474172502008-10-10T17:00:00.001-07:002008-10-10T17:00:53.647-07:00My Favorite Junk HouseMy friend George is opening a business. It's going to be called the Salt Kettle Gallery. He's going to have a florist/gift shop/art gallery. We've been planning for months how we're going to make this paper mache kettle because nobody actually has a kettle anymore. This becomes more important later in the story. <br /><br />There used to be these people who lived in this ancient old red house on a really curvy turn on the way to Carrollton. <br /><br />Once, I saw an old steamer trunk sitting out by their garbage, and I stopped and asked the woman who lived there if I could buy it from her. She gave it to me for free. My friend Shaun fixed it up a little, and then I used it for a display at my shows. Eventually, I sold it to my cousin for $40, who thought that was a steal, and she got it refurbished. It's probably worth several hundred at this point. <br /><br />Another time I stopped there, I got a pile of old dishes. I found my favorite spoon there (some old silver thing with a star on the handle) and I've picked up odds and ends now and again that have proved useful, valuable, or just plain odd and interesting. <br /><br />A few months ago, they moved. They had a sale, and my mom went to it and got an antique metal bed and some old, old lighting fixtures and crates. <br /><br />I was sad, because My Favorite Junk House wasn't going to be a Junk House anymore. <br /><br />However. Some new people moved in the house. <br /><br />I stopped in Bonnie's, the antique store in town that's only open from Easter to Halloween, and I asked her to look for old jars for me so I can make lights from them. She said she would. <br /><br />She also said that she knew some people who were trying to sell her some jars like the ones that I wanted. I told her to send them on up to the shop. <br /><br />So I was sitting here the other day, and these people pulled in the parking lot in a mini-van stuffed full of stuff. The woman came in and she said she was looking for Cindy. She said that Bonnie had sent her up here, and that she'd talked to my mom the day before, and they were here to pick up the carpet. (There was this big roll of carpeting on our porch that we were going to use in the candle room at one time and then decided against it, so it was waiting on someone with a truck to take it to the dump). I was all for someone taking the carpet, so I walked outside to where her daughter was waiting. The girl was around eleven years old and she asked me if I was in the band. I said, "what band?" <br /><br />She said, "The band. I play the clarinet." <br /><br />I said, "I can play the clarinet, but no, I'm not in the band." <br /><br />She looked at me funny, like she was disappointed, and started picking her cold sore. <br /><br />Her mother was still talking about the carpet. Then she said she had glass jars for me to look at. They were in boxes in the mini-van. I chose some, and she said she had to take them home and clean them before I could have them, and also decide on a price.<br /><br />At this point her boyfriend/husband (he looks much younger than she does, and at first I wasn't certain that he wasn't her son) is finished packing the huge roll of carpet into the back of the van. He had a big rigmarole getting it in there, and I was surprised the hatch closed. But it did. Small miracles. <br /><br />Then he says to me, "Do you think you might be interested in a big black pot like you stir a witch's brew in?" <br /><br />I said, "a what?" <br /><br />And he said, "A pot, like yea high, with three legs, about three inches long apiece on the bottom. Like a witch would have. Like a cauldron." <br /><br />I tried to swallow my excitement at the thought of not having to paper mache one. I didn't say, "Oh my gosh a kettle blah blah blah." <br /><br />I did say, "Maybe. I have a friend who might be interested in it. I'll have to get back with you." <br /><br />They just stopped again today, about 15 minutes ago, and we settled on $1 each for the small jars and $2 to $3 for the large ones. <br /><br />Then he started with the cauldron. I think he thinks that it's high-dollar cauldron time because it's Halloween. I've talked to George about it since the first mention of it, and he said he wanted it definitely. So when Jessy (that's the guy's name with the "Cauldron") said, "Do you think it's worth $30? It's really nice and all" I just about jumped out of my shoes with joy. <br /><br />They were talking about "thanks for the carpet" and "we really needed it for our new house" so I asked the question.<br /><br />"Where is your new house?" <br /><br />And they said, "It's a big old red house up halfway to Harlem Springs on the way to Carrollton. It's on the left. You can't miss it." <br /><br />My Favorite Junk House is now doing DELIVERIES!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-77428625081219905842008-10-05T17:54:00.001-07:002008-10-05T17:54:26.027-07:00“It wasn’t like The Breakfast Club, it was like high school.”<br />— Dawn Hill, character in Cold Case’s “Detention” episode.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-7207644179090040092008-10-05T14:00:00.001-07:002008-10-05T14:01:57.309-07:00Oh, Yeah!And I need to dedicate more time to writing, too. <div><br /></div><div>I wish I could buy some. But then bottled/packaged/mass-manufactured time would probably cost a proverbial arm+leg. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I wouldn't be able to afford it anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-70720398224547674372008-10-05T13:51:00.001-07:002008-10-05T14:00:15.115-07:00My enormous list of things to do.1. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">I've been elected president of a booster organization</span> that supports my alma mater's drama club. To get the year started off in a positive way, I've got a few things to do. First, I've taken on the responsibility of taking care of some customer service issues with Samuel French. Then I've got to make an appointment to go in to the school and meet with the principal about a fundraiser we are planning so that I can ask permission to use the school. <div><br /></div><div>2. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Gob Pile Chapbook Series.</span> The guts are almost edited and ready to print. I've got to send proof copies out to the poets, collect stuff from my two editors, get the artwork finalized, get rights to use an image of a Penobscot indian man, and plan the Chapbook release soiree in November. Which happens to be on my birthday. Whee. </div><div><br /></div><div>3. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> Plain Spoke</span>. Volume 2 Issue 3 is due out within the next two weeks. Gotta get moving on that. It's ready to print, but I've got paperwork to do and the actual production to get done. </div><div><br /></div><div>4. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> Home work.</span> I adore my phonics class. If all the grad classes were this fascinating, grad school would be Great Fun. However, most of it is really dull, and confirms my suspicions that public education is a joke. I don't know how I ever survived it. </div><div><br /></div><div>5. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> Art</span>. I still have to get ready for my three big shows this fall. I have very very little finished. </div><div>6. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Hope </span>that I get some me-time during xmas break. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-65052470697931877132008-10-01T23:57:00.001-07:002008-10-01T23:57:50.598-07:00Confucius said, "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." Too bad I'm no good with a shovel.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1789318890245802607.post-80121185654080377682008-10-01T14:43:00.001-07:002008-10-01T14:43:25.560-07:00My brother uses more laundry detergent than anyone else in the Western Hemisphere. <br /><br />It's a mystery.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0