Here' a video of my son -- starring in Willy Wonka a couple of months ago (as Willy Wonka). He's my comedian of the family, the one who repeats Saturday Night Live skits and entertains us every other night with some new song. All three kids are just a complete joy. . . more to come on the others at a later date. While they all shine, this one's for him -- I'm proud of you buddy!!! You made me cry, laugh, smile, and beam with pride -- I play these videos all the time for friends!! You really rocked the stage, you always do. You're incredibly confident and sure of yourself -- don't ever doubt your talent and your road in life, no matter what your direction! Remember what John says: "Have faith, and faith will follow!"
So, I picked up the local paper today. I skimmed over the usual stories about the high school girl's basketball team and a new sewage line to be installed (it's a small-tow paper, not real exciting). I usually turn to the back of the 10 page publication and hit the help wanted section, just in case there's a need for a graphic designer in this town. What I found was astounding.
The usual one or two house foreclosures that are usually listed in the same section had multiplied -- to ten!! In a town with 2000 people, that's HUGE! I totally forgot about the help wanted section and perused the foreclosures hoping I didn't recognize any of the names. I did, quite a few. After my initial shock, I searched for the help wanted ads. And searched. And searched. I open and shut that paper a dozen times, I read page numbers -- thinking maybe one page fell out. Finally, I spotted "book-keeper wanted." Jackpot. Ummmmm.... It took about two seconds to read -- Why? There were only two. (There are usually about 20.) And the section wasn't even called "Help Wanted" this time, it was labeled "Other!"
Conclusions: You don't have to be an economy-guru to figure it out. When the foreclosures exceed job postings by 90% (okay, I was terrible at math -- that was just a guess -- someone figure it out and email me), the economy sucks. And now I'm happy that we didn't buy a huge fancy house, that our car only has 5 more months of payments, and that we found a cheaper health insurance. You know what we're going to do with that piddly amount of money the government is giving us to boost the economy? Squirreling it away, just in case we lose our jobs too!
This weekend has been a time of reflection, of creativity and of utter avoidance of all household chores. It was difficult for me to start painting. I was hesitant, couldn't figure out the subject matter, couldn't make a decision about colors. I was blocked. So I decided to start ripping collage paper. De-construction always leads to creative construction.
As I was creating a mixed media painting I was tearing apart an old book that I inherited from my cousin's garbage can. I had ripped out several pages, torn them into little pieces on my art table. When I looked down, a few words jumped out at me: soul, woman, skin, wild. And I began to read. An intensely, lovely story about a woman and her soul skin. I'll try to remember the important parts and make it short...
In a time that once was, there lived a man. He was quite content going about his daily life, hunting and fishing, trapping and selling his catch. With a lifetime of lonliness behind him, he felt it was time to find a wife. Lonely days of floating on the sea had worn him out and he longed for someone to share his burdens, birth his children and keep his house. While these thoughts flickered in his mind, he went about his business of hunting and fishing and trapping. One night while alone on the sea, longing for companionship, he came upon a large, distant rock. The brilliant reflection of the waves flowed gently over a small group of women sitting upon the stone. There naked bodies bathed in the glowing light of the moon, and he captured glimpses of the most beautiful skin, the most lovely silken hair, the most graceful movements of body he had every laid eyes on. He sat there stunned as his boat pushed closer to the women. He could hear their laughter and he gasped at glorious sounds that came from their lips. In a moment of instinct he jumped from his boat to the stone. The women were shocked and they moved quickly to cover their bodies. He noticed that these were not simple clothes they were stepping into. They were seal skins -- wet and shiny, beautiful like the most expensive silk. In a selfish moment he grabbed one of the skins and hid it inside his coat. As the women seals slipped into the lapping water, one reached for her skin and it was no where to be found. Standing on the rock, she begged for her skin. The man asked her to come home with him, to be his wife, to share his life and companionship. He told her of all the things he had to offer her. He told her of his home, what life would hold in store for them. And after a time, she felt sorry for the lonely man. He said that if she came to be his wife for seven years, he would give the skin back on the eighth year if that was her wish, and she may return to the sea. She thought the man good and kind, honorable and wise. Lonely. So with her graces, she accepted his offer and returned to his home and became his wife. Months past and she set up his house. She gave birth to his son whom she cherished with all of her being. She floated through the hours, the days, the years -- teaching her son to be kind and loving, creating a life not so lonely for the man, and keeping their home tidy and meals on the table. And in her heart, with each year that passed and no matter how much love she felt for the young boy, she longed for the sea, her home. The eighth year came and she went to her husband who had hid her skin. She told him of her sadness and he grew angry. He called her a bad mother. He said he would never let her go. He told her what a horrible, selfish woman she was. With the heaviness of tears, she ran. She ran. Her son saw what pain was in his mother's eyes. He loved her so much and he wanted her happiness more than anything. He ran after her, grabbing the seal skin from the place he knew it hid. He ran to the edge of the water where his mother was standing and handed her the skin, pleading with her to stay. He didn't want to lose his mother to the sea. She looked at him with great sorrow, took a deep breath and blew the arctic sea wind into his mouth. She slipped on her skin, scooped him up under her arm and dove into the water. He could breath! He swam with her among the fish and the creatures beneath. They swam together far into the sea, until they came upon her family. The woman's father, happy to see his daughter and excited to meet his grandson, opened his arms to them. They spoke and laughed, and all those she left behind welcomed her back. After many days of joy, the woman's father told her that it was time to take the boy back. He must live out his growing days on land before choosing to return to the sea. Oh, the boy was distraught. He cried and begged not to go back, but knew he must. The woman, her father and the boy swam the long way back to shore. She shook with heartache and kissed him many times, hugging him and holding him close, telling him that he will return to them when the time is right. She told him that when he is lonely for her, touch what she has touched, hold what she had held, love what she had loved, and she will always be with him, and she will breathe into him the salty sea air so he may be able to sing his songs of the seals. And she went back into the sea, with her seal skin to live her days where she belonged. Her boy turned into a great singer, a man who traveled the country telling the tales of how he lived with the seal spirits for a few days in his youth. There were those who tried to hunt his mother, the most beautiful and wise seal of the waters -- always with failure. The boy grew into a fine man, famous for his beautiful voice. He traveled the towns along the coast, singing the songs of the seal spirit and telling stories of his home beyond the shore. He stayed close to the water, where he was often seen sitting on the lone rock in the middle of the sea in the glow of the moonlight talking to what seemed to be a woman. (the end)
We all have our soul skins.... that which what we truly are. We shed them, we renew them, we change them, we lose them, and someday we find them again! We will always come back "home."
NOT just any red pair -- but a slick, patent leather, shiny red, open-toed, slingback pump with 4 1/2" heels. Yes, that was my "she's-pms'ing-very-upset-and-mad-at-the-world" shoe that I purchased on Monday.
The story goes like this:
I was a little more than stressed out (you know, same old issues -- money, work, children, teenagers, men, diets, etc, etc.) And I was a little more than sad (three days before my period, I'll cry if the gas station doesn't have the right sugar for my coffee). So Monday I left early from work and headed to TJ Max to get some Egyptian cotton sheets (thinking sleeping on silky, expensive sheets would inspire me to be happy).
I cruised through the aisles, shopping peacefully, and then I saw them. On an end cap. Shiny. Red. Well-built. Sexy. I was in love. With Jessica Simpson, patent leather, red high heels. I picked them up and held them. I passed. Then I came back, tried them on. Then passed again (too expensive -- although really not too bad; too high -- although really quite comfy; nothing to wear them with -- although who really cares; I'm too old -- although they make me feel young).
On my next pass through, I grabbed them and shoved them in my cart right next to the barbie doll, the sheets, and the tablecloth. It was a thrill, I tell you! A total rush of adrenaline! I had to call my best friend, Elle, to tell her about my purchase. I laughed as I left her a message I'm sure her teen-age daughter got a kick out of: "Hey. I'm standing in TJ Max and you know what I have in my cart?! A pair of red patent leather shoes with a 4 1/2" heel, Jessica Simpson brand......." My sentence trailed off into an exuberant giggle.
Amazing how a pair of way-too-high heels can change your mood. My entire drive home, I was thrilled that I had this little stash of happiness hiding in the back of the car. Before I got home, I told everyone I saw (my sister-in-law, my belly dancing teacher, the mother of one of my children's friends) about my red too-high heels. Everyone wants to know what I'll wear them with. Shoot. Does it really matter? I HAVE 4 1/2" HEELS IN RED PATENT LEATHER WITH A SLING BACK AND SLIGHT OPEN TOE WITH JESSICA SIMPSON'S AUTOGRAPH ON THE SOLE!
When I returned home that evening, I put them on (my first chance to wear them). I could hardly stand, let alone walk. I came around the corner and I'll never forget the look on John's face. He wasn't sure whether to smile, laugh, or run away. I was rolling with laughter - the first time in three days. He said, "Oh-Oh. Now I'm in trouble." So I sat on my living room chair, hanging my legs over the arms of it, twirling my feet around and staring at my red shoes. All my worries, my sadness, my panic attacks, my stress, rolled down my body and shot out of the 4 1/2" heels.
I sat there for a long time, my four-year old poking at the shoes and trying to figure out how she could get them off my feet. She said I had Dorothy shoes and I clicked my heels together and said, "There's no place like TJ Max." She giggled and I told her I'd get her a pair of red shoes too (but sparkly ones with no heels). She was content with that and stopped trying to pry the shoes off my feet.
My shoes sit next to my bed. Waiting for me when I get home. I'll put them on and just stare at them. Strange, I know. But somehow 4 1/2" spikes give you strength, power and a good laugh. Mostly, when I tell people about my shiny shoes, they say "what?" like they don't understand. And when they ask the questions (where? with what outfit?) I tell them: "I will wear my red way-too-high heels in my living room, sitting on my couch, in my sweatpants. Sometimes with a good magazine, and sometimes just twirling my feet off the edge."
Some people drink when they're upset, some smoke, some sleep. . . I buy gorgeous, shiny, sexy, red, patent leather, open-toed, sling-back shoes with 4 1/2" heels that I'll probably never wear outside of the house (but I will pack them in a bag occasionally and bring them along so I can show people). It feels way better than a beer and lasts a lot longer. (Try it!)
The story goes like this:
I was a little more than stressed out (you know, same old issues -- money, work, children, teenagers, men, diets, etc, etc.) And I was a little more than sad (three days before my period, I'll cry if the gas station doesn't have the right sugar for my coffee). So Monday I left early from work and headed to TJ Max to get some Egyptian cotton sheets (thinking sleeping on silky, expensive sheets would inspire me to be happy).
I cruised through the aisles, shopping peacefully, and then I saw them. On an end cap. Shiny. Red. Well-built. Sexy. I was in love. With Jessica Simpson, patent leather, red high heels. I picked them up and held them. I passed. Then I came back, tried them on. Then passed again (too expensive -- although really not too bad; too high -- although really quite comfy; nothing to wear them with -- although who really cares; I'm too old -- although they make me feel young).
On my next pass through, I grabbed them and shoved them in my cart right next to the barbie doll, the sheets, and the tablecloth. It was a thrill, I tell you! A total rush of adrenaline! I had to call my best friend, Elle, to tell her about my purchase. I laughed as I left her a message I'm sure her teen-age daughter got a kick out of: "Hey. I'm standing in TJ Max and you know what I have in my cart?! A pair of red patent leather shoes with a 4 1/2" heel, Jessica Simpson brand......." My sentence trailed off into an exuberant giggle.
Amazing how a pair of way-too-high heels can change your mood. My entire drive home, I was thrilled that I had this little stash of happiness hiding in the back of the car. Before I got home, I told everyone I saw (my sister-in-law, my belly dancing teacher, the mother of one of my children's friends) about my red too-high heels. Everyone wants to know what I'll wear them with. Shoot. Does it really matter? I HAVE 4 1/2" HEELS IN RED PATENT LEATHER WITH A SLING BACK AND SLIGHT OPEN TOE WITH JESSICA SIMPSON'S AUTOGRAPH ON THE SOLE!
When I returned home that evening, I put them on (my first chance to wear them). I could hardly stand, let alone walk. I came around the corner and I'll never forget the look on John's face. He wasn't sure whether to smile, laugh, or run away. I was rolling with laughter - the first time in three days. He said, "Oh-Oh. Now I'm in trouble." So I sat on my living room chair, hanging my legs over the arms of it, twirling my feet around and staring at my red shoes. All my worries, my sadness, my panic attacks, my stress, rolled down my body and shot out of the 4 1/2" heels.
I sat there for a long time, my four-year old poking at the shoes and trying to figure out how she could get them off my feet. She said I had Dorothy shoes and I clicked my heels together and said, "There's no place like TJ Max." She giggled and I told her I'd get her a pair of red shoes too (but sparkly ones with no heels). She was content with that and stopped trying to pry the shoes off my feet.
My shoes sit next to my bed. Waiting for me when I get home. I'll put them on and just stare at them. Strange, I know. But somehow 4 1/2" spikes give you strength, power and a good laugh. Mostly, when I tell people about my shiny shoes, they say "what?" like they don't understand. And when they ask the questions (where? with what outfit?) I tell them: "I will wear my red way-too-high heels in my living room, sitting on my couch, in my sweatpants. Sometimes with a good magazine, and sometimes just twirling my feet off the edge."
Some people drink when they're upset, some smoke, some sleep. . . I buy gorgeous, shiny, sexy, red, patent leather, open-toed, sling-back shoes with 4 1/2" heels that I'll probably never wear outside of the house (but I will pack them in a bag occasionally and bring them along so I can show people). It feels way better than a beer and lasts a lot longer. (Try it!)
Added later: To feel powerful and strong in way-too-high shiny red patent leather Jessica Simpson opentoe slingback pumps (that's a mouthful!) go to my squidoo page: http://www.squidoo.com/bakedbeans/ and scroll all the way down to see them in my pretend shopping section. Give them a vote. They deserve it!
Finally, I was able to clean my office yesterday. So I grabbed some paintbrushes and was able to have a few moments of painting this afternoon!
She has a wonderful story. And the photo does no justice (it's much softer with a vintage, romantic look in person.) But, I'll save her story for another day when the clock decides to move a little slower for me. Enjoy!
Ty
It's a question I've always wanted to research.... Then again, it's so much more fun to make up my own answer.
I'm sure this was the scene:
In a hazy club one night somewhere in Japan (I know that much for sure), a band was all set up to play their favorite cover tunes for the music-hungry crowd. 9:00 rolled by, the witching hour for bands everywhere, and someone was missing. Where's the lead singer? Maybe he was drunk or had a bad case of laryngitis or was fussing about the low pay . . . He just decided to sit this one out and take a break from stardom. After the noticeably loud, perpetual bitching of the other band members, it was time to either call the show (damn, no pay)..... or contin----WAIT!
(pregnant pause) Out from the fog THEY came. Strutting in synchronous slow motion from the back of the bar (to the beat of some weird movie soundtrack) they approached. Smokey rings encircled their blond hair as they loomed towards the stage. The red show lights beamed down on them, throwing striking shadows of high heels and clothing too tight and too low-cut to be legal (or tasteful). They were bathed in the aroma of imported beer and clove cigarettes. They were bar-angels. Yes. They were... groupies. And they wanted a show, dammit.
The guys simply handed over the mic (because they were trying to take it anyway -- along with the tambourines), gave them a cheat sheet of song lyrics, and they opened the show with some horrible, off-key rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody..... long live karaoke!
I know I'm wrong. But still. Come on. As my husband notes: At 2 a.m. in a bar after 6 beers, EVERYONE thinks they can sing. Truly, who thought this was a good idea -- to mix booze, microphones, a television with scrolling words and tone-deaf people!? Add in a table of drunk friends who write your name along with "Mustang Sallie" on little white sheets of paper -- and you've got the start of a disastrous night of off-key top 40, really bad rap, and a migraine headache.
Usually I leave a club when I see a little television on stage. But last night I had to stay, we ordered food. And as I munched on buffalo chicken wings, I watched the bar-angels fall from grace. Listening to a screeching, clattering, vocal nightmare trying to sing a tribute to Sara Evans all night long is not fun. I'd rather be recovering from a C-section. You would think after a few Blue Moon beers, my pain would be numbed. Uh-uh. No. Four guys stood on stage belting out "I Walk The Line" -- with beer mugs in hand and t-shirts that read "If you find me laying on the floor, don't kick me. I'm just passed out." I know it. I felt Johnny Cash roll over in his grave. And I wondered if Mr. Cash dedicated every Friday and Saturday (and Wednesday, which is official karaoke night) just to doing somersaults all night long. Because it's pretty much guaranteed that in any given bar on karaoke night some poor soul butchers a Johnny Cash song. I love Johnny. I don't love karaoke.
No offense to anyone who loves a good night of singing to a television screen. I applaud all those who do it and have the guts to stand up on stage trying to sound like Janet Jackson and Brittany Spears. I'm sure it's fun to do, I just don't want to find out how many cocktails it takes to get me up there.
We stayed for the entire night (not by choice), and as I physically cringed with pain at yet another country-song-butcher-job, my husband's friend leaned into me and said . . .
This is why people burn down bars.
Artist of Whimsy
About
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I'm a mother of three beautiful, talented children; the wife of a fabulous chef and musician; a graphic artist; art director of a national magazine; and an artist of the midnight oil. I am blessed for being able to live a creative existence, and thankful for all the magic and beauty in my life!
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