Keep Your Panties On!

The Summer of Sensible Shoes...

2007-07-16T21:03:00.000-07:00

Ah, summer, the season when a woman's thoughts of summer sun and romance make a beeline to fear and dread, or so I've been lead to believe by popular media for years. What's to fear? Oh, yes, swimsuit season, the realization that most women have when they see just how awful they look after a year of wool sweaters and bulky overcoats. And, you know what? Most of them don't look that awful, they just don't look like (insert the current 'sexiest woman alive'). I laugh in the face of swimsuit season, having decided that I'm never going to look like the sexiest woman alive, except to my husband, and I'm okay with that. I have far bigger worries: The search for cute and comfortable shoes.

Does this mean that I'm getting old? No, I've been this way for a very long time, perhaps for my entire life. I can remember vividly a pair of "oxfords" that my mother bought me for my fifth birthday: they were black velvet with red leather trim. I thought they were adorable, but, they were so uncomfortable that I hated to wear them. I tried to explain to her that the shoes were not right, but, no words could change my circumstance: I would wear the shoes until either I out-grew them, or they wore out.

If I could have figured out a way to make my feet grow faster, then I wouldn't have had to resort to my only other option...

One day after returning home from an outing, I decided that I had had enough of the terrible velvet shoes, that no amount of punishment could be worse than wearing the uncomfortable shoes for even one more minute. I crawled under the kitchen table, and pulled down one side of the tablecloth, in an attempt to hide myself from my ever-present-all-seeing-all-knowing-eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head mother, and went to work on the shoes.

Sadly, the shoes were not only uncomfortable, but seemingly they had been sewn together in such a way that my tiny fingers with neatly clipped nails were no match for the tenacity of the thread. It was a battle of wills, and the shoes were winning.

And then my mother caught me.

She was not pleased. That's a bit of an understatement. She was really angry.

It was my second battle of wills in only a few short minutes, and now I was double-teamed.

But, that was only one battle. Battles can be won or lost; it's the outcome of the war that establishes the victor, and I was determined to win the war of the velvet shoes.

I decided that rather than 'wear out' the shoes in one stroke, I would need to resort to a slow and steady progression, like soldiers painstakingly gaining ground, I would, seam by seam, bring about a full surrender of the shoes, my only weapons were my determination and a butter knife, stolen from the the kitchen drawer.

It seemed to take forever, but, slowly, the threads began to break, they began to wear down, and out. I had conquered the velvet shoes, at last. The funny thing about the velvet shoes though, was that after a while, they weren't uncomfortable, but, that was no longer the issue: I wanted my shoes, my way. I had been tested, and my resolve was stronger than the stitching on those shoes.

I don't even remember which shoes came after. You would think that I would, after having worked so hard for them. I guess that they were comfortable, though unmemorable.

I still have issues with shoes. For the last few weeks, I've been looking for cute and comfortable shoes for summer. I need shoes that I can walk in, but, they have to look good, too. That's a challenge for me, because sometimes an aesthetically pleasing shoe, isn't comfortable, and a comfortable shoe is just downright ugly. So, I've been shoe shopping. I have to try on every pair of sandals in the shop, until I find a pair that I can live with, at least for the summer.

My last salesperson was a charming young woman with a thick French accent. With a smile, she brought me pair after pair of sandals to try, carefully checking back on me. As I stood staring at my feet in a pair of tan sandals, she approached, and asked how that pair, the seventh pair, was fitting. I told her my concerns, that they were too tight across the top of my foot.

"They're leather," she said sweetly, "they'll give up."

I know that she couldn't possibly know why that made me laugh, but, I told her that I wasn't sure that the shoes would surrender to me, and asked for a different pair. Only shockingly bright white in my size. My feet looked like beacons. No.

A cute, khaki colored, pair with only one buckle. I liked them. I walked in front of a tall mirror and focused on my feet. Another woman, who was also trying on shoes, and having similar results, judging by the boxes of rejects on the floor nearby, looked down at my feet and said, "Those are cute."

I agreed with her, but, pointed out that there were about two extra inches of shoe beyond the tips of my toes; it looked like I had strapped surfboards to my soles. "She's got the same problem," her daughter told me, as she pointed to her mother's short-toed feet, which inspired a conversation about shoes and feet.

Ready to call it a night, I chose a pair of Born sandals, and figured that if they fit and were comfortable, I'd just get them. Last week, I had purchased a pair of cute Dansko shoes, so, I wasn't desperate, I just wanted a pair of sandals. Was that too much to ask?

As it turned out, the Born sandals fit nicely, though they will not be on any hot shoe list, I'm certain. I bought them, and I've been wearing them now for some time, and they seem to be serving their purpose.

I am glad that I met the other woman who has a similar shoe issue; it makes me feel as though I'm not entirely alone in stiletto wonderland, where many things look lovely, but, just don't fit, or make sense. I'm not the only woman with chubby feet and stubby toes, in a world of svelte, sleek, "Sex in the City," type feet.

Do women really enjoy wearing those pointy torture chambers? Dumb question. Do men like to see women wearing those pointy torture chambers? Dumb question.

Will those torture chambers ever give up? Yes, but, only if you have a butter knife and a lot of determination.

A Face in the Crowd, Part II

2007-06-13T19:34:00.000-07:00

A swell photo, taken by me.
(Maybe 'swell' is a bit of a stretch...it's an okay photo.)

Friday evening, and as usual, Rob and I were out walking about the neighborhood. I don't know if either of us mentioned to the other, or not, but, I was wondering if we would see William. From about a block away, our unspoken question was answered: He was sitting at his bus stop bench.

The sidewalk is narrow there in front of the bench, and the traffic -- both by pedestrians and vehicles -- is heavy. William was just resting on his bench, maybe waiting. But, I don't know.

As we approached, Rob let me walk first and as I passed, I smiled and said, "Hello," to William, who seemed happy to see us. He acknowledged me, and greeted Rob, too. Then unexpectedly, he asked Rob, "Could I get a dollar from you, to buy some food?"

Rob said something like, "Sure, you've never asked for anything before," and reached into his pocket and pulled out exactly one dollar. Now, sadly, one dollar isn't enough to buy much, but, it was all of the cash that we had on us, as we make it a general rule not to carry money. And we do not give money to panhandlers. But, William is different. William is not a panhandler.

In my last post, I wrote that William will never ask me for anything, and I still believe that this is the case. He could have asked me for money, instead of asking Rob, but, he did not. I've tossed about all sorts of theories as to why he spoke to the man, rather than to me, but, then, I've decided not to over-analyze his motivations. I simply don't know what he was thinking.

But we were glad that he had asked, and we wished that we had more for him.

After exchanging the usual, 'have a good day' type of chit-chat, Rob, said, "Take care, Brother." And William replied, "Yeah, see you tomorrow!"

But we didn't.

And we're not worried, because William is, now, more than a face in the crowd.

A Face in the Crowd

2007-05-19T10:17:00.000-07:00

Buildings in downtown Portland, OR
Photo by Rob Cork

I don't remember the first time that I saw him. I'm certain that I had probably seen him several times before I really took notice though. After living in the same neighborhood for a few years, and walking through it nearly everyday, a person gets a sense of who belongs there, who fits into this mosaic of people, cafes and small shops. Some folks blend, perhaps they fit so closely with the pieces that surround them, that they lose some of their personality, and color. Other people are ill-fitting, with jagged edges, their corners raised, cracked and chipped, poking out from the surface just enough spoil the overall effect. Then there are some real gems, like a cabochon, perfectly set into a stained glass window. But, sometimes even the most beautiful bit of colorful glass needs repair and cleaning after collecting years of grime.

While drinking coffee at our favorite Starbucks one evening, we watched him walk by. Rob and I started out calling him, "Crazy Homeless Dude." Actually, I probably started out calling him Crazy Homeless Dude, and it stuck.

As it turned out, Rob and I had both taken notice of the disheveled man with dirty dreadlocks and filthy, tattered clothing. There is something about him that strikes a chord of curiosity; we wish that we knew his story. But, we don't. So over the years, we've made up a story for him, then edited it and rewritten it. About six months ago, we decided that he needed a proper name, so we decided to call him William. He looks like a guy who should be named Will, but, I still slip up and call him Crazy Homeless Dude, once in awhile.

Portland has a seemingly large homeless population, and in my neighborhood there are panhandlers who have their corners, benches or patches of sidewalk. They're part of the mosaic. And as much as I expect to asked for money by some folks, I know that William will never ask me for anything.

For months, I assumed that he didn't speak. He seems to float in a bubble of his own making. He walks about the neighborhood, sometimes checking trash cans for discarded foods and drinks, which he consumes at the can and promptly tosses the unwanted parts back into the bin. He seems to be only semi-lucid, until he makes eye contact. Then it's obvious that there is a person deep down under the grime.

One day when I was walking to the Safeway, I saw him talking to another man on the street. Actually, he was bantering, and laughing, as he talked about the Portland Trailblazers basketball team. I remember being completely surprised that he actually does speak. And I was strangely happy with this new information.

If Rob and I don't see him for a few days, we begin to worry. One day after nearly a month had gone by, we saw him in another neighborhood, clean, neatly dressed and with a fresh new haircut. We had to look twice to make sure that it was him. But, when he looked at us, with recognition, then we knew for sure that it was Will.

As the weather gets warmer, the neighborhood begins to come back to life, and more people begin to fill the streets. One day, Rob and I walked past a bench where Will was sitting, and excited to see him after several weeks, we both smiled, maybe said a silent hello and prayer for him as we walked past. I remember how carefully he looked at us, then a slight smile came to him. Rob and I talked about this later, deciding that, we must stand out to him, just as he does to us.

So there is this odd 'relationship' forming. I've tried to think of a comparison, but, I don't really have one. Perhaps it is akin to chatting with the cat lady who lives in the basement apartment down the street, when you see her at the grocery store. Perhaps it's nothing like that. Perhaps it's nothing at all. Perhaps it isn't even a relationship, except that Rob and I choose it to be. Perhaps it is completely one-sided, and that we only imagine that he recognizes and acknowledges us. Then something happens to make us think otherwise.

Thursday was as close to a perfect Spring day as I will ever see. Rob and I both had busy days, and as evening approached, I didn't want to cook, so we decided to go out for sushi. We walked hand-in-hand under a crisp blue sky, enjoying just being together, soaking up the sunshine. As we walked past the Starbucks our favorite barista stopped washing the store windows for a moment and waved enthusiastically. He always has a genuine smile, and a kind word for people. Rob needed to buy cigarettes, so we dropped by the tiniest tobacco and beer store you've ever seen, a transformed garage, now a market, owned by a husband and wife, immigrants from Ethiopia. She commented on how much she enjoys seeing us walking together in the neighborhood, and how the other day, when Rob was alone, she asked about me. Later in the evening, Rob and I talked about how just living life, happily doing so, and with the grace of God, can be a blessing to others.

And, we saw William that night. Actually, we saw him twice, though I only now remembered the first time. I was driving home after picking up Rob. Will was trying to cross the street, but, got confused by a car that went against the light. He stopped in the street, then returned to the safety of the corner, seemingly unsure of what was the right move to make. I was turning left, and was waiting for him to realize that, indeed, he had the walk signal and that it was his turn to cross. He looked directly at me, then stepped into the street, slowly crossing.

The second time we saw him that night was when we were walking home from the restaurant. He was sitting in a bus stop shelter, about one block from where he had crossed the street earlier in the evening. He had his dirty gray blanket with him, pushed to the side, taking up space on the bench. He looked right at us, and smiled. We smiled back and said, "Hello." Then, unexpectedly, he said, "Hello," back to us. After years of silently wishing him well, of praying for God's blessings upon him, it was the first time that he has spoken to either of us.

As simple as this sounds, we each had such a sense of joy that we were acknowledged by this curious stranger to whom we feel this connection.

I cannot explain why any of this is important to me, or why you should be interested, but, what I can tell you is that, Rob and I believe that we are being called to be a blessing to this man. And, I cannot tell you what that means, what 'being a blessing' looks like, or what will be asked of us. I can only say that it is real, and that we are awaiting whatever our next step will be.

Welcome to Blog Land... (Part II)

2007-05-18T16:16:00.000-07:00

"Head at Arches"

If you will indulge me a moment, I'd like to introduce you to another blogger whom I think that you'll find fascinating. Of course staph growing in a specimen dish can be fascinating, as can the range of blue to green to yellow of a bruise, but, I assure you, this is nothing like you've ever seen before.

O'syryous is an artist and writer from Santa Cruz, California. More than this, he is a close friend, Rob's Best Man at our wedding, and someone whom you need to know. Acting as ringmaster, he presents a linguistic sideshow, a freakish kaleidoscope of the strange, complete with everything from daring high-wire acrobatics to more clowns than you ever thought possible to pack into a '74 Gremlin.

I offer you a season ticket, so check it out for yourself: O'syryous Art Productions

He Seemed Like a Nice Guy

2007-05-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

On the local television news last week, there was a story about a man who was arrested on suspicion of killing his wife. The reporter stated that the couple had a history of loud arguments and calls to the police department. Continuing, it was explained that the wife had filed for a divorce about a week prior, and on Tuesday, while she was gardening in the couple's yard, the husband allegedly, rammed her with his pickup truck, crushing her against the wall of their garage with enough force to nearly demolish the structure. The video showed the buckled wall, with its gray siding forced out away from the framing.

In true TV Reporter style, the newsman went about gathering up the splinters of the story, pointing out the crime scene tape cordoning off the spring green lawn and garage, and the modest, but well kept street of tidy homes. And, he talked to the neighbors, getting their opinions of situation and the man.

"He seemed like a nice guy," was the comment from one woman. And, what did she base this opinion of his character on? He always greeted her when he rode by on his scooter.

Later in the week, the same news station ran a story about a coach who is accused of sexually abusing one of his athletes. Of course the parents and community were shocked, because, "he seemed like a nice guy." One of the parents interviewed commented that the coach was friendly and talkative.

Then it happened again yesterday, a man with a gun in a neighborhood, near a school. After firing several times at the police, he was shot and killed by one of the officers. In the subsequent interviews with people who knew this man, the story was the same: He seemed like a nice guy.

If I had a nickel for every time someone says, "He seemed like a nice guy," I'd be rich. Think about how many times you've heard this comment, probably, like me, more often than you can count.

We all want to believe as Anne Frank did, "that people are really good at heart."

Until they prove to be otherwise.

Also in the news recently, not that he has ever really left the spotlight for any length of time, is O.J. Simpson, the handsome football hero, actor and spokesman. He, and his group, were declined service at a Louisville steakhouse, the night before the Kentucky Derby.

At first, O.J.'s lawyer said that it was because the restaurant owner is a racist.

If O.J. Simpson were any other man trying to eat a dinner at a restaurant, and was declined service, I might think that possibly the restaurant owner had a problem with someone of a different race, but, O.J. isn't any other customer. O.J. is a celebrity, and a very controversial one at that.

O.J. Simpson is a man who was on trial for killing his ex-wife and one other person. He was found not guilty. He vowed to continue searching for the killer, but, his investigation of nearly every golf course in America, has yet to yield another suspect. He wrote a (yet to be published book), hypothesising how, if, he were the killer exactly how he would have committed the crimes. He seems to be a person who seeks attention, without regard to the kind of attention that he is receiving.

The restaurant owner had every right to protect his business and his patrons, and, if he thought that O.J.'s presence at his restaurant would upset people or cause a stir of curiosity, then he did the right thing by declining service. And from the accounts that I read, it sounds like O.J. did the right thing by leaving without creating an incident.

Then the lawyer got involved, and the "R" word was used.

Perhaps O.J. doesn't realize that his reputation is questionable, and that it isn't always about skin color, that on some level, there has to be consequences for actions, and that a restaurant owner has the right to decline service to someone whom he feels is potentially disruptive to his business. I suspect that O.J. knows full well why he wasn't served that night, but rather than showing some grace, he has decided to exploit a situation, perhaps to build some sympathy for himself.

But, in another odd twist, I have read that O.J.'s attorney has decided not to pursue the racial discrimination lawsuit, that he had been touting, instead, calling the restaurant owner a publicity seeker. I don't know this attorney, but, I'm certain that with a client like O.J., he would know a publicity seeker when he met one.

Maybe we, as a society, should re-evaluate which characteristics make up a "nice guy." If it is only our impression of the way they treat us personally, how often they greet us, or how sweetly they smile, then I wonder if that is an accurate gage of how nice a "nice guy" really is. By all accounts, convicted and executed murderer, Ted Bundy seemed like a nice guy, otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to gain the trust of his victims. And his trial proved him to be otherwise.

I can imagine O.J. and his friends walking out of the restaurant that night. O.J. probably smiled at the other patrons as he exited, maybe he shook a hand or two. As he brushed past a young couple seated by the door, an onlooker whispered to her dinner date, "He seemed like a nice guy."

Mother's Day

2007-05-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

(A photo of my mother)

I remember when I was handed my son's birth certificate, and asked to sign it. Right next to the line for my signature was an empty space that read, "Relationship to child." I remember thinking, relationship to child? Hopefully good. But that wasn't the right answer, so I carefully printed the word, "Mother," in that empty space.

And things were never the same again.

For those of you who know exactly what this means, I wish you a wonderful Mother's Day!

I've been tagged! YIKES! TWICE!

2007-05-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

Just when I thought that it was safe to start blogging again... Splat! I was hit in a game of Blogger Tag! To my understanding, the person who gets tagged must list seven random facts about themselves, then tag seven other bloggers to do the same. After considerable thought, I came up with four truly awe-inspiring facts about myself, and three which were merely amusing, then, without warning, or further provocation, POW! I was hit again! Shocking. Could there possibly be seven more amusing, or even remotely interesting facts about me? Read on, and decide for yourselves.

#13. I am NEVER without ChapStick.

#52. I don't technically have a high school diploma. When it arrived in the mail, the name printed on it was, "Denny" not "Penny." I felt too awkward to request it to be re-done, since I figured that my poor handwriting must have lead to the error. I corrected it myself with white-out and a black marker.

#5. I have my own fork. I am the only person who uses it. My family knows that it is my fork, and they know not to use it without my permission. It was a hand-me-down fork that I was given for my first apartment. It has very long tines, and possibly magical powers, though this has yet to be proven.

#76. I hate to buy gasoline. This has nothing to do with the price. I just hate to park next to the pumps, for fear of crashing and setting off a major explosion. (In Oregon there is no self-service gasoline, so it has nothing to do with getting dirty.)

#11. When I was 12 years old, I lost an art contest but still had my losing poster about conserving energy published in a teaching guide.

#33. If I could only eat at one type of restaurant, I would choose Japanese. I love sushi.

#97. I love chocolate, it is my drug of choice.

#86. I have (as of this writing) never been given a traffic citation of any kind, not even a parking ticket.

#16. I'm a pore speller, sew I keep a dictionary on my desk at all thymes.

#27. I have never traveled outside of the United States.

#63. I avoid public restrooms, except in dire emergencies. Once inside a public restroom, I will not touch anything with my bare hands ( I cover my hands with my sleeve or a paper towel.) I even flush with my foot. (There's a nice visual for you.)

#10. I sleep wearing socks.

#36. I always have a glass of water at my bedside.

#45. My favorite cartoon character is Tweety because he seems very sweet and innocent, but, he really kicks ass.

And now dear friends, I have to share another fact: I very rarely ever participate in games like this. I usually don't even open emails from people whom I know are sending a "pass this on to 2347 people in 13 seconds, or else a 'giant meteor is gonna land on your house' (credit Pokey Allen, late, great PSU football coach.)" I feel uncomfortable imposing on people. But, that being said, to the two wonderful ladies who 'tagged' me, there are absolutely no worries! But, I apologetically am only tagging one person, someone whom I asked in advance because I thought that she would enjoy playing.

My arrow is aimed at: Cherie! Check out her blog here.

Goodbye: One Year Later

2007-05-05T20:56:00.000-07:00

"She Says Goodbye" ACEO watercolor
(This little work is in Texas, in the collection of a little girl.)

May 5, 2007. It was one year ago today, that my friend, Bonnie, died of lung cancer. I painted this girl standing by a tombstone a few days later.

Bonnie was diagnosed with lung cancer in September of 2005, and like many patients, was given the news that there were very few treatment options for her. The National Cancer Institute states that the 5-year survival rates for lung cancer are quite low, when compared to more widely publicized types of cancer:

63% for colon cancer
88% for breast cancer
99% for prostate cancer

15% for lung cancer

In the United States, lung cancer is the leading cause of cancer death for both men and women, though while rates for men (both white and African-American) have begun to decline, women's death rates continue to climb. And as important as research is in combating this disease in all of it's forms, it is shocking that this particular killer is given so little attention. Not even the death of Dana Reeve (March 8, 2006 at age 44) of lung cancer seems to have moved us forward in research.

And Dana Reeve, like approximately 13% of lung cancer patients, was not a smoker.

My friend, Bonnie, was a smoker, though she had quit about 10-12 years prior to her death.

According to the American Lung Association, 87% of all lung cancers are caused by smoking tobacco. There are other factors as well: Radon gas, pollution, environmental work factors (like mining), asbestos, prolonged exposure to second hand smoke, and possible genetic predisposition to specific forms of lung cancer. The National Cancer Institute estimates that in 2007, there will be 213,380 new cancer cases, resulting in an estimated 160,390 deaths.

It would be quite easy for me to rant about the dangers of smoking. But, really, is there anyone who doesn't know this? If I'm not mistaken, tobacco is the only product sold, for human consumption, which clearly warns that the potential results of usage are serious illness or death. But, among young people -- one of the fastest growing groups of new smokers -- this information is sometimes ignored, or disregarded.

Teenagers do crazy things; that's part of the fun of being young, isn't it? Don't you remember that sense of living forever, of never worrying about tomorrow, growing old, getting sick?

I'm very thankful that I never started smoking, even though I grew up in a smoking family, where the air was sometimes a blue-gray haze. No one ever quit smoking in my family, until the day they died. No one died from lung cancer; people in my family die from heart disease, which can also be attributed to smoking.

The American Lung Association explains that by quitting smoking now, in 10 years time, the ex-smoker will decrease his or her risk of developing lung cancer to that of one-third to one-half of those who continue to smoke. And that the longer one remains smoke-free the greater potential repair to the smoker's lungs, which may decrease future risk.

I have to be honest with you, I never gave lung cancer much thought until someone that I cared about got it. I think that this is a disease, much like HIV, when it first came to public attention, that has a "blame the victim component." It's much easier to say that behavior brings about disease, to reason that if someone engages in 'disease causing' activities, then they somehow are getting what they deserve. Harboring those opinions is much easier than seeking cures, but, I am certain that cancer cells and viruses do not know or care if the body they are growing in invited them or not.

I know that some of my readers are smokers. I wish that I could tell you some magic words of encouragement so that you would quit. But, I can't, because quitting smoking is not easy. Many recovering drug addicts still smoke, this after addictions to Cocaine, Meth, even Heroin. And, maybe you'll still get lung cancer, even after going through the hardship of quitting. Or, maybe you'll get hit by a bus, or by a safe falling from a second story window...

But, when you do finally decide to stop smoking, and it's the hardest thing that you've ever done, keep in mind that while you're stressed and cranky, and not much fun to be around, just maybe you'll stay around a little longer. I hope so.

"Try to be More Like a Guy"

2007-05-04T15:22:00.000-07:00

Men, they are the most precious, simple creatures that God ever created. I know this from experience; some of my closest family members are men, and, yes, I even have friends who are men. Okay, I know that folks will say, "Oh, I have friends who are (fill in the blank)." But, I'm telling you the truth, I really do have friends who are men. I actually like men, even though they're different. One of my favorite men is my husband, Rob. He's smart, handsome, hard-working, funny, creative and supportive; what more could I ask for? He can also be quite logical, a real Mr. Spock, especially during a disagreement.

Last night an issue came up between us, a differing opinion, an argument, a disagreement -- whatever name you want to call it -- where we each had an idea contrary to the other. During the course of this discussion, he told me that I should "try to be more like a guy" in stating my opinion, rather than relying on emotion, explaining my feelings, or repeating the same points in an attempt to help him to understand my feelings.

Men and women are different, and I admit that I do tend toward emotion, especially in matters of the heart, which my marriage is. But, in deference to Rob's wisdom and clear-headedness, I'm willing to try to be more like a guy, because, "Hey, I'm a guy" is a logical excuse for just about everything.

I think that I'll start by keeping the television remote close at hand, at all times. I wouldn't want the lesser, more emotional, creature of the household making any decisions about something as important as which programs to view, or at what volume, otherwise I might end up watching something like "The OC," or "Gilmore Girls."

I will carry the groceries into the house after shopping, which I will do with my more emotional partner, just to help out. After the groceries are inside, I'll go down to my computer to work on my projects while the grocery fairies put away the food. I won't even thank the grocery fairies for making the list in the first place, thank you notes are not guy-like.

In fact, I'm going to rid myself -- right now -- of all of those 'un-guy-like' traits, dropping them like a wet towel on the bathroom floor. Speaking of bathrooms, the roll of toilet paper is looking pretty low, but, I needn't worry, I know that the bathroom fairies will be along soon to replace it. And, I hope that they remember to put out a fresh bar of soap for the shower, and it looks like the conditioner bottle is nearly empty... (Okay, I do know that there are extra bottles of shampoo and conditioner, and even bars of soap, in the cupboard, but, that would require some concern for others for me to get them out, and concern could be misinterpreted as emotion, and, I can't have that -- and -- be guy-like, now can I?)

There are lots of things that aren't guy-like, so I can finally stop cluttering up my brain with silly details like birthdays, the names of people's spouses, children and pets, food allergies or preferences, anniversaries, special dates, meeting schedules, births, deaths, sickness, job promotions, new home buying, marriages, divorces, parties, invitations, R.S.V.P's... Gone!

I notice that my suitcase is still right where I left it, days ago, after I returned from a business trip. I wonder how long the suitcase fairies are going to let it wait there on the bedroom floor before they put it away? And, I'm feeling a little hungry, but, without the food fairies, my only options are chips and snack bars, but, I like those. Perhaps if I look pathetic, and make mention of the grumbling in my stomach, the emotional one will take pity on me and make me a sandwich. I really hate to do that though, looking pathetic is showing some emotion, but, this is for good reason, desperate times call for desperate measures. I'm hungry. This isn't like how the emotional one uses his emotions to explain that his feelings were hurt, by something that I did, when I was being logical.

Oh, I feel so free! (Wait, feeling free is not very guy-like, what I meant to say was: I am free!)

I think that I'll take a walk to the computer store with my more emotional partner, that would make him happy. I'll let him look at all of the pretty machines for at least five minutes before I begin to lean against the counters, roll my eyes, and/or yawn. I'll pretend not to notice the chest and ass of every hot guy over the age of 18, who walks within 50 yards of my coordinates. But, if the emotional one does catch me, I'll just smile sheepishly and tell him that I love him, that he's sexy, because as a simple emotional creature, words like those will usually do the trick-- unless it's that time of the month -- which I won't even get into. Oh, that's a terrible time, a week of hell for we who are without emotion, but, we must suffer, relying solely on our superior intellect for survival during that time of crisis.

I know that the emotional one still has some unresolved feelings about the issue that was raised last night, but, I'm certain that he will be able to work through them, on his own, without further involvement from me. I know this. But, I also know that the emotional one will probably need to mention the issue again, feeling as though there is some new information he needs to impart, some tidbit that will make all of the difference, that will crack the code, so that I will suddenly be enlightened, suddenly understand the error of my ways, beyond my current level of guy-like understanding.

I'll sit quietly, listening, for key words, picking out the most salient points of his concerns, then repeat, as I often do, "You're right. I'm sorry." It's the phrase that is supposed to bring about the end of the conversation, the cue to move on. Most of the time it works.

I know that there will be other situations which will disappoint my more emotional partner, and that I will disappoint him, without even trying. It's the clashing of two titans, Logic and Emotion. I'll go through this process again, of listening to his feelings. It's all very guy-like, this give and take, I deal in logic and he, in emotion. But, next time this happens, I'll be prepared, now that I'm acting guy-like, I'll pull out my logic card, my Ace, if you will -- the card from which the entire game turns -- and with all sincerity, no emotion and absolute logic, remind him, that, "I'm just a guy."

Where have you been, young lady?

2007-04-18T14:04:00.000-07:00

Where have you been, Young Lady? Did you ever get asked that question? If you did, it was probably one of your parents, and you were not where you were expected to be, when you were expected to be there. I've had to answer that question, a few times.

When Rob and I returned from vacation, I had intended to jump right back into the blog, and tell you all about our adventure and things that I had learned, or discovered. But, when I got back, I didn't really want to write, I wanted to think for a while instead. What follows is an expanded version of one of my thoughts:

I've decided that my son is a genius. I've always thought that he was a smart, creative, funny young man, but, he's brighter than that. There has been a lot of repair work going on in my building over the Winter, and now, into Spring. It seems that all of this hammering and sawing has caused the resident ants to wander about, like earthquake refugees, and they've decided that my kitchen and bathroom will make lovely temporary housing. They even put up some tiny tents, and brought their supplies over in an orderly ant fashion, single file lines, no pushing, just doing their jobs. Sadly for me, one of their new cities was in my medicine cabinet, the same place that Rob and I keep our toothbrushes. So, I did what anyone would do when threatened with an invading force: I purchased ant traps. Perhaps you're thinking, "What about diplomacy?" Believe me when I tell you, that no amount, or correct combination, of words would bring their activities to a halt. It was us or them. Now it's only us, in the bathroom.

Ants are smart, too, though I would never say "genius."

One lone ant soldier must have sent a message to the rest of the troops, explaining the traps and ensuing heavy casualties, because just as I thought it was safe to go into the kitchen, there they were. The odd thing is that you would think that they would be picking up food crumbs, but, not these ants; they were walking, single-file along the back of the counter, pacing from one end to the other. Knowing that I could take these little guys, too, I placed one ant trap at the end of their path, and waited.

Apparently one of the ants mistook the beige plastic poison cube for modern art, as he invited several friends, who also invited several friends, to see the display. One by one they pilgrimaged, miniature tickets in hand, to the temple of modern art. Then, one by one they turned and walked back in the opposite direction.

When my son was over, I told him about the ants, and pointed out the poison trap, and explained that I wasn't sure why it wasn't working. He looked at the counter, and watched the ants.

I pointed out how clean the countertop was, even saying, "No crumbs!"
"I see," was all he said.

I walked away, and when I returned, I found him removing crumbs from my toaster, placing them precisely around the ant trap. When I questioned him, he explained that the these ants don't know that this trap contains something that they can eat, so there has to be edible items nearby so they can learn this.

They'll see the crumbs, then explore the trap to find something delicious, but deadly.
I laughed, but, I figured that I may as well let him try. But, I knew that it wouldn't work. What was he thinking, that these were suicidal ants? That an ant would pass by a crunchy bit of healthy bread to go into an unknown, dark place to eat poison?

Guess what? All of the ants are gone. The bread crumbs look to be untouched. There really are suicidal ants.

Other things that I've been thinking about and researching are issues about free speech and the 911 conspiracy theories that abound. I may write on those topics in the future. I also have some photos of the neighborhood, and a man after he completed a drug deal. And, I haven't forgotten the "Untraceable" photos, or pictures of the trip to share with you!

So back to the ants.

I got a phone call from my friend, you know the one. She asked me how my former mother-in-law is doing. (Read "Stupid Girl" for the answer to that one.) When I reminded her that the woman had died, nearly a year ago, she sounded surprised. She told me how much she values my friendship and how much she cares about me, and my family. Then she asked me for a favor, which I declined. She questioned if I didn't want to help her because I didn't like her. I told her the truth: I didn't want to do it, because I didn't want to be involved with her drama. And I slipped in several references to getting counseling, but, she sees that as a dark, scary place. We chatted for a few more minutes, then I told her that I needed to get back to my work.

Sometimes I think about all the good stuff that I've offered her: love, friendship, laughter, support, but, how it goes unnoticed, on her everyday pacings along the countertop of life.

Thank you for reading, and for your continued support of this blog! Yes, now, for sure, back to regularly scheduled blogging.

Contest Results!

2007-03-28T14:27:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to those of you who indulged my little contest fantasy!

Rob drew the winning name from a box.

The winners are as follows:

Winner of the t-shirt is Cherie!

Check out her blog by clicking here!

Cherie answered one question correctly!

There were two winners of magnets:

Patty, who answered two questions correctly. Good job, Patty!
(Patty doesn't have a blogspot blog, otherwise I'd link it!)

And, Kim, who answered one question correctly.

Check out her blog by clicking here!

For those of you who were playing at home, and, yes, I do know who you are...

The answers were:
My age? 45. (The hint was the record.)

Travel destination and why? California to Rob's high school friend's wedding. (The hint was in the high school announcements, and the post titled "Rant: Customer Non-service.")

Two flowers that I have featured in my posts? Camellia and the yellow rose.

So, that's it!
The winners have all been contacted by email!

Okay, back to regularly scheduled blogging!

Weekly Topic: Expectations

2007-03-21T23:05:00.000-07:00

This is a Trouville, not a Speedy, but, authentic Louis Vuitton, (photo lifted from the web.)

This is the Dooney & Bourke Bumble Bee bucket bag, (photo lifted from the web.)

Last Saturday, Rob and I decided to ride the light rail, called MAX, to downtown. We had a specific purpose, to find a wedding present for his high school friend who is getting married at the end of the week. We decided to go to the Portland Saturday Market, with the expectation of finding something handmade and heartfelt.

While walking through the park to the MAX station, we encountered a kiosk, really more of a tent, filled with eager petition signature gatherers. Here in Oregon, we are very fortunate in that we have the initiative process, so pretty much any person or group can move their agenda to the voters. These wannabe ballot measures are sometimes extreme, sometimes confusing, and very prolific. I used to always sign petitions, thinking that it is a good system, one that others don't have, and one that should be supported. Over the last few years, though, my opinion has changed dramatically.

Currently, petition signature gatherers are usually paid, and as a result, many are more aggressive than the worst panhandlers. This concept of money for signatures, means that oftentimes, the collector's only real interest is in doing a job, not supporting a cause in which he or she believes. A few days prior, Rob and I were 'back talked' when we declined to sign the same petition that was in the kiosk that day in the park.

The sign at the kiosk, written on a dry erase board, read: "Help Increase Teachers Salars!" Of course, I laughed when I read it. I hope that it wasn't written by a teacher! But, I don't know. We didn't stop to endorse the petition that time, either. Thankfully we weren't harassed. I have the expectation that I can walk through the park without being hounded to sign something. I also have the expectation that I can ride the train without be hounded to sign something, but, that expectation is seemingly unreasonable, because the train is one place where signature gatherers know that they have a captive audience. Sometimes they ask once on their way up the train, and because they don't really care about the issue or who they've talked to, will ask again on their way back down the train.

When we arrived at the Saturday Market, the first thing that we found was happiness. Yes, it is for sale, and quite reasonably so, here in Portland, at least. Rob and I were charmed by the man who makes happiness gourds, filled with sacred grains of sand, so the fellow claimed. He talked about how his grandfather taught him this tradition, and how the sand comes from a special river bed. My expectation was that the entire gourd would be packed with the mystical sand, however, his brochure states that there are really only 5 grains of sacred sand; that's all one needs for happiness, I guess. Can you imagine counting out five grains of sand? This probably does stretch his sand supply, making it last a lot longer. Nevertheless, we loved the 'sediment' and decided that a happiness gourd would make an excellent wedding present.

After walking through the market another time or two, making sure that we had admired everything at least twice, we decided to board the MAX and head for home. I was thinking somewhat about that teacher's salary, or salars, petition, reminding myself to check into the issue. I'm assuming that teachers are probably not paid commensurate to the importance of their jobs.

Rob and I ended up standing on the train, right beside three, seated, teenagers, two girls and a boy. Judging by their heavy use of cosmetics, the girls looked all of 15, at the oldest. I immediately noticed the handbag of one of the girls, a very cute Dooney and Bourke bumble bee bucket bag. At first I thought that it might be a knock off, because I had looked at that purse myself, but, passed it by because of the $150 price tag. Then I noticed her friend's handbag, a Louis Vuitton; I think that it was a Speedy 30. I studied the LV bag (discretely, of course) and came to think that it was authentic.

Ironically, the MAX, loaded with a motley assortment of Portlanders, stops right at the LV boutique here in downtown. The girl with the LV bag, watched as the train passed the widow display, then squealed to her friend, "That's my bag!" as she clutched her treasure tightly. The boy, who, I am assuming was the boyfriend of the D&B girl, asked her why she needed that, and how much it cost.

$900.

The boy turned to his girlfriend and asked, "How much was yours?"
She shook her head and told him, "Not that much. Her's is expensive."

He looked at them both, shook his head and muttered, "I don't get it." (News flash, he never will.)

The girl with the D&B bag, began talking about how well they get treated when they go shopping, now that they have those purses, especially the LV handbag. The girl with the LV bag said that she will not go to the mall, or any store, without taking her LV handbag, because she gets treated so much better. Sales clerks are falling all over themselves to help her. The boy sat quietly. I think that he was attracted to Miss D&B, not for her intelligence or kind heart, but, rather the fact that 75% of her breasts were exposed by her designer spaghetti strap top.

In fact, both girls were wearing expensive clothing: shabby tops and faded, nearly threadbare, frayed jeans. It costs a lot to look poor, these days. But, for these teenagers, the expectation is that they maintain a look. I was thinking about how early kids learn that appearance means more than content, how sales clerks reason that someone who will spend $900 on a handbag will probably spend even more on whatever the clerk is selling, and treat them like little princesses, which in turn raises the expectations of these children that preferential treatment will continue, so much so, that it becomes their reality.

For my own amusement, and now yours, I went to a website called MeasuringWorth.com, which allows a person to convert 2005 (the latest year available) dollars into dollars from another year. I wanted to see how much the D&B bumble bee and LV Speedy 30 would have cost me when I was 15.

The answer? $45 and $279.31 respectively.

I clearly remember the handbag that I had at age 15. It was natural colored macrame, with hoop handles; my friends all said that it looked like an old lady's knitting bag. And it did. It also only cost me around $5: One-ninth of the bumble bee bag, one-one fifty-fifth of the LV Speedy in 1977 dollars.

I have no expectations that I will ever spend a king's ransom on a handbag. Currently, the most expensive 'purse' that I own is a black leather tote, which doubles as a portfolio; it cost me $60, on sale. No one ever fawns over me when I carry it, nor do I have the expectation that they will.

What are we teaching our kids? Is it that they must have something with an exclusive logo in order to be recognized, to be treated with the respect that they, as human beings, deserve?
Are we training young women to believe that their only value is in their beauty and fashion sense, that nothing else matters? And, really where does one go from carrying a $900 handbag at 15? What does she have to look forward to? Will she just have to keep choosing more and more expensive accessories? What are her expectations for the future?

Then there are those school teachers, college educated professionals, with the expectations that they will be fairly compensated for the work that they do and the good that they contribute to society. How weird would it be to have a student who carries a handbag which represents a week of gross pay?

As a society we, rightfully, have the expectation that children will learn the "three R's" in school, and hopefully, someone, preferably their parents, along the way will teach them values, and the discretion to determine what is truly important in life. I worry that some young women are missing the message, that reading and comprehending anything other than "LV" and "DB" is beyond them, that their knowledge of designer code will be their ticket to success. Or, more correctly, that knowing the code will lead to their expectations of success.

Special Note: Don't forget to read the "Announcements" post below for you chance to win a prize!

Announcements

2007-03-20T10:54:00.000-07:00

"Penny's 45" by Rob Cork

ding, dong, ding, ding, ding, dong
crackle, crackle, pop

Good morning!

Miss Crenshaw reminds everyone that reading is Fun-damental. Also, we have a large number of overdue books, so please check your lockers. Remember, the library is a resource for everyone.

Today's trivia contest question, number one:
Penny's birthday is on March 25th; how old will she be?
(Hint: The answer is somewhere in this post.)
Include your answer in the comments section to receive a prize. Also include your contact information, if you're not on blogger, or if you respond anonymously. See comments section for more details.

Lunch menu for today:
Fish sticks with tartar sauce
Tater tots
Green peas
Cornbread with honey-butter
Pear half
Milk

Ala cart selections include:
Hamburger on bun
Wiener wrap
Grilled cheese sandwich

Penny and Rob will be on vacation beginning on March 22, and are scheduled to return on March 26. Trivia question #2: Where are they going, and why?

Don't forget to purchase your tickets for the Friday night dance!
Only three dollars each, or come with a friend and save! Two tickets for only five dollars!
Origami Fork is the band.

Mr. Kronenberg's science club meeting has been canceled until further notice. Unfortunately, Mr. Kroneneberg dropped his pencil too many times, and has been suspended, pending an investigation.

The neighborhood is back to normal, and I have the photos to prove it. Look for them next week! Also, more "Untraceable" photos will be posted then, too.

Vice Principal Larson has asked me to remind everyone to keep your hall pass in your hand at all times. Those who violate the hall pass rules will find themselves in Mr. Larson's office during lunch, watching the slideshow of his latest Moose hunting expedition.

Principal Swank's thought for today:
'Time will pass, but will you?'

Enjoy your day, but, remember, don't be in a hurry to leave this place; real life is exactly like high school.

crackle, crackle, pop
ding, dong, ding, ding, ding, dong

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2007-03-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

My uncle, colorized for your St. Patrick's Day amusement.

Wearing green, eating corned beef and cabbage, baking soda bread, that's what I'm doing today!

Two Irish toasts:

May you be in heaven half an hour before the Devil knows you're dead.

********

May those who love us, love us
And those who hate us, may God turn their hearts.
If He cannot turn their hearts
May He turn their ankles, so we may know them by their limping.

Weekly Topic: Mediocrity

2007-03-15T20:51:00.000-07:00

"Insolence by Guerlain. The new feminine fragrance."
Used without permission... I found it in my Macy's bill.

My Macy's bill seemed to be especially bulky last month. Usually I just take out the all important statement of my debt, and recycle the rest of the paper, without even looking. But this particular envelope was so full, I was certain that I had been gifted something special. Upon pulling out the contents, I discovered that I had received Insolence. Okay, it wasn't insolence, just a pamphlet saturated with, "The new feminine fragrance," called Insolence. Actually, I would have been really ticked off if Macy's had given me true insolence. But, when I saw, the above advertisement, I squealed; could anything be funnier than a perfume, one that is, "the new feminine fragrance," being called Insolence?

At first, I thought that possibly there is more than one meaning of the word, insolence, other than the act of being disrespectful. But, I guess that I really was paying attention in English class, because that is exactly what the word means. Then my mind started thinking about the way this word sounds, like innocence. I began to wonder if someone named the perfume because they liked the way the word sounded, rather than for what the word really means? Or, maybe it's truth in advertising, in that the woman who wears this scent will drench herself so thoroughly that those who suffer around her can smell her disrespect for them?

I think that it is only fair to tell you that I am not a big buyer of perfumes or cosmetics, though I do have one scent that I enjoy, Gracious Living by Wei East, which is a gentle, sweet floral. But, truth be told, I didn't buy it, it was an add-in with some lotion that I purchased. So, with my limited perfume knowledge, I decided to do some research, using a website called FragranceNet. com, which seems to have more choices "than Carter has pills," as my dear grandmother used to say. (She was a Chanel No. 5 woman, which seems pretty weird when you consider than she was a muu-muu wearing, chain-smoking, swilling beer out of the bottle kind of gal. I'm not making that up.)

I learned that the use of unusual names for fragrances is nothing new; design house Robert Piquet introduced Fracas in 1948. Fracas is for romantic use, according to the designer. Forget the candles and soft music, there's nothing like a noisy disturbance, brawl or row to get me and my sweetheart into a romantic mood!

Designers have long lent their names to fragrance: Oscar de la Renta has Intrusion, which is described as, "a bouquet of marine florals." Marine florals? What is that? Seaweed and Kelp? Valentino has a scent called Vendetta, which is described as sweet and feminine, for evening use, of course, because you've been carrying that vendetta all day. Christian Dior sells Hypnotic Poison, Etienne Aigner created Explosive, and Viktor & Rolf have Flowerbomb, which lasts, according to the website, for an amazing 16+ hours. Are we seeing a pattern here? I dare say that in the right combination, these formulas rival any nerve toxin known to mankind, perhaps these are the real WMD's?

On a positive note, Betsey Johnson, has a perfume that bears her name, and even though I have no idea how it smells, I don't care; the luscious hot pink rose covered box and fanciful mile-high filigree stopper, makes me want it. And maybe that's part of the fragrance mystique, feeling as though we are a part of something that we think is cool, that by wearing that scent, we, too, will be vibrant and desirable.

As you know, many celebrities lend their fame to fragrances: J Lo, Sarah Jessica Parker, Elizabeth Taylor, and, even Joan Rivers! But, my favorite, and I know this is a cheap shot, is Britney Spears' perfume, called Curious, to which the only answer can be, "Not anymore!" But, what if you're not fully committed to any one celebrity? You can try American Idol Moments, which is for casual use, and is classified as oriental/spicy. I don't know about you, but, I would be embarrassed to tell someone that I was wearing American Idol Moments, for fear that they would ask which one.

Maybe more entertainers and public figures should develop their own fragrance lines. What about "Arrogance" by Donald Trump? "Stagnation" from Tom Cruise? Or, maybe O J's signature scent, "Acquittal?" And for the ladies, wouldn't you love a little "Controversy," from Rosie O'Donnell? What about Paris Hilton's, "Intoxicated?"

If I'm ever famous, I think that I'll develop a perfume, too. It won't be the top of the line, just sort of average. When you spritz on my scent, you'll feel, for a minute or two, like you're on your honeymoon, wearing the finest silk negligee, but really it will be more like a one night stand in crawly polyester nightgown. My perfume will be sold, not-so-exclusively, at Walmart, K-Mart, 7-11, Circle K and Plaid Pantry stores, making it an excellent last-minute choice for your Grandma at Christmas, or Mom on Mother's Day. It will be very wispy and sweet, void of much real ingredient. I'm predicting that it will be a huge seller in fashionable towns like Camas, Washington and Tonopah, Nevada.

I've got the concept, now, all I need is the perfect name. I have to find a name that will sound really cool rolling off the tongue. It has to be a name that sounds better than it is, a name that modern women will be proud to immerse themselves in. Hmm...

Stars, Dust and Memories

2007-03-14T17:05:00.000-07:00

Rob took this photo in September 2005.

The Stardust was imploded early Tuesday morning. About a year after Rob took the above photo, the casino was closed, and stripped of its contents, leaving as little as possible for the demolition. About three years from now, the luxurious new Echelon will stand on that site, welcoming tourist with 5000 rooms, a theater, concert venue and, just what Vegas needs, another shopping mall. Las Vegas is a city always in transition, in perpetual motion, constantly tearing down to build bigger and better. I've visited there several times, but never have I seen the same city twice. My last trip to Vegas was in September 2005, when Rob and I went there for our honeymoon.

Yes, a honeymoon in Vegas! I know that it is traditionally the place to tie the knot, but, we had another idea. We weren't looking for the trip of a lifetime, we were looking for the trip to start a lifetime. We wanted to go somewhere warm, with water (a pool), people, good food, lots to see and even more to do, but not have to participate in any of it; I don't think that we could have found a better location, for us.

We didn't stay at the Stardust. In fact, we only went in there once to see the wonderful comedy of Tim Conway and Harvey Korman, whom you may remember from The Carol Burnett Show. To say that Rob and I love to laugh, love to have fun, would understate the truth. We are both of the mind that there is a lot to be sad, worked up, over wrought -- whatever -- about, but we make an effort to keep faith, grace and humor foremost in our lives, so when I found out that these two gentlemen of comedy would be performing in Las Vegas, our decision was made.

Rob and I are the nearly the same age, so although we grew up in very different households, we have the same cultural references, and The Carol Burnett Show is one of them. The talent of that ensemble was, and still is, amazing. I've heard it said that good comedy is based in the truth, that the recognition of one's self is what makes something humorous. Those people were genuinely funny, and the characters they created have become classics, by holding up a mirror and allowing us to catch a glimpse of ourselves. Carol Burnett's Eunice never made jealousy and self pity funnier. Vicki Lawrence was the most overbearing and critical of all mamas, to the extreme delight of her audience. Tim Conway was the master of slow, much to the chagrin of the ever-impatient Harvey Korman.

The show that Rob and I saw at the Stardust was an encore of some of the best of the Conway and Korman shtick, along with new material, mostly about their advancing ages, and I don't think that I've ever laughed as much at anything. My husband had to wipe away tears over and over. They really were that funny. And all without one four letter word being uttered by either man.

We arrived early, and had the opportunity to walk about the casino a bit, and get a Coke at the bar. As the first mass-market casino, in its day, I'm sure that the Stardust was considered to be quite swanky by the throngs of everyday people who went in search of riches and ninety-nine cent steaks. The writer in me could see Frank, Dean and Sammy, tucked into a deep Naugahyde booth, besting each other with stories from back in the day, when the Rat Pack was golden. In truth, the red carpets were tired, and dated; the air was heavy with decades of cigarette smoke and regret. We didn't gamble after the show, but we did look around a little more, then we walked back, through the warm night air, to our hotel and laughed all over again at the genius that we had experienced.

I watched the video of the implosion; it seems like the old place went out in grand Vegas style, with fireworks and a crowd of partying onlookers. But this event got me to remembering, and brought up some questions: Whatever happened to comedy? How did we get to this place where something is only humorous if it's about sex organs, or spiked with foul language? Why is it only funny when it's delivered with a sharp tongue, as the verbal equivalent of a back alley beating?

Maybe it's the time, everything is cheaper now. And as a dear friend often reminds me, "cheap" and "inexpensive" are not synonymous. We have access to more information, more visual stimuli than at any other time in history. People want more, bigger, better, faster, flashier, trashier. It's like a drug: The first one is always free, it's the future purchases that come so dear.

That Stardust sign was 188 feet tall, and yet it will be dwarfed in comparison by the new casino. The next time I go to Vegas, I'll stop at that site, and, yes, I'll go in to the Echelon, if it's built. Yes, I'll probably check out the shopping, and yes, I'll marvel at the size of it all. Maybe I'll see a show there, but, it probably won't compare to Tim Conway and Harvey Korman.

If comedy really is a reflection of a culture, of our true selves, then maybe, I don't want to look into it. I probably wouldn't like what I would see, but, at least I have my memories. And, you know that I'm going to say it, my Stardust memories.

"Untraceable" Photos, Part 2 (Night)

2007-03-11T11:06:00.000-07:00

The crew was scheduled to work until 4:30 in the morning on Friday night, into Saturday morning. It was raining. I edited this photo myself. Notice the police car in the foreground. I'm not saying much about this, because I'm sure that you'll want to see the movie!

(All I can say, is, that's one way to get the police to come to the neighborhood. That's the "drug" corner.)

"Untraceable" Photos, Part 1

2007-03-10T12:28:00.001-08:00

As promised, here are some pictures of the "Untraceable" prep and set. The reason for the delay is that Rob is the photo guy; he's the one who uses the software to get the photos from the camera. The crew will be filming through the 16th of March, so you can expect a few more shots. I also have night photos, but, they need to be edited because they're too dark to get the details. Not to worry, Rob can fix them! All of these photos are clickable, and I think that they're kind of boring, but, here they are...

Here is the house. It's on a double lot (to the right). Notice the camellia in bloom. (Taken from across the street from the house.)

A woman has the job of setting up a mini kitchen for water, hot beverages and snacks. The food commissary is about three blocks away at a church parking lot. (Taken from my balcony.)

It started to rain on the last day of prep. Rental trucks taking out furniture and dropping off the movie set decor, many, many trucks! (Taken from the corner of the balcony.)

This is the bulk of what goes on, guys pushing around equipment. These cranes hold huge lights for the night filming; they've been placing one in the front and one in the back. It looks a little like two competing moons. Then there are usually one or two smaller lights on, with tripods, like the ones parked at the curb. (Taken from my dining room windows. Before the outhouses were installed.)

Hard to see, but, Diane Lane is getting her make-up fixed, look at the silver SUV. (Taken from the balcony.)

Notice that only part of the street is wet, this was a scene where Diane Lane drives up and gets out of her car. That's her waiting by the car, after waiting for some time, she joined the crew. I was thinking that it must be lonely, just waiting. Good for her for hanging out.*** The black dog in the far back is the dog in the 'imagine' post. (***It was pointed out that the woman is not Diane Lane, but, her stand in. So, good for her for hanging out.)

Another make-up fix. Notice the small pile of leaves at the far corner. More were added later.

So, is this interesting? Mostly there's a lot of moving stuff, and standing around. Last night, Rob and I were watching from the balcony, and I commented that there's a lot of activity, but not much going on. And that's pretty much it.

Oh, a guy came and cleaned the outhouses today, which reminds me of a story (that has nothing to do with the movie).

My first husband and I were looking at a new neighborhood, just under construction, thinking about buying a house there. It was billed as being somewhat exclusive (probably why we didn't buy one), and I remember being impressed with how tidy the area looked: There were carefully stacked boards, roofing materials, paint buckets, and bricks; and each lot had a port-a-potty for the workers. We brought our son (age six at the time) along, and as we were looking at the houses, I asked him what he thought of the neighborhood, and would he like to live in one of the pretty houses.

He looked around at the houses, then said, "They look nice, Mommy, but, I would rather live in a house with an indoor bathroom." (Sorry, so self indulgent, but, I still laugh myself silly when I recall that. Kids are so funny!)

Actually I could write something else about outhouses, but, I'll save that for another time! Stay tuned as they say.

Weekly Topic: Imagine

2007-03-09T15:22:00.000-08:00

I have a Mary Engelbreit coffee mug that has the phrase, "To imagine is everything" written on both sides. It is my favorite mug. Yesterday, I was standing on my balcony, a cup of hot tea in hand, looking down at the activities on the street below, and I began to imagine.

The streets and sidewalks were wet, and littered with leaves and debris from an unseen storm. Just a day before, the clear blue of the sky and warm rays of the sun had coaxed buds to swell. Across the street, camellias were in bloom, holding the promise of spring in a bounty of deep rose colored blossoms -- all gone now -- except for a few on the side of the bush.

There is a sound that car tires make on wet pavement, that little splash, a mini ripple in the wake of an SUV.

A girl skips down the steps of a charming farmhouse, past the empty camellia bush, her backpack in hand. A step or two behind, a woman follows, jogging to catch up to the child. Upon reaching the sidewalk, the woman gently touches the girl's hair, and the two share a laugh and conversation as they start to walk away from the house.

Across the street from the farmhouse, a mature couple leaves a home, perhaps for a stroll to the neighborhood cafe for breakfast. The woman wears a black and white tiger stripe jacket, black pants, hot pink blouse, tiger stripe socks and black loafers; she carries an oversized cheetah print tote. Her outfit begs the question: Who told her that looked good? Her male companion doesn't seem to notice, or care, as they walk along, side by side. He looks rather drab in comparison, in a dark combo of black and navy. Perhaps he likes to blend into the background?

The girl with the backpack and the woman are still walking up the sidewalk, still talking, I imagine about their after school plans. At the opposite end of the street, there is another woman, in a blue raincoat, flanked by two children, a boy and a girl. The woman is holding the hand of the little girl, who looks to be about five years old. I'm imagining that she's probably in kindergarten, judging from her pink backpack and level of enthusiasm. The little boy, perhaps a couple of years older, seems a bit impatient as he waits for a red car stopped at the corner. But, it is the car that waits, and the woman and children begin to cross, walking in the same direction to school as the first girl and woman.

The red car crosses the intersection, then a white SUV makes a right hand turn, adding to the activity of the street. A blue van turns onto the street from the opposite direction, crossing just in front of the woman and the girl, who walk in their knowledge of safety, stepping out into the street on the diagonal, without looking, talking all the while. A man and a black dog cross at that same corner, but go unnoticed by the pair.

The woman and the two children step up onto the other sidewalk. The white SUV and the blue van barely slip past each other on the narrow neighborhood street. Then each vehicle makes a turn at the nearest intersection.

At the corner, the little boy breaks away from the woman and girl, running ahead slightly, he must now he feel like he's on his way. The little girl adjusts her backpack, then looks to her right, and notices across the street, a boy, with a book bag slung over his shoulder, standing beside a man, both not quite hidden from view by a tall arborvitae hedge. She raises her hand and gives the boy a flirty wave, sort of a pre-schoolyard taunt, and I imagine her sing-song chant of "I got to walk first, I got to walk first..."

"Cut! There's no waving in this scene!" one of the directors, in charge of background, shouts, as she motions for the woman and children to return to their corner. The threesome walk back, the boy obviously disappointed, kicking at the sidewalk debris with his feet.

The filming of "Untraceable" got into full swing yesterday. Rob and I really had to chuckle at the crew wetting down the street, and importing bags and bags of yard debris. In the set up and filming of the scene that I described, there were probably four hours spent (no, I didn't watch it all or time it). That scene was shot in the late afternoon, rather than morning, imagination, again to recall the similar qualities of light. There are probably about 100 people here in the area, with talent, production, traffic control, truck drivers, food service, etc. And equipment galore!

I'll be very curious to see how much of that street scene gets into the final movie, and for how much screen time. And, curious to see how many minutes of cinema comes from seven days of filming.

I've taken a few photos, but, not many. (I'll post a couple over the weekend.) I did see Diane Lane, and thought that she looked healthy and normal. She shook hands and chatted briefly with the traffic flagger at the corner. I judge how nice someone is by the way they treat people whom they don't have to be nice to. I've decided that she is probably nice. There are no media people in the area, no wild paparazzi, just folks working on making a movie. As I type at this moment, there is a man in a lift bucket, setting up a camera. Usually being on the second floor, I don't have to worry about folks being able to see into my messy office. But even after only one day, it all seems pretty routine, except for the trailers, generators, lights, cameras, lifts, canopies and the two outhouses below my dining room windows.

Whatever Happened to the Queen of Nice?

2007-03-06T14:54:00.000-08:00

I don't know if you noticed this or not, or if it even matters, but, a little more than a month ago, I changed the header of this blog to include the words, "Challenging the notion that nice girls finish last." This "challenge," if you will, came after a conversation with Rob about the cliche, "nice guys finish last," and whether or not that is true. I maintain that the reason why something is a cliche, is because it is true, or perceived to be true. And, if perception is reality, then it must be true, but I can't be certain. I've had this in my head for some time now, just simmering, waiting until something, or someone, brought it to the boiling point. The other day it happened.

There is one celebrity who seems to stand in a regular spotlight of controversy, Rosie O'Donnell. The latest is seemingly with her co-worker Elisabeth Hasselbeck, whom Rosie called, "ignorant," because she has an opinion contrary to Rosie's political views.

This really bothers me.

I live in a politically liberal city, in a blue state, as they call it now. Slowly, the term "liberal" is being replaced with the word, "progressive," and with good reason: The word "liberal" means tolerant, and some of the more vocal folks, who claim this affiliation, are not tolerant, unless you agree with them. And, if you don't agree? Well, it's because you're ignorant, just plain mean, or maybe even a racist or homophobic.

I remember being shocked one day when I read in an online (non-political) forum, that some people were saying that they wouldn't buy a handmade item from anyone who said that, "Jesus is right," or "that President Bush is doing a good job." (Even if it was a hand silk screened Che Guevara t-shirt?) And, I know from experience how hurtful people can be when they find out that you're one of "them." So when I read about this incident on The View, where Rosie, publicly, called her co-worker ignorant, it really struck a chord with me. And I wondered why people have to resort to shrill insults to prove their point, especially when they believe themselves to be intelligent, loving, tolerant, and correct?

I remember Rosie O'Donnell from her win on Star Search. I don't think she made much of an impression on me, one way or another, but, it seems like I remember her as being funny. I know that she had a television talk show for some time. I read a review that called her, "The Queen of Nice," because she gushed over her guests. That seems fine to me; people like to be appreciated. I know that Rosie supports a children's charity, and I respect that. I believe that it is important for people to give back, and she seems to be doing this.

I really don't have a complaint against Rosie O'Donnell, or her opinions, but, I see her as an excellent example of what I recognize as a growing, very divisive, and potentially dangerous trend in the United States: Us versus Them.

If you dismiss someone as ignorant, then their opinions have no value. If you tag someone as mean, then their motivations can easily be called into question. If you whisper racist or homophobic, then their intentions become suspect. It's much easier to slap an ugly label on someone than to listen to their thoughts on a subject. It's much easier to be shrill than to actually hear what another person is saying. It's much easier to shout down the fear that you could be wrong than to listen and have to possibly re-think your positions.

According to the article I read, Elisabeth forgave Rosie for her comments. I believe that shows a great amount of character on Elisabeth's part. I read Rosie's blog entry where she stated that she felt sorry for being mean, and hurting Elisabeth's feelings. I thought about linking it to this piece, but, it was poorly written, full of lower case 'i's" and uppercase "U's" and "R's." And, I know that you're all smart enough to figure out where to find it, if you want to.

So, whatever happened to The Queen of Nice? Why is she so angry? Doesn't she have everything that society says that one must have to be happy? She has a partner, children, health, a nice home, money, success; what's missing? What has her so frustrated that she would humiliate her co-worker, on national television? Those aren't my questions; I'll leave them to her.

I have my own question to answer: Do nice girls really finish last? I still don't know, but, I'll continue my challenge until further notice. You may join me if you'd like, now that you know that, I, too, am ignorant, just plain mean, or maybe even a racist or homophobic.

Weekly Topic: "Winding Up"

2007-03-04T11:20:00.000-08:00

"Cosmic Game of Chess" art by J. Boyd

Click here for this mug, and more fun gift ideas!

Last Sunday afternoon, Rob and I, and our two friends, C and J, were standing on the corner talking to a police officer, after J's car was crashed into by a hit and run driver. Thankfully, we were all inside, having a late lunch at our place. Since the topic this week is "winding up," I'm going to tell you exactly how we all found ourselves at that intersection.

C, J and I had been planning to get together for lunch for since January, but due to conflicts in coordinating three schedules, it just didn't happen. I know that I canceled once, at least. So, last Sunday was going to be the day, and we were all looking forward to visiting. Because C's birthday was near, we thought that we would celebrate that too, and have lunch at a restaurant, then browse some neighborhood shops.

Portland weather being what it is, rainy, we debated if it made sense to window shop on a wet day. Then we weren't sure if the restaurant was open on Sunday afternoon, and there was some mention of the expense of the chosen place, so I invited the ladies here, and offered to make a quiche. J decided that since she wasn't going in on a spendy lunch, that she would stop, on her way over, and pick up some yummy desserts. Everything was falling into place.

We were about half-way through our meal when we heard the loud squealing of a vehicle traveling too fast. I know that Rob and I didn't pay that much attention at first, it's not uncommon in the area, but, as the sound drew closer, we all took notice, because this sounded really fast and out of control. Then there was a horrible sliding sound and a loud thump.

J looked out through the large dining room windows and said, "He just hit my car!" And as soon as he hit it, he sped off. I called 9-1-1.

J was in pretty good spirits about the whole thing, as she talked about how long it had taken for us to get together, all the changes of plans, only to wind up parked on that corner, at just the right, or wrong time. Then C chipped in and reminded her of how she was originally parked in a different location, but, unparked, then re-parked right there at that corner.

"It was just meant to be," J said. And, maybe she's right.

"Untraceable" in Portland

2007-03-01T09:45:00.000-08:00

News flash... This just in, cub Hollywood reporter, Penny Cork, here...

In early February, the film crew shooting the new feature film, "Untraceable," was in the neighborhood for a day of filming the exterior of a nearby home. (When I say nearby, I mean it's diagonally across the corner from my humble abode.) A couple of days ago, everyone in the area received a flyer outlining the March filming schedule, parking restrictions, and a very brief synopsis of the movie.

"Untraceable" is the story of an FBI agent, portrayed by Diane Lane (Under the Tuscan Sun, Must Love Dogs, Unfaithful), who is searching for a serial killer. The film is directed by Greg Hoblit, who also directed Primal Fear and Hart's War. I am probably the world's worst movie-goer, as I haven't seen any of those films. Diane Lane has been in some good movies, like the completely enchanting, A Little Romance, Lonesome Dove (on television), The Perfect Storm, and one of my favorites, Indian Summer.

I googled the movie, "Untraceable," and learned that the serial killer in this story is some sort of techno-geek-cyber-stalker-serial-killer, who not only murders in some sort of a heinous (unknown to me) manner, but also displays his skill (victim's bodies) on a website. It sounds like one of those cat and mouse, the clock is ticking, can the beautiful agent solve the mystery in time, kind of stories.

This morning, the street was packed with moving vans and trailers, as the crew busily carried in furniture and household goods, to transform a charming foursquare with a wide front porch into the home of Jennifer Marsh (Diane Lane), FBI agent. Can you imagine the details involved in such a process?

In setting the exterior, one thing that has disappointed me, is that the American flag that usually flies from the front porch was taken down. As pure graphic design, I think that the American flag is beautiful, and I liked seeing the bold red, white and blue against the sage green house. I know that it is out of fashion to be patriotic, to take pride in, and to be thankful for, the blessings of living in this wonderful country, but, it makes me sad that Hollywood doesn't think that an FBI agent would fly an American flag.

So, dear readers, what do you think? Are you interested in the filming of "Untraceable"? I don't know how much there will be to report, or how much time I will be able to devote to it, but, if you seem to be interested, I'll pay some attention to it.

Stupid Girl

2007-02-27T09:56:00.000-08:00

A variation of this post appears on Helium.com. I thought that you would enjoy it as well.

In your last moments of this life, what would you do? Where would you go? And whom would you want to visit, one last time, if you could? I’m not sure what my choices would be, but, I know one of the choices that Bonnie made.

Bonnie was my first husband’s mom, my mother-in-law. Our relationship survived longer than the marriage; she was like a mother to me, and my dearest friend. But, we didn’t start out as friends; our relationship took time to grow. When I was a young wife and mother, I didn’t have a paying job, I was, “just a mom.” Bonnie had spent her entire life as a wife and mother; she never had a paying job until her husband died, then she became a CNA and advanced from there within a nursing home. She did well for herself, and I know that it was work that she really enjoyed.

One day, the subject of moms working vs. not working came up, and Bonnie announced that women who don’t work, “are stupid!” She then went on to reinforce her argument with the facts that because homemakers only talk to children all day, their “brains turn to mush.” I debated her, explaining that I read, keep current on social and political issues, and volunteered at the elementary school, but she wouldn’t concede her point: “Women who don’t work are stupid!”

Clearly, my feelings were hurt, and realizing this, she apologized, though I could tell that she really did think that I was stupid. It was a sore point for us, for a long time.

As our relationship grew, over the years we debated many social and political issues, and let’s just say that we didn’t often agree on much, but we always had a fun and friendly tone to our conversations. It got to the point that she would call me or email and ask what I thought about something that was going on in the world. We had built a trust and love for each other, despite our differences.

Fast forward to May 4^th 2006: I’ve remarried; my husband’s name is Rob.

Rob’s alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. KINK radio, was playing one of those droning, repetitive songs that you wonder why was ever recorded. The worst thing is that the alarm is on my side of the bed; we set it up on my side of the bed because I’m “alert” in the morning, at least that’s what my husband tells me. Rob is stirring, and I reach over to turn off the alarm. It’s a simple slide switch--up is off--and I’ve used this clock for many years. I slide the switch up for off, and the music keeps playing, at 3:30 in the morning. Thinking that somehow, in my sleepy state, that I didn’t move the switch the right way, I try it again. But the music keeps playing. Now, I’m really confused, and say, (expletives deleted) “I think that the clock is broken!” I sit up in the bed, and turn on the light to closely inspect this clock switch, as Rob stumbles around the bedroom. Now, the light is on, and I’m sitting cross-legged in the bed holding this clock radio in my hands, and the music keeps playing. Not only that, but, the switch is off. So, the switch is off and the music is playing, which shouldn’t be.

I’m completely baffled, and say to Rob, “Honey, take a look at this. The radio is off, but the music is still playing.” He walks over, takes the radio, studies the switch, and says, “Yeah, it’s off,” then proceeds to slide the switch vigorously several times, as the music plays. He hands the radio back to me, and walks off saying, “I don’t know…”

Wide awake, I’m sitting there in the bed, the lights are on, and the song keeps playing. I’m starring at this little black box in my hands, as if that might silence it, but, it is immune to even my hardest thoughts. I give a look up to God, and sigh. Then, I begin to really listen to the song. Ironic, I think, and begin to laugh. “Okay,” I call out to Rob, “I’ve got it figured out!”

“Stupid girl…you’re a stupid girl…stupid girl…you’re a stupid girl…”

“You’re right,” I say to the radio, “I am a stupid girl for not being able to figure out how to turn off a radio!”

And the music stopped.

One hundred miles away, on the afternoon of May 3^rd, my dear friend, Bonnie, slipped into a coma; she passed away, due to lung cancer, in the early morning of May 5^th.In that shadowy balance between here and there, apparently she had an errand to run before she could leave…or maybe she just wanted to get in the last word?

I choose to believe that she wanted to send me a message of love, one that I wouldn’t mistake for anything else, but, just to make sure, I checked the KINK radio website’s play list: May 4, 2006 at 3:30 in the morning, KINK was playing “Stupid Girl” by the band, Garbage.

Weekly Topic: Warmth, or Google Back to Yesteryear

2007-02-24T10:40:00.000-08:00

I recently stumbled across someone with whom I went to high school. She isn't someone who was a friend, we just happened to be in the same class together. She and I exchanged brief emails, got caught up on what we hadn't missed about each other, and I don't know if I'll hear from her again. But, because of this meeting, I started thinking about the people who were close to me then, about the passage of time, and how I was inspired to Google back to yesteryear...

1976, Gerald Ford was in the White House, but not for much longer. A couple of guys started a little company called, Apple. Barry Manilow was singing, "I Write the Songs," which is, ironically one of his hits that he didn't write, but, who cared, when "Frampton Comes Alive" was on the record store shelves? Dorothy Hamill was about to win a gold medal in Innsbruck, Austria, then out-coif Farrah for the most sought-after hairdo. Donny and Marie were a little bit country, a little bit rock-n-roll, and a whole lot toothy. Lindsay Wagner proved that a woman (with a little bionic enhancement) could do anything, and still look gorgeous. And I was in the middle of the eighth grade at Thomas Jefferson Junior High School.

In an attempt to mold us kiddies in the fine adults that we have become, we were required to attend group meetings with our advisers. It was supposed to be a chance for us to talk about school life, home life, our classes, our teachers, whatever, but, it often seemed to be a waste of time. I remember thinking that the groups must have been assembled like a dinner from a Chinese menu: one smart kid, one jock, one stoner (except my group had about four), a couple of average kids (me), one prep, one quiet corner-sitter type, a clown, and requisite kid with the: 1. taped up eyeglasses 2. severe acne and/or dandruff 3. kick me sign stuck to his back. Sadly, sometimes, one kid had all of these detractors, but that's not what I'm going to tell you about. I'm going to tell you about me and the quiet corner-sitter. Me and my best friend, the girl in the blue suede coat.

Quite honestly, I don't know how many weekly adviser sessions I endured before I took notice of the girl in the blue suede coat. I'm not sure who said what to whom, but, once we started talking, I thought that we would never stop. I found out that she had transferred into public school from the Catholic school system, where she felt that no one liked her, and was excited to meet new people. She wasn't shy, as I first thought, but, she kept herself back because of her weight, which, it wasn't that she was all that fat, but, she was a tall big-boned girl, with a few extra pounds, so she stood out from the crowd of petite misses. She had a beautiful face.

We never had one class together, but, quickly, we developed a friendship. I had a little group of girls that I hung out with, we called ourselves the P.T.A., for our first initials, but, I knew that the friendships were waning when one girl wanted to change the name to A.P.T., and another thought that T.A.P. was the best. So, I began to spend more time with the blue coat girl, and less time with T and A. (There seems to be a joke in there someplace, but, I'll let you make it.)

She and I lived in different neighborhoods, so we couldn't walk home together and chat. We usually strolled over to the rec center, which was just off the school proper, and hung out with the pool-shooting smokers, who welcomed us, or at least didn't mind us being there. Sometimes, when we had the money, we'd go over to a little burger place and get some fries and a soda, ice cream, if we were really feeling it. The only for sure things in our friendship were that we were always together, always talking, and she was always wearing that coat.

When my family moved across the river to another city, I was certain that the friendship would end, but, if anything, it grew stronger. My home life was chaotic, so I started spending every weekend at her house, which, looking back on this, was unhealthy, as neither of us cultivated close friendships with kids at our own schools, but when you're young, and a girl, your best friend is the most scared, intimate relationship that you have, and in some ways there isn't much in adulthood, other than the intimacy of marriage, that even comes close.

One warm spring day, we were walking and talking along a shady tree-lined street, when she stopped, and motioned to a sign: "One Way Alley," it read. I giggled and said something about the band, with the same name, that played at all of the junior high dances, chosen because they played, "Smoke on the Water," better than any local band, or so we were lead to believe.

She didn't laugh; she began to tell me a story about a man with a gun rack in a pickup truck who had stopped her, and had asked for directions, on that street, one day. Then she said no more, but, when I asked what happened, she replied, "A fate worse than death." I must have looked dire, because she began to laugh hysterically then said, "Seriously, you don't believe that do you?"

I did believe it, and still do. And I know that after that, she stopped wearing the blue suede coat.

We went to the mall every Saturday and Sunday, where she often bought new clothes in increasing cuteness. We went rollerskating every Friday and Saturday night, after spending countless hours doing our hair and makeup. Blue eyeshadow, anyone? We were the first ones into the rink and the last ones out. Everyone knew us, and knew that they would not see one without the other. There, everyone was our friend, we knew people from nearly every junior and senior high school. We were round pegs on wheels.

During summer vacation and spring break, we would ride the Greyhound bus 60 miles to spend a few days with her Grandmother. At the bus depot, I was the one who crawled under the door so we could both pee, without paying the outrageous sum of five cents. Sometimes, we would ride along when her father traveled to see his mother, the perfect Italian grandmother. I went camping with her family, though I hate to camp. The time flew by; we were in high school, and my family had moved, yet again, to another city.

One day I met a boy. He wanted to take me to a movie. I wanted to go, but, I told him that I could only double date (which wasn't true), so he needed to find another boy for my friend, otherwise I wouldn't go. He recruited his 23 year old cousin! My friend and I giggled non-stop about the lumbering giant whom we called "The Oaf." The next date, he brought along a more age-appropriate cousin, a kid who was three years younger than us, but fancied himself to be quite the ladies man. Again with the giggles! The third date almost didn't happen; there were no more cousins. But, he somehow talked one of his friends into spending a day at the lake with us, which was fortuitous, as this friend became the man that my best friend married.

As young adults, at one point in time, our homes were about four blocks apart. We were still inseparable, so much so, that our husbands often said that they felt like we were married to each other, rather than to them. But there were cracks beginning to form in our friendship. We were developing other interests, and I had a son. She decided that she was going to continue in college; I had decided that my family had to be my priority, and devoted myself to them. We didn't see each other as much, and we didn't talk as much. One day she and her husband moved several miles away to a small town.

Our bond was weakening.

I went to her college graduation, for which I was barely acknowledged; she was busy with her friends. She had done well in school, and was hired into the program from which she graduated. Our friendship had been reduced to a monthly phone call, then, after I moved 100 miles away, even that was gone.

So, I started this entry by telling you about reconnecting with someone with whom I went to high school. That sparked the thought that I would Google some of the people from my past.

I couldn't find out any definitive information about anyone whom I've mentioned here, except for my best friend. She is now the director of the program that she graduated from, all those years ago. Maybe I'm a flake, but, I cannot imagine working at the same place for 23 years! But, my hat is off to her and her success. I did have a fleeting thought that I would email her, at her official departmental web address, but, then what would I say? And what would I hope to gain?

A lot of life has happened since I saw her last, some delightful, some not so much, most of it, the everyday things that happen to us all. I believe that every relationship has a purpose, and that every person whom I meet, I've met for a reason. That relationship was wonderful, but was meant to be what it was, in time and place: two girls who helped each other become women.

All those years ago, it was hard for me to let that relationship go. Now, it makes sense to me, that a relationship that intense would burn out. I imagine it to be like a log in a fireplace: it is cozy and comforting while it burns, then there are only embers, and finally, only the warm memories of me and the girl in the blue suede coat.

Welcome to Blog Land...

2007-02-23T10:55:00.000-08:00

It's Rob!

You may feel as though you already know him, but, consider this your official introduction to the amazing Rob Cork, as he has decided to start blogging! Now you'll be able to see the other side of what we call, "Team Cork."

Rob is an artist and musician, but, also a very tight writer, who has an interesting take on life; I think that you'll enjoy reading what he has to say.

Easy enough to find out, just click here!

Thanks for making him feel welcome!

Speaking of shameless...

2007-02-22T01:49:00.000-08:00

I got the bright idea to rev up my KYPO logo, and in the process I made all new t-shirts for my CafePress shop. Okay, it's not like I actually sewed them, but, I did electronically decorate them! And there are new mugs, hats, magnets, and, of course a "Keep your panties on!" thong and boxer. (That's a little ironic, isn't it?)

I like the way this logo turned out much better, but, if you were one of the generous people who purchased the original logo products...

THANK YOU!

I hope that you don't feel let down by the change, and if you ever want that design again, please contact me. Look at the new design this way: You have the original KYPO, the O.G., Star Trek, before the Next Generation, Max before he was Mad!

You can enjoy the new logo in the new slideshow, which looks just like the old slideshow, except that the photos are different.

Shameless, yes, but, I could not resist creating a t-shirt that reads:

"Bald is the new Blonde
but remember to...
Keep your panties on!"

(My blog address is underneath, bringing extra shame to myself, and kinfolk, possibly for generations to come. And, yes, I do know that the preferred spelling of blond is without the 'e,' but, it looks so much prettier written that way. It's the difference between plain ol' Ann, and the lovely Queen Anne.)

Last, but never least...

Many thanks to everyone who drops in on this blog; regardless of whether or not you leave a comment, your readership means more to me than you'll know!

So, I leave you with a song, written by Billy Joel, covered by Garth Brooks, typed, in part, by me...

"I'm shameless, when it comes to loving you..."

And, no, I'm not teetering on the brink of destruction, or planning to shave my head; I'm just a little tired from a busy day, and very grateful and humbled for what I have.

Shamelessly yours,
Penny :)

Look How Far We've Come...

2007-02-20T09:51:00.000-08:00

Of all of the chaos in the world, bombings, mall shootings, airliner windshields cracking, death, destruction and snowstorms, apparently there is one news story that trumps them all: Britney shaved her head!

It is a day which will live in infamy, to borrow from FDR's speech to the nation after that little incident at Pearl Harbor. Oh, the humanity, to steal from a witness of that silly Hindenburg, balloon thingy crashing. Shock and awe, it's the Katrina of the celebrity world, those pretty blond locks are gone.

I'm sure that, like me, after seeing Brit's, shall we say, swimsuit area, plastered all over the Internet a couple of months ago, you've been wondering what she could possibly do to top that stunt. Well, now we know, and thank goodness, the carpet now matches the drapes. Or, more accurately, there are no carpets or drapes at Casa Britney.

Oh, and I heard on the news that the hair is going up for auction on, eBay. Hmm... Better hurry, kids! Bid high and bid often. Bid it to win! No re-list on this one! Sorry, it's gone. Too many people listing too much hair. Good for eBay for snipping that one.

Okay, so, she cut her hair. "Oops, (she) did it again," managed to get in the news. Remember, she's "not that innocent." Why is this a big deal? Why are you writing about this, Penny? I can hear you asking, so, I'm going to tell you...

Are you old enough to remember when cigarettes were advertised everywhere? There was one brand, Virgina Slims, which were marketed exclusively to women, with the tag line: "You've come a long way, Baby." It was a nod to the women's movement -- truly empowering -- to remind women that they didn't have to be under a man's control, they could smoke their own carcinogenic, yet feminine, cigarettes. Yes, you are your own woman, Baby, and we, here in the tobacco industry support you to the death! Okay, it's your death, but, we support you!

What I remember about those ads, was a beautiful, sexy woman, holding a long slim cigarette. She wasn't smoking it, she was holding it. Holding a cigarette is sexy, for a woman, dangling one from the mouth, not so much. The other thing that I remember, is that the woman had long hair. Sexy women have long hair.

Have you ever seen a beer commercial where the guys are surrounded by short-haired women? (Just typing the words, "short-haired," reminded me of a dog!) Beer Drinking Men want sexy women, and sexy women have long hair.

Shampoo and conditioner? Long hair. I'm not sure that short-haired women even wash their hair, based on advertising. Cosmetics? Only worn by long-haired women. Cosmetics Wearing Women want to be sexy women, and sexy women have long hair.

Internet dating sites? From looking a the ads, I'd say that there are only women with long hair there. That's because Internet Dating Site Men want sexy women, and, did I mention that sexy women have long hair?

Are we seeing a pattern here?

If you're young, rich, famous, beautiful, sexy, talented, and have long hair you can:

Stay out late, night after night, while the babies are, presumably, with a nanny.
Appear to be intoxicated in public.
Show body parts which should be saved for the bedroom, or gynecologist office.

But, you cannot shave your head, because that is crazy, erratic, insane, and possibly on the brink of destruction behavior!

Look how far we've come, Baby!

For Valentine's Day: A Love Story

2007-02-14T13:20:00.000-08:00

In the Language of Flowers, the yellow rose has many meanings:
Friendship, highest mark of distinction, jealousy, forgive and forget.

When I worked as a florist, I had the opportunity to meet every kind of person, for nearly every kind of occasion. Many times it was fun: helping a bride select her wedding flowers, or giving a woman celebrating her 25th anniversary the chance to decorate for her silver themed party. Some customers were downright funny! One lady, who I guess technically wasn't a customer, as she never made a purchase, used to retrieve old flowers from the garbage out back, then come in and ask for tissue and ribbons, so she could give her wilted treasures as a gift!

But, for me, there was one elderly gentleman, a regular customer, who touched my heart. He came in every week, on Thursday, to buy yellow roses for his wife. One afternoon when he came in, the shop was quiet, and he was more talkative than was usual, so I brought the bouquet up front to package and asked him about how he met his wife. I was imagining that they had been married for fifty years, or more, but, this is the story that he told me...

They both were born in a small Midwest community, in the 1920's. He was a farm boy and she was a townie from the wrong side of the tracks. Late one night when he was driving home, he came to the scene of a terrible accident; a car had stalled on the railroad tracks as the train came through. He was the first to witness the mangled wreckage, and immediately recognized what was left of the vehicle. His first thought was to pray for the souls who had been lost, because he knew that the man of the family had a poor reputation in town. When he walked up to the torn metal, he could see that the father of the family and eldest daughter did not survive, and he feared that the mother would soon perish as well. The only person unharmed was the prettiest little girl he'd ever seen, a girl whom he knew from the small high school that they both attended. She was a freshman; he was a senior.

Knowing that the mother didn't have much time left, he wrapped her in a blanket from the family's car, and loaded her into the bed of his pickup truck. He gave the girl his coat, then drove as fast as he could to the hospital, praying all the while. He looked over at the young girl, all of 14 years, and yielding the voice of God, made a vow that he would always watch over her.

The mother survived, but, he continued to make good on his promise to watch over the girl. They all went to the same small church, and every Sunday, the girl would make a box lunch, that he would bid on, then share with her and her mother. She was too young to date, so this was the only proper contact they could have.

After graduating from high school, he went on to college, but never was there a time that he didn't think about that pretty little girl, and that someday, she would be his wife. His visits back home were few, mostly during the summers, but, he also had to work to pay for school, so his time was precious. One day, just before his college graduation, he called his mother to plan for her trip to his commencement exercises; it was then that she told him that she had read in the newspaper that the pretty little girl was engaged.

He thought that somehow he had gotten it wrong, that it really wasn't meant to be, he and the pretty little girl. He decided to fulfill his dream of becoming a minister, and enrolled in the seminary. Soon he was blessed with a wife, three sons and a congregation. Years rolled by, his children grew up, one son, John Jr., decided to follow in his father's footsteps, and became a minister, too. Then, one day, his beloved wife passed away, and he was alone, in his sixth decade of life.

The pretty little girl did get married, to a military man. They traveled from base to base, finally settling down in Washington state, to raise their two daughters, who grew up, and started their own families. The youngest daughter moved to Oregon. She encouraged her, now widowed, mother to travel as she had done when her husband was alive, but a visit to see the grandchildren was as much as she was interested in.

On a Sunday, during one of her visits, the pretty little girl decided to attend her daughter's church, and noticed that the pastor's name was the same as that boy's from all those years ago. She was too shy to ask the minister if he was related, but, after traveling back to her home, in Washington, she did mention the coincidence to her daughter. After a telephone call, the daughter found out, that, yes, Rev. John Jr. was the son of Rev. John Sr., that boy. She also learned that he was a widower, who lived in a nearby city.

John, Sr. decided to give the pretty little girl a call, just to catch up, after all of those years. They decided to meet, but, secretly, as neither wanted their children to know that they were going on a "date." She went to visit her daughter, then she told him that she would meet him at a corner near the church, and that he would know her because she would be wearing a hat with a yellow rose on it. He said that he would pick her up in his green convertible.

He cruised up to the corner, and stretched over to open the door. A woman got in without saying a word. They drove in silence for several blocks until she turned to him and said, "I hope that this is the green convertible that I was supposed to get into!" To which he replied, "And I hope that you're the woman with a yellow rose that I was supposed to pick up!"

They got married after only six weeks of dating, and had "ten blissful years together."

Then something changed. There was something that was different about his wife, subtly so, at first, then more dramatic. One day, she proclaimed herself ready to go, though she had forgotten to remove the curlers from her hair. When he questioned this, she got angry, and told him that she always wore her hair that way. Getting ready to go out for dinner, one night, she appeared with her bra and panties on the outside of her clothing.

A visit to the physician confirmed his fear: Alzheimer's. He remembered his promise, the one that he had made as that boy, all those years ago, and marveled at the wisdom of a God who would bring her back to him, when she would need him the most. He worked as hard as he could to keep her home and secure, but, the task was too great for him, and after the day that she baked her handbag, instead of a chicken, he knew that she needed more care than he could give.

It was decided that she would move back to Washington state, to a care facility near her eldest daughter, who would visit daily. Rev. John, Sr. made a weekly trip to see his wife, always with the gift of yellow roses.

This particular day, as I was wrapping up his order, was a low day. This day was the last day that he would be able to make the trip on his own; the 100 mile drive was too much for a man in his late 70's. After this day, he would only be able to visit twice a month, relying on his son, step-daughter, and in-laws for a ride, and he had no intention of being a burden on them. And he didn't know how much longer it would make sense to visit, as she had forgotten everyone, even the daughter who saw her every day. But, he held strong to his vow, determined that he would make the trip, until he couldn't make it anymore.

"Does she remember you?" I asked without really thinking about how a question like that could sound cruel.

He smiled, and gently nodded his head. "Yes, she does," he told me. "When I ask her if she remembers me, she always smiles and says, 'Oh, you're that boy.'"

Weekly Topic: Mother/Child Art

2007-02-12T10:27:00.000-08:00

"Flower Pot" by Travis Short-Smith (at age 8)
oil on canvas board, 12" x 16"

For the weekly topic this week, I chose to showcase one of my favorite pieces of art, the above, "Flower Pot," painted by my son when he was eight years old. This was done as part of the art appreciation program in his elementary school. The corners are a bit bent, and have holes from where he decided to display it on his bedroom wall with thumbtacks!

Not for sale, unless you can come up with a whole lot o' money! Which he would gladly take, but, I might be a little sad to see it go...

Jury Duty Yesterday...

2007-02-09T18:40:00.000-08:00

I am proud to announce to you that I successfully completed my civic duty yesterday, as I was empaneled on a jury. While I won't discuss the case too much, I can tell you that this was the second time, in about 10 years, that I had served on a jury, and both times, I felt good about the process. Here's why:

In the first trial, the defendant represented himself, poorly. I was impressed by how much help the judge and prosecuting attorney offered him during the trial, but, he still came off looking semi-insane, and fully ignorant of the law. It was painful to watch him cross-examine witnesses, asking them questions which had no bearing on the case, then being asked to rephrase, or restate by the judge, only to come up without the words. We, the jury, found him guilty.

Why feel good about that? Isn't it a wonderful right that we have to be foolish? And, even though we are, we are given equal treatment under the law? The right to a jury trial was considered to be so important that it was specifically mentioned in the Declaration of Independence; it was something that that founders of this country felt was so fundamental to human rights that it was worth fighting for.

In the trial yesterday, the defendant had an attorney, who offered up absolutely no defense. By no defense, I mean: Not one witness was called to testify. The defendant did not testify; in fact, he did not utter one word. None of the District Attorney's witnesses were cross-examined, except for one question, which left some of the jurors scratching their heads. No physical evidence was admitted into the record. No Defense.

Why not defend oneself? Because in the United States, we are assumed to be not guilty, until proven otherwise.

Yes, it is understood, that in our system, the burden of proof is on The State. The District Attorney presented her argument and witnesses, and based on that testimony, the only way that the jury could vote was guilty on four of the five counts; though I, and a couple of others, believed that the defendant was guilty of all five of the indictments brought against him. But there wasn't enough evidence to support our suspicions.

And, evidence, not opinions, thoughts, suspicions, biases, or mood, is how guilt is decided.

Probably the biggest challenge is never knowing the answers to so many questions. The small, locked jury room was buzzing with questions...

Why did he? Why didn't he?
When did that happen?
Who made that call?
Where is that witness? In jail? Did they know each other?
What happened right before that?
Does the guy talk?
Why did the lawyer move for a motion? What the heck is a motion, and why can't we hear it?

The next biggest challenge is the time that it all takes. I was raised on watching reruns of Perry Mason, and he only needed 60 minutes, minus commercials, to exonerate the accused and gain a courtroom confession. All of this and probably: blackmail, theft, intrigue, and a D.A. who was absolutely certain that this time he had the right defendant, doesn't compare to the real life question and answers, repeated instructions -- the back and forth to the locked jury room -- and parade of witnesses, that you'll find in the real courtroom.

I know that everyone has an opinion about the Judicial system of the United States, and rightly so. I suspect that your opinion is based on your experiences, or those of a loved one, or, maybe even a famous trial. But, whatever you think about it, the system works, more often than not. So, if you get a summons for jury duty, please go. It really is a worthwhile experience.

I guess that, in all honesty, I was hoping for a more exciting case this time, perhaps a shouted objection, followed by a hand slamming down on the table, and the judge with the gavel, demanding order! But, it was all very sedate. At least there were two real lawyers. I just wish that the defendant would have spoken, at least once, but it didn't happen. We say that justice is blind, maybe you'll be surprised to learn, like I was, that justice is not only blind, but sometimes mute, as well.

My One Cent... For What it's Worth

2007-02-05T20:22:00.000-08:00

I guess that I'm in a mood today! I think that it began last night while watching "The Ten O'Clock News," which is on Fox television. They're "first, live and local!" And don't you forget it! They are not the same network as the "fair and balanced" Fox News, though 'fair' does accurately describe the job that they do. It was there that Rob and I learned about a new exercise craze sweeping the nation: Pie-Lates. Have you heard of it? The anchorpeople routinely mangle the names of people and places, and the news program regularly has masterful mix-ups, such as describing a violent shooting while showing video of folks walking along the river.

They have some good features, like, "Dirty Dining," where they report when a restaurant fails inspection for health code violations, you know, things like rat droppings, insects, employees who don't wash their hands after using the bathroom, and the usual gross stuff that doesn't go well food. But, the reason that Rob and I watch is that the reporters are so funny, and it gives us the opportunity for a chuckle. Last night, the crew was in rare form and I nearly rolled out of bed from laughter...

Tragically, there was a house fire, caused by an electric blanket. This is not funny. But, what was hilarious was how the news anchor finished her story:

"Fire officials are investigating the electric blanket to see if it malfunctioned."

Magic 8 Ball: "My sources say yes."

My one cent: If an electric blanket erupts in flames, my guess is that there was some sort of malfunction, granted, that's only a guess.

Panel?

Weekly Topic: Rant: Customer (non) Service

2007-02-04T18:22:00.000-08:00

Somehow, I think that we, Americans, have gotten the idea that a person can be completely inept, as long as they're friendly while being so.

Consider if you will...

My husband is going to be a groomsman for his childhood friend's wedding in March. The wedding is in California; Rob and I live in Oregon. The tuxedo company, After Hours, doesn't have any shops here in Oregon, but, they are affiliated with David's Bridal; so, I called my local David's Bridal shop to see if they did measuring for tuxedos, and if they would be able to help us. I explained the situation to the woman who answered the phone, making sure that she knew that we are here and the wedding is there; she was very pleasant, but, she said, that they did not do any measuring. I asked her if she had any suggestions, to which she told me, "Your best bet would be to go to our shop in Santa Rosa, and have your husband measured there."

Santa Rosa is in California. We are in Portland, Oregon.

I reminded her of the location issue, and asked if she had any pointers on how I should measure him, that I would just do it myself. At first she said, "I know that you measure the back..." Then she asked me if she could put me on hold. When she came back, she said, "I'm sorry, I don't really know, but, your best bet would be to go to our Santa Rosa shop, and have your husband measured there."

Good idea, Babe, I'm booking my flight right now.

Better Idea: Call Men's Wearhouse. Rob and I used their services when we got married. When I called, I was told to bring him in. A friendly fellow took his measurements in just a couple of minutes, filled out a card and thanked us for coming in.

Later that day, Rob called the After Hours tuxedo shop, and read the measurements to a pleasant woman. She told him that he needed to place a deposit on the suit. He told her that he would give her his credit card information, to which he was told, "I'm sorry, Sir, we cannot accept a credit card over the phone, you'll have to come into our shop in San Rafael, and we'll need the money this week to hold the reservation."

San Rafael is in California. We're still in Portland, Oregon.

The next day, Rob called the store manager, who was able to accept a credit card over the phone. Apparently, and this is probably a news flash to you as well, there is a ring of men who do nothing but call out of town tuxedo rental shops, placing deposits on suits: The Fashionisto Crime Syndicate, based in Milan, Italy. (Very hush-hush.) Or, maybe I'm just making that up.

This I'm not making up: I saw a drug deal on the corner and I called the police non-emergency number. The best thing about the non-emergency number is that when you call, a recorded message asks you if you're having a real emergency, and that if you are, you should, "hang up and immediately call 9-1-1!" No, they can't help you there, you actually have to hang up and redial! Just a note of caution, if you're ever in Portland, and have to call 9-1-1 from your cell phone, be prepared to wait, you will be placed on hold, then asked to punch in numbers if you have an actual emergency. I guess here in P-town, we have an unusual number of "butt calls," that's when the phone gets accidentally dialed from people sitting on their phones. What can I say, we're slackers here, we sit around a lot, apparently on our cell phones.

So, back to that drug deal. I called the non-emergency number and carefully listened to all of the options before selecting, and I chose my preferred language. Then I waited. And waited. I was told that all non-emergency operators were busy, but, that my call would be answered soon. (I probably forgot to tell you this, but, the buyer and seller were long gone by this time.) After seven minutes of reassurance that my call was going to be taken, a man, with a friendly voice, answered.

I told him that I had witnessed, what I suspected to be, a drug deal and that I had a description of the people and vehicles, exchange of money and drugs, the license plate numbers, all of it. He very kindly explained that he would have to "follow protocol, because, there's an order to these things." I apologized for my ignorance, and answered his questions, in order, because as a regular viewer of "Keeping Up Appearances," I do understand protocol.

By the time I answered the last question, which was the description of the suspected drug dealers and the plate number of their van, he said, "So this was about 20 minutes ago!"

Well, yes, indeed, Sir, protocol dictates that we must give all suspected drug dealers at least a 20 minute get away period, facilitated by the answering of lengthy questions, taken in order, otherwise the drug dealers might actually get caught, which could reduce the number of drug dealers, and, in turn, reduce the number of protocol-following-non-emergency-dispatchers in the City of Roses. And that would be sad, very, very sad.

Maybe someday, I'll call the police non-emergency number again, and clue them in on the Fashionisto Crime Syndicate; somebody has to do it, and, I already know the protocol.

Weekly Topic: Night Themed Art!

2007-01-28T18:40:00.000-08:00

"Lovers in the Midnight Garden" Mixed Media Assemblage, by me.

The topic this week was to create a work of art with the theme of "night," then write about the piece and also list it for sale on eBay.

The first thoughts that came to me upon hearing that the theme was night, were lovers, lovers at night, the night belongs to lovers, love is in the air. So I knew that I was going to make a pair of lovers, at night, under the stars, surrounded by flowers, not that that makes any sense, but, really, does love make sense? Should it?

I've had several unfinished shadowboxes for a very long time, just waiting for the right project to come along... I decided that my lovers would fit nicely into one of these little boxes, sort of their own little love nest. At first I was going to paint the box black, to go with the night sky, but, since my stars were two different purples, I decided that the box should be purple, too. I think that this is the right choice.

I knew that I wanted my lovers to be naked, and anatomically correct, which they are, except for a couple of missing limbs. And, although the man is partially camouflaged by flowers, if you look closely you'll see that he has his most important appendage, and he seems to know how to use it! He must also play the guitar, having serenaded his love with a song, before turning his attention elsewhere. She doesn't seem to mind; girls love musicians!

I wanted lots of color in this piece, and worked on creating a triangular flow of bright pink (the hearts and flowers), with a lesser rhythm of yellow (the woman's hair and flower centers), followed by a diagonal line of blue (formed by the flowers and guitar), and a lesser, low, line of orange (drawn by the vines and flower centers). I also extended the musical theme to the hanger: it's made from a recycled guitar string, wrapped in pink wire!

There are approximately 100 pieces of acrylic painted and hand cut canvas, save for a couple of punched flower centers, layered with acid free foam adhesive tape at varying depths, for as much dimension as possible.

My favorite elements of this piece are the sweetness of the couple, the colors of the composition, and the sense of whimsy. But, I always go for whimsy! I also love the way that the guitar turned out, and was happy that I added it, as it wasn't part of the original plan. But, that's how I tend to work, altering the plan as I go.

A couple of struggles were the placement of the man's head, which I wanted to be looking out to the viewer, as if to say, "Do you mind?" It was also important for me to portray a sensitive male, as he caresses his lover, but, his hand was challenge for me. All in all, like most of my work, I do not attempt realism, I attempt to convey an emotion, and I think that I did this with this piece.

Rob says that he likes the subject matter, and the flexibility of the woman, which somehow doesn't surprise me all that much.

So, there it is: Lovers in the Midnight Garden. For sale on eBay, just click on the link for more information.

An Ode to the Colorful World of Retail...

2007-01-23T13:40:00.000-08:00

"Ultimate Customer Service" (watercolor, 2.50" x 3.50", by me)
When this parrot was hired as a costume sales assistant, he thought that his prayers had been answered; unfortunately the job required more patience that he could ever imagine. How long can a parrot hold his breath, anyway?

Lover's mantra: We'll always have Paris.

The artist's mantra: There's always retail.

This post was inspired by a comment that I received from the wonderful artist, Michelle, from mw-artco, click on the link to your right to see her beautiful work!

At one point in my life, I worked in one of those BIG BOX home improvement stores, the one with all of the orange signs, in case you're wondering. One thing that I really wanted to learn was how to mix paint. And when I did get trained, I mixed paint at every opportunity. I loved it. Popping open a can of freshly shaken paint was like opening a shiny new toy on Christmas morning!

I remember one day when a man came up to the paint counter; he had run out of paint before he ran out of dining room. It happens. Not wanting to create a mess by bringing in the wet paint can, he handed me a neatly hand written scrap of paper with a formula on it. I looked at the paper, and asked him if he had copied the information from a gallon can. He assured me that he had, and then mentioned that the color was almost the same as his sage green shirt. I knew that there was an error in the making somewhere; there was no way that the combination in my hand could mix to make green, there was no blue in it. I casually showed the department manager the note, and she agreed with me, that it was not going to become green. But, in the land of orange, the customer is king, so I mixed the paint, thinking that it would end up on the oops! rack for discounted sale.

While the paint rattled away, my customer walked around a bit, chatting with me, looking at brushes and color swatches, finally settling on a card. "This is what it is," he said excitedly, "Angel Pink!"

Oh, yes, Angel Pink, certainly more likely than a shade of green. And when the can was opened, he smiled, and said, "I told ya! It's just about like I said it would be!"

This was obviously a guy with a sense of humor, and in good spirits, so I mentioned that, to me, the paint looked more toward a taupe or a tan color, not green. Then thinking out loud, I said, "You're color blind, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he said, laughing. Another satisfied customer.

One of my favorite customers was a man who was painting the entire interior of his Victorian bungalow, each room, hallway, nook and cranny a different bold color. I enjoyed the challenge of remembering which colors he had used so I could suggest another new addition to his palette, but, after a few months, we both felt as though we had been run over by the color wheel. One day he came in, fully exasperated. One of his housemates was moving, which would mean that another room would have to be repainted, only adding to his color anxiety.

"What color is the room now?" I asked cautiously.

"Blue! It's so BLUE that Helen Keller could see it!"

I could sense that whatever the new color was to be, it would have to completely erase this bad memory of the moving housemate. I suggested a deep goldenrod. He liked it, but, wouldn't you know, that was the color that he was thinking of for the yet-to-be-painted entry hall. So, I suggested the only color that I could think of that hadn't been used: Purple.

"No, too obvious. Over used. Everyone uses purple," he protested. I remember the way he put his hands up to his temples, as if to quiet a headache. After a moment, he looked at me, and asked, "Do you think that I could? Would it work?"

"Sure it would work, either way, the purple in the bedroom and the goldenrod in the hallway, or vice-versa..."

Again, his hands went to his head, and he began to repeat the question that I heard so many times before, "Is the color still with you, is the color still with you, is the color still with you..."

(Color memory is only fifteen inches or fifteen seconds long, in most people. I just thought that I would throw this little factoid in for my own amusement.)

What he was doing was mentally walking through his home, imagining the walls, seeing the trail of color, and how each one moved into the next. He decided that he couldn't commit to purple that day, but, he came back in about two weeks and purchased the paint. I often wondered about what it would be like to live in a house where every wall looked ready to leap out and kick the crap out of you. I don't think that I would like it, but, he thought that he did, and that was good enough for me.

At the same company, I once had the pleasure of working in the returns department, then even better, I was the manager of the returns department. You haven't had the full on retail experience until you've worked at a home improvement big box returns counter on a 4th of July weekend. I have personally witnessed fist fights, theft and verbal abuse in a combination of curse words that I didn't know existed until I worked there. Returning an item stresses people, even when they know that they're going to get back their money. Maybe it's the admitting that they have somehow made a mistake. I don't know.

One day a very pleasant man and woman walked up to the counter, a cumbersome box in tow. It was the middle of winter and they had driven almost 100 miles to return a set of fireplace doors, that was packaged as being bright brass, but when they opened the box, they were stunned to see that it was blue! They didn't want a refund, they only wanted to trade for the correct color. And they assured me that they had only opened one small corner of the box, saw that the color was wrong, then attempted to repair the box so that the screen could be resold, without any loss to the store. Every customer should be so considerate; but they did present me with a delicate dilemma...

I can remember walking from behind the counter, thinking about my verbal approach. I asked if I could just give the thing a look, and the man carefully opened the box, revealing the fireplace doors. "They're blue," he said pointing to the exposed corner. I just nodded and smiled.

I mentioned something about the color stated on the the package was bright brass, as I opened the rest of the box top and asked if they had seen any instructions, or documentation. They told me that they didn't get that far in the process, so, I began to rub my fingers over the top of the metal -- agreeing all the while that it was indeed odd, and blue -- then around to the back edge, so that I could begin to peel up the blue plastic protective film that covers all of the fireplace sets for shipping and storing.

I probably said something like, "Oh, no, this is like some sort of plastic wrap, or something..." in my best dumb blonde voice. This inspired the man to reach into the box and read from the instructions: "Warning remove protective film before installing or using fireplace doors." I think that it was written in bold red letters.

They were so kind, that they not only thanked me, but, apologized for taking up my time with their "stupidity." I felt bad for them, but, I was glad that they were happy, and I mentioned that since they had such a long drive, that if they ever have a problem with any purchase that they could call first, because maybe they could be spared a trip.

The man told me that he did call before he drove in, asking if he could exchange the fireplace doors because he had picked up the wrong color. He just didn't think to mention that the set that he had purchased was blue.

They say that retail would be great if it weren't for the customers. But, if it weren't for the customers, it wouldn't be retail, or nearly as colorful.

Weekly Topic: Time

2007-01-21T14:38:00.000-08:00

"Real Time," Digital Collage by Rob Cork


Click here for more of Rob's work.

A personal note about this post:
Rob and I had a bit of serendipity this week, in that he has been working on an art and music project, called, "Real Time," and the weekly topic just happened to be about time! You can listen to his podcast of "Real Time," if you'd like. Just click the little music box on the side bar.
And, wouldn't you know it? This topic was a struggle and I have posted it late! What does that say about time? Read on...

Time, that slippery little devil. If it could take on a physical form, I imagine that it would look like the mercury, all shiny and silvery sparkles while contained, but once unleashed, gleaming, free-flowing toxicity to the central nervous system.

We're bombarded by deadlines: Only three more shopping days. Call now. Limited time offer. Remember tax day is April 15th. End of the month. End of the quarter. End of the season. The end is near!

We get constant reminders about what time it is: It's time to maintain your smile. It's time to change the oil. It's back to school time. That time of the month. Time to waterproof the deck. And I've learned from television commercials that it's time to plan my Alaskan vacation, Disneyland vacation and Caribbean cruise!

Where will I find the time?

Whenever I failed to get something done, I used to say: "I didn't have the time." That was a lie. In truth, I didn't make the time. I didn't make whatever it was a priority, it wasn't important enough for me to do, so I didn't. There are many things which compete for the time in my 24 hour day, and I suspect that the same is true for you, as well. It helps to make a list: What are the absolute must do's?

Time, as it relates to the creative process, is even more intangible. Sometimes I really wonder how much time I actually invest in a project...

The physical time spent creating can be measured, so too can the time spent shopping for supplies, and marketing... But, what about all of that unseen time that is spent on the things that aren't obvious on first glance, but are there nonetheless? How many hours are spent on the concept?

Sometimes a conversation sparks a thought, but that doesn't mean that I am able to immediately design something based on that initial idea; I have to process it first. And it doesn't mean that I close off my brain to all other activities, but, somewhere, that seed begins to germinate. A good example is the "Three Wing Circus" from my last post. I have to give credit to their hatching to my father-in-law. One day he and I were talking about a movie, and he commented that he was amazed at how actors can master dialects so easily. I just nodded and smiled, but, my thought was something on the line of: How could they not? Let's face it, that's their job, they probably have some natural predisposition to language, but they have coaches to help them make it look easy. To my mind, that was like being impressed by a bird on a high wire! Hmm... a bird on a high wire...

Maybe an idea comes to me after one hour, maybe 12 hours, one day, two weeks... does it matter? It's only time...

But, you may say, "Time is money!" I'll just nod and smile, because money is money and time is time. Money is infinite; you can always make more money, but time is the one commodity that we will surely run out of, the one that we can never stock up on.

Time is a process -- we can't stop it -- and we don't want to.

Once, as a florist, I set up a display in a boutique for a "football widow's" sale. I decided to play on the theme, and created a wedding, complete with a tulle arch, baskets of flowers, bouquets and corsages. One woman stopped and chatted, and basically inspected my work, studied the prices, and asked questions about the wiring of the flowers, and techniques that I had used. She commented that it looked hard, and that it "must take a lot of time." I agreed with her that it did, then she made, what I still think is an odd comment: "But at least you get the fun of doing it." I just nodded and smiled...

Sometimes the buying public, we consumers, decides that if a person has "fun" doing a task then perhaps she is wrong to ask, what is perceived to be, an unreasonable sum of money for the efforts of her labors. Where does this notion come from? If there were to be an inverse relationship between fun and money, then surely housekeepers, garbage collectors, personal caregivers and hot tar layers in the summertime should be at the top of our society's pay scale, but they are not, so there is some other force at work here.

Wouldn't we all love to do the job that we would love to do and be paid handsomely for doing it?

There seems to be a perception, among some people, that if an artist or designer is enjoying the process, then, that enjoyment should replace some of the compensation for the work. And, I believe that unless an artist paints in a photo realistic way, that there is also the notion, among some consumers, that they could do that, too.

Evil Penny says, "I'd like to see them try!" (Go buy your supplies, learn to draw, paint, etc. Photograph your work. Price your work. Market your work. Wait to see if it sells, and when it does, split your share of the money with a gallery, an on-line auction, PayPal, etc. What? You spent a lot of time on it? But, did you have fun? Well, okay, there it is...)

But, y'all know me too well...

I just nod and smile.

Weekly Topic: Balancing Business with Creativity: Story and Pictures by Penny Cork. Chapter 1

2007-01-13T14:54:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 1

"Three Wing Circus: High Wire Act" Mixed Media (2.50 x 3.50 inches)
Like it? Click here…

The birds make it look so easy, that thing that we call balance. Even as Cosmo hovers overhead, Bing is undaunted, he just keeps walking across the daring high wire.

"Three Wing Circus: Clown Juggler" Mixed Media (2.50 x 3.50 inches)
This one has a home.

We have so many balls up in the air... Being creative, making money, reading the email, paying the bills, doing the laundry...and making time for our sweethearts!

"Three Wing Circus: Pretty Girls" Mixed Media (2.50 x 3.50 inches)
This one has a home.

It's good to hang out with the girls to talk about life, art and marketing ideas...

"Three Wing Circus: Master of the Ring" Mixed Media (2.50 x 3.50 inches)
This one has a home.

Or seek the advice of an expert.

"Three Wing Circus: The Stack" Mixed Media (2.50 x 3.50 inches)
Like it? Click here…

When you feel like the smallest bird in the stack.

Weekly Topic: Balancing Business with Creativity: Story and Pictures by Penny Cork. Chapter 2

2007-01-13T14:52:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 2

"Three Wing Circus: There Goes the Act!" Mixed Media (2.50 x 3.50 inches)
Like it? Click here…

Just when you think that you've got it all figured out, something unexpected happens!

"Three Wing Circus: Walking the Elephant" Mixed Media (2.50 x 3.50 inches)
This one has a home.

You have to walk about, and look for new opportunities.

"Three Wing Circus: Hurley's Big Leap" Mixed Media (2.50 x 3.50 inches)
Like it? Click here…

Take a leap of faith...
That you will land without getting your feathers ruffled!

And they lived creatively everafter!
There is no end...

Headless Chickens and Other Aggravations

2007-01-09T17:27:00.000-08:00

On Monday night, my son had dinner with me and Rob. I made a lovely roasted chicken with vegetables. My son, whom I'll call Travis, because that's his name, and he doesn't know that I'm writing about him, held the platter while I arranged the vegetables around the chicken. I could tell that he was hungry, and was excited about this simple meal.

Rob was making his usual yummy sounds, and Travis complimented the food as we began to enjoy our meal. My son talked a little about his job, then, apparently inspired by the meat, asked if we knew how old the world's oldest chicken was. Of course we had no idea, but, when Travis told us, "five years," we were not really all that impressed, until he added, "without a head."

This according to the Guinness Book of World Records.

As a creative person, you've probably already guessed that I see words, so I immediately closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears to stop the image that was coming to me. But, it was too late; I had been fully transported into grainy black and white, right to that scene in "Eraserhead," when Henry is served his chicken dinner.

Having seen chickens killed and plucked, I realized that something didn't make sense; I was flooded with disbelief...

"How can a headless chicken eat?" I asked.

"Easy, they put the food down its neck hole," Travis explained. Then he went on to say that when the person tried to kill the chicken, they chopped too high, leaving enough of the chicken brain stem for it to continue to function.

I think that I made some sort of a gagging sound, and asked, "Why did you tell me that?" Both Rob and Travis told me that I had asked, and yes, they were correct, I had.

You may be thinking, "What is the point? Why is she telling me this?"

I'm suffering from low-level aggravation today, and then I started to think about that chicken. Isn't that the most bizarre thing that you've ever heard? It turns out that the story is true, but, that the rooster, named Mike, only lived headless for 18 months, until he choked on a kernel of corn at an Arizona motel. I don't know what he was doing at the motel, but, what happens in Arizona stays in Arizona, oh, wait, that's Las Vegas, isn't it? Perhaps he had always wanted to visit the Grand Canyon (notice that I didn't say 'see' the Grand Canyon.)

I'm not making this up! Check my links on the side of the page!

That the chicken survived, is strange, that the chicken survived for 18 months is mind-boggling! That someone hand fed the chicken, by dropping food and water down its neck hole, because it had no beak -- no head -- is beyond my understanding.

Was it some sort of twisted compassion? Some kind of man-chicken co-dependence?

Compassion is what brings me (finally) to my point: My drug addicted friend called me over the weekend, several times. (Read "Some of My Coolest Friends are Flakes" for part one.) She said that she wanted help with a specific task, and I told her I would help her as much as I could, but, that she needed to think through her situation, and call some experts about what she wanted to do. She assured me that she would do this, but, she did not.

I, calmly, but, firmly, repeated what I've told her numerous times: 1. She needs to talk to her doctor about her prescriptions, because she has become an addict. 2. She needs to get counseling.

She yelled at me what she has yelled at me numerous times: 1. That everything is by prescription and that she is not a drug addict. 2. That she has made counseling appointments, several times, but something always gets in the way of her going.

Giving her one last option, I asked her to think about our conversation and to call me the following day, which she did. She stands firm: I'm wrong and I don't understand. She has decided to go stay with a family member, someone who "understands." Someone who is just as co-dependent as she is.

So, it came to me today, that it's not really all that weird that a chicken could live for 18 months without a head. That it could just wander around like a zombie, unseeing, unhearing, unknowing, until winding up dead in a motel room.

Some people are able to go on for much longer...

Expanding Your Vocabulary

2007-01-06T12:34:00.000-08:00

Expanding Your Vocabulary...

One of my favorite things to do is to talk to my husband. Sometimes we have fairly serious conversations about politics or religion, but, often it's just us being goofy, playing on words, trying to out-obscure the other with our references. We think that we're quite clever, and usually think that we should share our wit with the world, but, unfortunately, we're also quite forgetful, so what was a laugh riot one minute is soon locked up in the cobweb filled corners of our brains, never to see the light of day again. What a pity, when we have so much to give humanity in the form of new catch phrases! So, you can expect that, in this blog, from time to time, I'll submit the latest verbal masterpiece for your consideration, with the full expectation, and endorsement, that you will use it at every opportunity. Slip it into your conversations at will, regardless of appropriateness, create your own "rough segue," as we say here in Corkville.

"Kickin' like Tommy Lee" was coined by me on December 31, 2006, after some silly word association, while, of course, talking to Rob. So, you're probably asking, "What does that mean?" And, here's the beauty of it: "Kickin' like Tommy Lee" can mean nearly anything, to anyone, at any time.

Were you at a concert? I bet that the drummer was kickin' like Tommy Lee. Oh, the drummer was bad? Well, then he really was kickin' like Tommy Lee! Did you witness a brawl at the mall, perhaps over the latest gaming system? You probably saw someone kickin' like Tommy Lee, didn't you? And the security guard, who broke up the fight? He had such skill in dealing with the combatants, truly, he was kickin' like Tommy Lee. Soccer and football players? They're kickin' like Tommy Lee, too. Have you ever been to a Las Vegas buffet? Now, that's kickin' like Tommy Lee. When you notice an attractive man (or woman) he's (she's) kickin' like Tommy Lee. Is your best friend a fashion diva? Wouldn't she be thrilled if you told her that her outfit was kickin' like Tommy Lee? Are you pregnant, and feeling the first flutters of life? Well, then your baby is, without a doubt, kickin' like Tommy Lee! You can even use this when referring to someone who is quitting smoking, or narcotics... He's kickin' like Tommy Lee. Or, if you happen upon someone who is having a seizure, you could say, "He's kickin' like Tommy Lee!" But, this would be in extremely poor taste, so, please, don't say it! Ensure that the person is in as safe of a position as the situation will allow-- call 911, if necessary-- don't do anything weird like shove a wallet into his mouth or try to keep him still, just let him keep on kickin' like Tommy Lee...

As with any phrase, it's really not what you say, but the way that you say it that counts! My suggestion would be that you practice a bit, perhaps in front of a mirror, or with a confidant. Try saying it straight, with true sincerity, try it with great enthusiasm, then give it a go with a tiny bite and a wink, make it your own!

I hope that you've enjoyed these examples that I've given you to get you started, so, now, I expect you to go out there and spread the words... Start kickin' like Tommy Lee!

Important Disclaimers:

1. Seizures are not funny; they are a serious medical condition, and should be treated as such.
2. I do not know Tommy Lee, nor do I have personal knowledge of any kickin' that he has done, or will do.
3. My choice of the personal pronoun, "Tommy Lee," combined with the modified verb, "kickin'" is merely coincidental, and therefore no disrespect, either real or imagined is intended against Tommy Lee, his family or fan(s).
4. As the author of this blog, I assume no personal liability for the creation of the phrase, "kickin' like Tommy Lee," its usage, or any negative consequences of its usage. As always, your personal results may vary.
5. As the author of this blog, and the originator of the phrase, "kickin' like Tommy Lee," I respectfully request that when asked about the phrase, "kickin' like Tommy Lee," you give full credit to me as the linguistic genius that I appear to be. You may also recommend my blog, by telling people that it's "kickin' like Tommy Lee."

Weekly Topic: Inspirational Art!

2007-01-05T15:15:00.000-08:00

Season of October: The Potato Gatherers, 1878
Jules Baastien-LePage, French, 1848-1884

Being inspired by art...

I'm the one who suggested this topic. And, when I first thought of it, I had in mind that I would write about my all-time favorite artist, Vincent Van Gogh and his use of color and texture. I had planned to tell you about the time when I stood in front of his "Houses at Auvers" for unknown minutes, completely transported to his world -- toward the end of his life -- immersed in a new freedom, having left the asylum in Saint-Remy behind him.

I could sense what it must have been like looking out through the tiny window, out to the serenity of the lush golden field, or the tidy hospital courtyard, that composed his views. There was a comfort in the looking outward to the order of the field, past the chaos that was inside. And, now, perhaps some measure of peace had come to him as he moved about the village of Auvers, leaving behind him the turbulence of Paris.

To my eye, many of Vincent's paintings evoke a sense of calm, even with the deep, fanciful, brush strokes and intense colors. Maybe it's his story of passion, or insanity, that originally took me in, but, it is his hand that made me stay.

Then again, I thought, that I couldn't really choose one piece of art that was the piece of art, the one inspiration for me, until I recalled seeing "Season of October: The Potato Gatherers," by Jules Baastien-LePage, which is one of my favorite (non Vincent) paintings. It is the largest depiction of physical labor that I have ever seen. Standing in the presence of these hard-working potato gatherers, brings the weight of exhaustion, dirt and grit, along with the heavy burden of a difficult chore. I wanted to step in and offer my help, so that their strong, but weary hands could rest, if only for the moment. And it is the size, 71 1/4 by 77 1/4 inches, that evokes this feeling, without the scale, even though technically beautiful, the painting can never touch the heart in quite the same way, as is obvious from the photo at the top of this post.

So, you can see my dilemma, can't you? I already had two inspirational works of art, and I had only just begun to think about the topic! Then my list started growing!

I began to think about my former clients, people with developmental disabilities, and how excited they got about the process of creating. For people with limited cognitive abilities and/or dexterity challenges, the chance to be creative, to be an artist means so much. And their work was usually quite wonderful; I especially enjoyed Santa's tie-dyed sleigh, created one Christmas.

But, none of these are my most inspirational work of art; for that, we have to go back to the eighth grade, and the first artist that I ever met: Linda Williamson-Bellitt, aka Mrs. Bellitt.

Other than the crayons-cut and paste-tempera paint-red clay basics, I had never really had an art class. Not that my teachers up to that point didn't teach art, but, they didn't; they knew math and social studies, reading and writing. They taught art projects, one size fits everyone, as in, "The project for today is to .... " Yawn....

Not Mrs. Bellitt! She brought in her own artwork to share with us. And she could do everything -- painting, drawing, weaving, print making -- and the best part was that she wanted to show us how. She let us play record albums during class; Neil Young and Cat Stevens were always singing. (Yes, I really am that old!) Her lesson plan was loose; we worked on our drawing skills, then we could sketch a classmate, or an apple. We each created our own band, gave them a name, and designed an album jacket for them. We learned batik and weaving. Like Vincent, we would look out the windows to the courtyard for images, then back to our teacher for guidance.

One day, she brought into class a small, free-form, basket, made from a coiled clothes line wrapped in yarn scraps. It looked like an abstract rainbow, all twisted and gnarled. I was fascinated by the texture, and possibilities... She gave me a big bag of random yarn bits, a length of rope and the biggest needle that I had ever seen, and told me to "have fun with it" And I did. I took my bag of supplies home; at last, homework that I liked!

Whenever a student submitted an assignment, Mrs. Bellitt would spend some time considering it, usually speaking with the person about the strengths and areas of improvement that could be made. She spoke in a way that made sense, gently professional. My memory of the basket that I created is vague at this point in time, but, what I do remember is how my teacher made me feel when I turned it in...

When I walked up to her desk for my critique (except I called it my grade then), she praised my use of color, especially the way that I had worked complimentary colors into alternating rows, "rivers of color," she called it. I can still hear her asking, "How did you decide to do this?" My answer was pretty plain: I didn't know that I had. But, once she recognized it, and pointed it out to me, it was obvious.

That basket is gone; I think that it sat on my mother's coffee table for a long time, probably holding something like matches. I think that I got an A+ on it, but, what I really got was the sense that someone, whom I respected, saw something in me, a skill, that I didn't know that I had. And that is very powerful, and inspirational, at age 13.

God bless you, Mrs. Bellitt, wherever you are!

Weekly Topic: Art Goals for 2007!

2007-01-02T06:24:00.000-08:00

Art "Goals" for 2007...

It's here: 2007! Happy new year to you! Did you make your resolutions? Have you broken them, yet? I don't make resolutions, but, I have to admit that I do enjoy the concept. It would be nice if I could just say, I resolve to __________ and then I did it; but, I know myself too well, and, therefore, I don't even dare say it. In working on this post, I realized that I don't like to set goals, either. To me, a goal is something that is scored in hockey, football or soccer, a way of adding up your points, a tally mark on the scorecard of life, not a way to live a life in grace.

I've decided to aspire...

While I was looking at the image that I chose for this post, the devil's pixie told me that I should consider learning to draw. (Just in case the devil's pixie doesn't talk to you, then I should explain that it's the wicked little voice that reminds me of every unsuccessful attempt I've ever made, just when I'm about to try again.) I laughed in his face, or, at least I would have, if the devil's pixie actually had a face. He likes to hide in the shadows, too afraid to try himself, and damn sure that he doesn't want anyone else to try either!

I don't want to learn to draw better; I aspire to learn to see better.

I aspire to really look at the colors of the sunrise, just before the storm, and commit to memory the shades of rose and purple, and that little tinge of orange, so deeply that I can feel them. So deeply that I can see them, in the sense that I can understand them.

I aspire to look into the face of a laughing child and remember the joy of the first day of school, a warm cup of cocoa (with marshmallows), and racing a bicycle downhill toward an awaiting friend whose only job was to watch for cars.

I aspire to look at those whom I love and remember that I love them, even when they're not acting very lovable, because if I can do that, then maybe I can remember how much I love art, even when the devil's pixie tells me that art doesn't love me back.

I aspire to ignore the devil's pixie!

Will any of these make me a better artist? Who knows, but, I'm certain that they will keep me happy, and sane. And the devil's pixie?

I can hear him packing his bags right now...

My most sincere wishes to you for a healthy, happy new year!

Merry Christmas 2006!

2006-12-23T21:46:00.000-08:00

Wishing you the blessings of this beautiful season...
Peace, health and happiness to all!
Merry Christmas!

Weekly Topic: Inspirational Art Related Book!

2006-12-21T12:58:00.000-08:00

Weekly Topic: An inspirational art related book...

I discovered this book when I graduated from the Floral Design Institute, as I, and the other graduates were presented with tussie-mussies to wish us well in our new careers: sage for wisdom, statice for never-ceasing remembrance, geranium for affection, basil for best wishes, lavender for success... I was charmed by the notion of speaking with flowers, and as a florist, I used the meanings of flowers to create memorable arrangements, that could speak from the heart.

Those delicate Victorians! It was a time when even a piano wore a skirt to cover her legs! Everyday life must have been very orderly, with a protocol for nearly everything, including what we today call, "hooking up." Imagine a young woman receiving a nosegay of blossoms and herbs, perhaps a gift for that evening's dance; does she delight in the flowers? No, she, carefully examines them, identifies them, then consults a book to determine exactly what those flowers mean. It's the junior high school angst of "Does he like me, or like-like me?"

As in any human communication, context matters as there are sometimes several different meanings for the same flower. The red rose is an excellent example, as it can mean, "I love you, passion, desire, beauty, victory, harmony, joy, charm, luck, pride, martyrdom." So, you can see where a woman who received a red rose may have assumed that her desired one was professing his undying love, but, perhaps he was merely wishing her well in her search! One of my favorite flowers, the sweet pea, seems to be a bit confused: One meaning is "Meet me" and another is "Adieu!" Make up your mind!

The beauty of this book is not only in the flower meanings, but the history of the tussie-mussie and the beautiful photographs of completed bouquets and holders that serve as inspiration. It details the history of flowers as messengers, and explains the fashion trends and attitudes of the language of flowers. It is a must for any flower lover, or student of history and culture.

Just Waitin' on the Steps

2006-12-16T16:14:00.000-08:00

These are the front steps, photo by Rob Cork.

Just waitin' on the steps...

Friday morning, Rob came in from our second story patio, and said, "There's a (expletive) junkie just camped out on the porch down there, and his girlfriend is waiting on the corner to cop." I wasn't surprised; we've both seen people buying drugs on our corner, but, usually they stand on the corner, wait for the car to pull up, get in, buckle their seatbelts, then drive away -- about a block -- during which time they make their deal, get dropped off, then scurry off like a paranoid rat under a halogen bulb. I always have to laugh when I see these people buckle their seatbelts; I'm sure that they're worried that the driver will get pulled over for a seatbelt violation, not for their transaction.

In the past, I've asked, a waiting person if he was waiting for someone, or if the person is across the street, I've just given him or her a look that lets them know that I know what's going on. Sometimes Rob goes downstairs to smoke on the corner to watch them, and he's told people not to cop in front of our place. But, it continues...

After hearing that there was a junkie at the doorstep, I went outside and looked over the railing, to the steps below. There he was, looking quite pathetic, knit cap pulled down low, bundled against the cold air, his plastic Target shopping bags and Subway sandwich wrappers beside him; little puffs of vapor confirmed that he was talking to an unseen someone.

I quickly dressed and brushed my hair, thinking that I wanted to look like someone in authority, not a funky artist. Grabbing my cell phone, I gave Rob a kiss and told him that I'd be right back. He asked me where I was going, I told him, "to politely tell them that they have to leave."

When I opened the door downstairs, the young man startled, and began to move, telling me that he would leave. The woman, to whom he was talking, appeared from the corner, she was probably pretty -- at one time -- but now her face was covered with sores.

I wanted to confirm that he was looking to buy drugs, so I asked him, "Are you looking to buy something?"

"No," he answered, then his face brightened as he asked me, "Do you have something to sell?"

I did not. In a very calm, serious voice I explained to him that there are many people who use the corner to buy drugs and as a result, it is heavily patrolled by the police, so he should leave. (The "heavily patrolled by the police" part was an absolute lie, the police here seem to be stretched pretty thin, and little drug buys like this are of a low priority.) He did understand that I wanted him gone, and quickly gathered his gear and left, seemingly explaining our conversation as he hurried his friend along.

I went upstairs to learn that Rob had been watching and listening from the balcony, and we both felt like we had accomplished something, for that moment...

But, what really did I do? Those two are still going to buy drugs, if not on my corner, then certainly another. Until they get help, their misery will continue and eventually increase until they end up in jail, or dead. And, today, someone else will be standing or sitting in the same spot, just waiting for the fellas to make their world a little easier to deal with.

So, I've decided to hand out the telephone number for NA (Narcotics Anonymous) and a meeting schedule, to anyone who is just standing around waiting. Do I think that it will help? Not really, but, I'm hopeful. I imagine that the brochure will be stuffed into the bottom of a bag, or be crumpled up and thrown on the sidewalk. Maybe it will be found during a desperate search for something else, maybe it will be found on the street by the person who needs it at that moment, just maybe, one day that phone number will become a lifeline, that someone, somewhere will decide that they're ready to make a change, that they're tired of just waitin' on the steps, and will begin to work them.

Weekly Topic: Beads!

2006-12-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

Me, wearing the tiara. Photo by David O'Connor.

WEEKLY TOPIC: Beads!

In one of my online groups (VIM), a few of us members have decided to dedicate one blog entry per week to a specific topic, here’s mine:

105 Freshwater pearls, 30 Swarovski crystals, somewhere between half hard and dead soft, a lifetime of dreams…

I had everything that I needed to get married: The guy (#1 in importance), the dress (#2), the flowers (on order), the church, the minister, the organist, the reception, the cake, the invitations…

But there was one thing that I craved, the one thing that would not only say “bride” but, “princess for a day.” A tiara. It had to be the perfect tiara, but, every one that I saw reminded me of either Miss America, or Carrie (and we all know how her princess for a day turned out). My vision was sophisticated, whimsical, elegant, beautiful, memorable, delicate, oh, and, affordable. I searched through stacks of magazines, the internet, bridal shows, until finally, there it was: A beautiful sterling silver, moonstone, freshwater pearl and white topaz dream, all for only $750! (Keep in mind that I purchased my dress at a Making Memories sale for $199.)

I’m what you would kindly call frugal, or thrifty, so, I got the bright idea to make my own tiara. Really how hard could it be? It was just some gemstones wired together, and I knew that if I could wire a sweet pea, or a gardenia, I could wire anything! I told Rob about my plan, to which I heard him reply, “There is no way in hell that you’re going to make anything that you would want to wear, and you’re just going to stress yourself out by trying!” But his actual words were more like, “Oh, but, are you sure that you want to take this on? You’ve got so much on your plate already.”

I studied as many photographs of wired jewelry as I could find, and sketched a diagram of my tiara. I went to the bead store. I was overwhelmed by the selection. Just when I thought that I had made up my mind, I saw a new stone, or crystal, or new color that intrigued me. I carried around a plastic tray for hours, picking up the moonstones then putting them back, selecting one group of pearls then replacing them with another, choosing a sparkling Swarovski crystal in one color, then deciding that I liked another color better. It was a delightful madness. After deciding that simpler was better, I chose ivory freshwater pearls and Swarovski crystals in a color called cantaloupe, which was perfect for my color indecisive mindset; sometimes they look gray, other times they look lavender, rose, or lime.

Choosing the wire was a little different: Sterling silver was the easy part. But, Half Hard or Dead Soft? I asked one of the saleswomen, explaining what I was making, showing her my inspiration photographs and diagram. She sold me the wire, which, I later discovered was the wrong kind for all of the twisting that I was going to be doing, but, I was determined to make it work.

Back at my studio, also known as my dining room, I set out my materials and began to ‘play’ with them, getting a feel for the way the wire would bend and form, for the way the stones and crystals would meld with the wire.

I like to break a project down into easy steps, so I began by making clusters of three pearls, then I tried the clusters of five pearls and crystals; I knew that it would work. And it did. I showed Rob some of the components, and I heard him say, “I can’t believe it; I think that she’s going to pull it off!” But what he actually said was, “That looks beautiful, Pumpkin!” Over the course of several days of spare time, cluster by cluster, I formed a tiara. When the last cluster was wired to the frame, I modeled it for my sweetheart.

I heard him say, “You’re beautiful; you look like Neptune’s daughter.” What he actually said, really was, “You’re beautiful; you look like Neptune’s daughter.”

Art and Poetry Day: Lovers with Golden Hands

2006-12-13T12:37:00.000-08:00

"Lovers with Golden Hands" mixed media on paper (5"x7") Penny Cork, 2006

Art and poetry day...

Please don't unbutton my illusions; I'd like to wear them for a while -- PGC 2006

I painted this after looking at works by the amazing Marc Chagall. He was able to capture a mood, spirit and emotion like no one else.

Some of My Coolest Friends are Flakes

2006-12-12T19:03:00.000-08:00

"Some of My Coolest Friends are Flakes..." Courtesy J.Boyd

“Some of my coolest friends are flakes…”

Have you ever stopped and thought about the connections in your life, the people that you meet and befriend, or the ones that you see every day, but never speak to?

My car was in the shop for two weeks once, and in taking the bus to work, I saw the same woman boarding at the same stop every morning. She wore a khaki baseball cap with the words, “PRAY UNTIL SOMETHING HAPPENS,” embroidered across the front. Every day, she took the same seat, right across from the driver, with her back to the window…maximum exposure for her hat. I began to look forward to her boarding, just to see if she would be wearing the cap, and she didn’t disappoint, until day eight in my bus-riding adventure: Same stop, same woman, same seat, but the cap was gone! “What happened?” was my first thought, but, being a semi-shy person, I could never ask such a personal question of a stranger, so, I’ll never know. But, I’m convinced that SOMETHING happened.

Ten years ago, I met a really cool woman in a flower shop; I was the new designer, and she was the worker bee – the person who processed the flowers, mopped the floors and cleaned the coolers – she called herself, “the grunt.” She was fun, and spunky, with a mouth bigger than she was. As we got to know each other, we discovered that we grew up in the same city, that we knew some of the same people, and that our childhood homes were about six blocks apart, yet, we had to work at that flower shop to meet.

Working side-by-side, I shared my design duties with her, coaching her. She taught me everything that I needed to know about sanitizing a flower shop. It was a fair trade. She became confident, and, I still believe that she can build the better dozen roses (the foundation of the floral trade), despite her “only taking a few classes here and there.” She had a natural tendency toward order and formula, while I relied on color and form.

I left that shop, and eventually she did, too, but our friendship lasted. We shared births, deaths, losses, gains, separations, divorce, remarriage, and coffee. I know her secrets, and she knows mine. At least she used to…

She’s no longer the bubbly, laughing woman that I used to know. At my wedding reception, she was as vacant as a living person can be. She’s become unreliable, undependable…A Flake. I told Rob that I wished that he could have met her before she changed, before she began to worship at the church of pharmacology.

“Before she got strung out,” he said.

Yeah, that’s what it is, that’s the label that fits: Strung Out. Our long meandering conversations about God, religion and our destinies in this life have been replaced by her telephoning -- sobbing, freaking out -- and denying that she has a problem, despite the fact that she has 12 prescriptions in her hand and still is in pain.

At first I was gentle, “You’re overmedicated, please talk to you physician,” I would tell her. She would protest, they were all prescription drugs and her doctor wouldn’t give her too much or too many, and you-just-don’t-understand! As she became more erratic, I had to be tougher on her, I had to tell her the truth: “You’re an addict.” She repeated her mantra of prescription drugs; I asked her if she had ever heard of a guy named Elvis.

She called me, again, the other day– sobbing and freaking out on my voicemail – her closing words to me, a desperate threat, rather than a plea for help, were, “If you ever cared about me you’ll call me!”

I didn’t call her back; there are no words that I can tell her, only the words that I’ve often repeated, only the words that she continues to ignore. There is only so much that one can do to help a friend, when that friend only wants someone to agree with her, to feed her addiction, to reassure her that she’s right, even when she’s wrong.

So there is only one thing left for me to do: PRAY UNTIL SOMETHING HAPPENS…

The First Camellia Blooms

2006-12-10T16:14:00.000-08:00

The first camellia blooms…

As a florist, I was once asked by a customer the name of a flower that was blooming on a bush in her yard: “You, know, it’s one of those pink flowers that looks really pretty, until the rain comes and ruins it…” she said, her voice trailing as she spoke. It was a camellia, a beautiful burst of pink, red, rose or white, to offset the gray of winter. In the language of flowers, one of the meanings for camellia is contentment.

The first camellia bloomed here on December eighth, and I knew that it had to be admired, appreciated, and photographed, before the rain came and ruined it. But, Rob and I were in a hurry; we had errands to run and things to discuss, so photographing the flower would have to wait. As we drove to the grocery store, for our mega-stock up, we talked about some of the resentments that we were feeling toward some people in our lives, trying to verbalize our emotions, and checking in with each other about how accurate -- how honest -- our thoughts were of our situation.

Knowing that we wouldn’t solve anything, or change anything, or change anyone, helped us to focus on what we could change, only one thing: Our attitudes.

My kitchen became a mountain of boxes and bags, and Rob was still schlepping in more, up the stairs, to our landing, where I would haul them inside and unpack. We were both hungry, but, agreed to get the groceries put away, before I made lunch.

A phone call changed our plan. Worry grew on my husband’s face. His father had fallen ill; we went to the emergency room. I watched Rob kiss his dad’s forehead, telling him that he loved him, and thought that his tall, strong father looked very much like a little boy, and how the roles of these two men had switched in an instant. Thankfully, after a series of tests, exams and medication, we were told that Rob’s father would be okay, well enough to be released that same night.

After a long day, Rob and I were calmly tucked in for the night, the rain came down hard, and I remembered, once again, that camellia. Had I missed my opportunity, that fleeting moment of perfection? Had the sudden cloudburst ruined my plan?

Saturday, the ninth, the weather offered a second chance to photograph the camellia. I was concerned that the rain had damaged the flower, but, upon close inspection, I could see only a couple of blotched areas on the petals, really not much considering how hard it had rained. Rob took the photo at the top of this post; it’s the first camellia, and a reminder, for me, for us, to take the time to remember the everyday beauty that surrounds us, be aware of our attitudes, and to practice contentment, because there is sure to be another rainy day.