I'm a terrible blogger

I don't stick to a regular posting schedule. I don't have a niche audience. I write about totally random things, most of them overly analytical and self-indulgent. I'm inconsistent about labeling my posts. I don't bother with SEO. I don't do backlinks, I don't participate in the blogger community and I'm using blogger instead of wordpress.

And all of this makes me appreciate you reading even more.

Vacation Hangover

Yeah, you know what I mean.

You return from somewhere luminous, invigorating, and no matter how much you tidied before you left, the house you come back to feels dirty, drab, colorless. It fits all stiff like cheap new shoes.

You have a stack of mail to go through and not one whit of it is anything other than bank statements or catalogs or those stupid flyers you can't unsubscribe from no matter how may phone calls you make or junkmail reduction sites you register with. And, viewed through your grouch-o-vision glasses, it looks like an awful lot like a big ol' chunk of landfill, because you suspect your local dump doesn't actually recycle anything.

And, if you live in the godforsaken Las Vegas area, it's freakin' 112 (yeah, I know the news reports it as cooler, but that's just so they don't scare the tourists away). Even getting groceries feels like too much effort in that heat, so you buy frozen crap for a couple days to avoid the commitment of meal planning and a full cart. And then you feel gross from all the preservatives your body is used to rejecting. And everything feels like too much effort; maybe you're just sluggish from the junk food. Or maybe what you really want to do is flee back to where weather was bearable, where hail in July seemed reasonable and fitting.

And why-- WHY-- did you have leftovers in the fridge when you left? Why on earth would you NOT throw that shit out when you were gonna be gone for two weeks? And since cleaning out the fridge in the first couple days back from vacation is even more depressing than finding that stuff there in the first place, they sit a little longer, mocking you with fat, oozy giggles every time you open the fridge door.

Those impulsive time-share purchases don't seem so unreasonable all of a sudden. There's this desperation in wanting to hold onto that iridescent hazy soap bubble, that time of no commitments and long lazy days, of eating amazing food and opening your world.

Can anyone suggest a remedy for this?

Um, I suck a little.

Okay, I do realize that I'm over two weeks late posting. Someday I figure I will get the hang of pre-writing posts so there's no interruption when I'm on vacation. I had, seriously, 45 articles to write and while they weren't due till mid-vacation, who wants those things hovering over them while taking long trips and catching up with long-lost friends and chasing toddlers? NOBODY. Anyway, all my writing mojo went (sadly) into those and I ran out of time for other things.

So-- all right. I will try so hard to have an actual post this coming Sunday. Next year I swear I'll get it together. Really.

My Dad. (again)

This is a repost from last year, but I'm going to print it again because it's all still awesome and true.

Love you Dad! xoxo

http://almost-like-real-life.blogspot.com/2010/06/my-dad.html

Skittish

Regular computer and backup computer both breathed their last over the weekend, leaving me disconnected. Yesterday was spent getting to know my shiny new computer...laying down a trail of enticing tidbits, trying to get it to come close enough to eat out of my hand....pet it a little before it snorts and runs to the other side of the corral...

So, we're on well enough terms to check email and bank accounts, but not really reached a stage where we're comfortable enough to write together. Working on it though. Maybe by Sunday.

Real Life Resume

This week I redid my resume and was shocked at how awesome I look on paper. I would totally hire me. I sound interesting, well-rounded, adaptable, and promotable. I sound like a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants fearless go-getter.

Huh! Who knew!

It’s all smoke and mirrors though. Not that any of it is one whit less than factual; my list of duties/ promotions/ awards looks real spiffy all lined up in a row. It’s just that it doesn’t even come close to encompassing my true skill-set.

Someday I’d love to submit a real life resume, the things I’ve actually done at work; lessons I’ve actually learned from jobs. Maybe something like:

(2005 - 2010) Long-term Construction Job:
Painted realistic wood grain in extreme environments while fingers physically ached from the cold; personally purchased and used necessary brushes and tools not provided by multi-billion dollar employer; maintained integrity under physically and mentally toxic work conditions; consistently rejected inappropriate advances; successfully utilized Port-a-John even while smeared with poo and offensive graffiti; successfully utilized paint to strategically disguise menstrual accidents on Union-mandated white pants; maintained reasonably positive attitude in light of rampant sexism, racism, bigotry, ignorance, and sheer exhaustion.

(2003 - 2005) Long-term Tech Job:
Mitigated extreme irritation with humor; inappropriately utilized ‘mute’ button for shouted cursing when unable to take one more second of stupidity; showed extreme restraint in not yelling directly at truly idiotic customer base; developed highly quippy and much-loved online personality; doubled typing speed; flirted inappropriately; assembled team of like-minded smart-asses to make tedious and unbearable job entertaining; milked clear expectations and reward structure to fullest extent.

(Most of Oct 2003) Short-term Design Assistant Job:
Developed full understanding of phrase ‘crazy doesn’t need a reason.’

(1999- 2003) Long-term Resort Job:
Made lifelong friends; wrote hilarious fake reports back and forth with night manager; laughed too hard to answer phone; made second home for toddler (who promptly charmed bartenders into providing her with free Shirley Temples); utilized Children’s Program as daycare; learned that a good boss who appreciates you makes a huge difference; successfully disengaged emotionally upon learning owners keep the place as a tax write-off and aren’t interested in how much potential resort has or how much better it could be.

For total accuracy, I’d have to include all my parenting and relationship experience too I guess, but let’s just leave that door closed for today.

Spring Shift

Spring scrambles my circadian rhythms.

I’m a Minnesotan at heart. Spring should be a time of opening, relaxing, slowing down. It’s relief after months of still, interminable cold. The light is lovely and gentle; warmth quickens the dead landscape, brings color to the white page. Spring is Summer’s herald, promising glorious months thick with lazy lake days and loon calls.

The spring sun promises nothing here; it’s this apologetic diplomat ushering in Summer the Tyrant. It foreshadows months of cruel, glaring sky uncompromised by clouds; even they can’t withstand Summer’s ferocity.

Desert spring is a speeding-up time. A race to beat brutality. It’s hard to feel positive too long in the spring with summer looming just behind. And dammit, feeling not-positive in the springtime goes against the natural order of things.

Spring used to be my waking-up time, time for pent-up creativity to explode out from under deep snowdrifts. Now it's my battening-down time. A bracing-against time. Summer is my time for hiding inside and waiting for the worst to pass, when I used to cram those days full to the hilt. I now dread sunshine and clear skies the way I used to dread dark months without one day above zero degrees.

No wonder I can't get on top of things here; even the seasons flip me upside down.

Anyone else notice a resemblance?

Bermuda grass roots

Face-sucking alien

Art is a black hole

I've been absorbed by art projects this weekend. Dan & Miss G are in Reno visiting Miss L, so it's just me and the dogs and several large surfaces to spread out alllll over.

It's been a really long time since I've made stuff just for the sake of making stuff. When I had a non-creative job, I thought I wanted a creative job. When I had a creative job, I had no juice left for my own projects; it all got used up at work. I don't even remember the last painting I did for myself.

Creativity isn't supposed to be draining. It's supposed to fuel--invigorate-- inspire. I forgot about that part, until this weekend.

I keep forgetting to eat. I look up and it's afternoon and I only made toast for breakfast. I meant to add eggs and stuff, but I just-- forgot. There are three days of dishes in the sink. Serious, serious vacuuming needs to happen.

But that's okay. It was a really productive weekend. And I can get all the chores done today. Right after... okay, just this one little thing that needs tweaking...

Buried Treasure

My favorites stores are the ones where I have to dig for treasure. I love thrift stores and sales racks. I love the feeling of The Find-- you know, that perfect whatever that's 93% off.

But books, now.... it's hard to find a fun bookstore any more. I don't like the big chains; they're dull and soulless. I want the tiny, scrungy local-owned places with hardcover editions of my favorite out-of-print something or other. Preferably with all shelf space used up and the excess stacked up in wobbly piles. But of all the things Las Vegas has to offer, the just-right second hand bookstore is one that's missing. Or I just haven't found it yet.

So, most of my book shopping happens at thrift stores. Or sometimes ebay, if I hate the current editions' cover art (His Dark Materials) or the current (sacrilegious) order of a particular series. (*coughcough*Narnia*cough*). Mostly, I save my book shopping for when I visit my folks in Tucosn.

A block or two from their house, there's the perfect hunt-n-peck bookstore. I love it. My dad and I have a standing date to comb the sci-fi section whenever I'm in town. The whole place is about the size of my living room and kitchen combined and absolutely crammed with books. If they run out of room in one section, they stack overflow onto the nearest shelf. This leads to curious juxtapositions like Anne Frank ending up in True Crime.

I like to rearrange the books while I'm there. Not a lot, just-- you know, moving Tao of Pooh out of the children's section. Jonathan Livingston Seagull frequently turns up there too; sometimes I leave him, depending on my mood. Once I found him in animal books. Also: The Five People You Meet in Heaven is not a biography. The Historian does not belong in historical novels. And The Time Traveler's Wife is not sci-fi.

But the funny just adds to the whole experience. And finding a particular treasure-- a hardcopy edition of Illusions, for example-- is all the more sacred for the effort I put in. Just like everything else.

Cranky Joe (or, Save the Arts Program)

When Miss G is all fidgety, I call her Squirrely Joe. When she's bossy, she's Micro-Managey Joe. When she's off or withdrawn, she's my Sad Joe.

Today, I am Cranky Joe.

I was cranky on Sunday, so I didn't post. Figured I’d wait till I was less cranky, but here we are at Tuesday and Cranky Joe still stands in full force. Grouchy and surly with his arms crossed.

Among the contributing factors is discovering that my alma mater is axing their lone art history professor (one of the best teachers I've ever had, as well as one of the most continuously fierce student and art program advocates) and two other full-time visual arts teachers.

This possibly means no more art program at all at the university.

No more BFA is semi-understandable; it’s a springboard degree into graduate school and not much else. Not sure how useful it is in the grand scheme of things, even though I have my very own framed up on my wall. So if it were just that, I'd be grumbly but at least it would make some kind of sense to me.

But these cuts won't just amputate the BFA. They could very well sever the whole program. No more BA in Visual Arts for artists who want more variety and less concentration than a BFA. No more Arts Education degree training new art teachers to pass beauty and inspiration down to the next generation.

The Ed-Arts building will be oddly named just "Ed."

I understand budget cuts. I really do. I understand times are tough everywhere. But the arts program is not just a budget cut to me.

When Miss G's dad moved out, I lost the future we'd planned out together. I needed a new one, needed it frantically and as soon as possible. I found it at the college across the street. I uncovered solid ground when I thought none remained. The skills I learned there brought me to where I am now, having spent the last slew of years painting murals and wood grains and applying gold leaf in high-end Las Vegas casinos. Because of my degree and that program, I know how to market my husband's sculptures and helped craft his resume; he has works in office buildings now, and even had one of his sculptures accepted into our citywide sculpture walk.

I've had a bunch of different majors through my college career but not one of them was a home like the arts program at BSU.  And it's not just me. Those classes were a lifeline for every person taking them, pulling us out of whatever mire we'd landed in, lifting us out of dry days of academic lectures. Something to follow to a new life.

There's always someone fun in one of the studios, someone who brings a coffee maker to their work station and offers you a cup. Someone who takes a break from soldering or slapping clay around to give you a shoulder to cry on or bum you a smoke. Someone willing to help you stretch a canvas or help you light your show or hang posters. The professors there don’t just give you grades, they give you life advice and career direction. I have no idea if BSU has student counselors; I didn’t need one. I had art professors.

It’s not a program. It’s a community. It's a family. One I miss every single day.

My classmates went on to open their own pottery studios and galleries or continued to grad schools. They've won awards and been featured in books. They've enriched small towns, contributed to the diversity of larger ones. They've become teachers in grade schools and art therapists healing broken spirits. And that's just the ones I know about.

The arts program doesn't bring in the kind of revenue a hockey game does? Okay, I get that. Then brainstorm ways to make it more viable. Charge for gallery shows. Hold silent auctions. Bring in visiting artists. Scrounge up grants, shuffle priorities. Instead of keeping the arts program at bay like a red-headed stepchild, embrace it. Learn its strengths. Make it work for the University instead of ignoring it and hoping it’ll go away. Because it will eventually go away, and the school and surrounding community will be poorer for it.

In high school, we did this project where we had to invent a civilization. Each civilization, we were told, has universal elements. Things like a system of government. Currency. And one of the elements was art. I remember, because it struck me as funny. Currency, government-- sure. But art? Art as necessary to civilization?

Yes. God, yes.

Ha ha, whoops, is it Sunday already?

The blogging gods are conspiring against me.

Yesterday I hit the Phoenix Faerie Festival with my mom and sister and little Peep, planning a winged photo vignette for today's post. Only the damned photo uploader is on the fritz, probably to punish myself and all other procrastinators.

Anyway, here is the lone photo that would load: Me n Peep.

*That* door there.

The family cleared out of here on Wednesday and the rest of the week has been far too quiet. Playing with Peep was the perfect balm to soothe the chafe of husband-nursing.* I loved her little “That door. That door. That door there.” followed by a serious finger grab of nearest willing adult and beeline for whichever door caught her fancy (we have several in our house, and each one leads to a new adventure... actually I think ‘that door there’ might become one of my regular metaphors). Once outside, she’s all chirpy and happy. Not that she’s unhappy inside, just that outside is always better. She’s a delight.

Spending time with Peep reminded me of Miss G at that age-- not because they’re similar (Peep is way less bossy, for one thing)-- but just the feeling of entering the world of a toddler, speaking their language, every moment so purposeful. There is no wasted time with kids that young; every minute is spent teaching them something new or learning something new from them.

No wonder I loved it so much.



*Pretty minor. He’s already out camping this weekend.

Cancer, schmancer

All is well.

Except for the super wonky wireless connection here at the hospital, and the disturbingly absent sense of humor among most of the staff.

Surgery Eve

Today I chatted briefly with a gal who was leaving town "indefinitely" to be with her sister-in-law in her last days. I expressed my sympathies, and she said she was really going to support her brother, because he was having such a rough time. "She was only diagnosed around Mothers' Day, so he's really struggling."

From diagnosis to death in less than six months? The words 'rough' and 'struggling' can't possibly be enough.

So tonight, on Surgery Eve, I find myself feeling grateful and lucky. I hereby rescind my grouchiness over the phrase 'good cancer.' Dan's got a good cancer all right. Maybe a great cancer. A cancer that offers a 90% chance at a lifetime together instead of six months.

Thanks, cancer.

Tooth Hurty

The year Miss G was born, I got my first cavity. First 3 cavities, to be exact. I went in to get them filled. The first two went fine but the last one felt wrong. Like, not lodged in all the way or something. But whatever, what did I know; I'd never gotten fillings before. So I said nothing and went on my merry way.

Fast forward 10 years to the next time I saw a dentist. (Yes. Ten years. Long story.) Part of the filling had chipped off, and the whole thing had loosened in its socket enough to work a hairline fracture into the tooth. I went in to get it fixed (plus, you know, get my teeth cleaned) but between that, and all the other dental work they suggested I get done was something like $4000+, a total which scared me away for another two years. (Granted, the total included several things I thought unnecessary-- like a $600 teeth-grinding-guard which I’d never buy in a million years, and replacing all my current fillings-- but still. That's a large, scary number to a single mom.)

A few months ago, the pain started. First, only sometimes, if I bit something hard. Then if I bit anything on that side of my mouth.Then one day I bit something and thought I hit a bone and realized it was-- gross-- a chunk of my tooth. That was like, a month ago. Did I go to the dentist after biting my tooth in half? Why, no. That would make too much sense. Instead I wait until it hurts all the time. And when does that happen? The week before Dan’s surgery is scheduled. Because, of course, the day I decide I can’t put the dentist off one more day is the same day Dan’s surgeon calls and gives us our date: next Wednesday. Could not be worse timing. Damn my damned procrastinating.

I squeezed in at 10:30 this morning for a quick consult. Result? I was given three choices: One, do nothing (not recommended). Two, root canal. Three, extraction. I was also issued much finger wagging and lecturing, which I ignored. I don’t think anyone who avoids the dentist for a decade is unaware of the fact she ought to be taking better care of herself.

I went with Option Two. But I get Option Three as a special bonus anyway, because I need a wisdom tooth removed. I think I got off easy. The amount of neglect I’ve heaped into my mouth-- it could be so much worse in there. And after I get this stuff fixed, I swear-- I will floss every damned day.

They tossed me a bunch of antibiotics, which should ease things up a bit. All I need is to be able to eat without pain for the next little while. Dealing with surgery and hospitals AND a root canal all in the same week seems a little much. Even for me.

Circumstantial Insomnia

Having a kid attached is pretty much dating kryptonite, so sleeping alone is nothing new. And Dan hasn’t been in the picture all that long-- not compared to the pre-Dan portion of my life, anyway. He goes camping without me, I go on trips without him, we spend a pretty good amount of time apart. I can sleep alone no problem. Actually, I enjoy it... taking over the middle of the bed, sleeping with the fan on and the porch door open-- both of which make Dan nuts. And no one to complain about me stealing all the covers. (Whatever. I do not.)

But not this weekend. All my sleep has run short and crappy sans Dan. Friday, I was still not tired when I turned lights out around 2, waaay past normal bedtime. And then woke up around 5 and couldn’t get back to sleep. Last night, I turned the lights out around 10:30 to even things out. After a while of smooshing pillows this way and that and still no closer to sleep, I got up and read a book. Finished it. Wrote for a while. Played bookworm. And still got up before sunshine appeared.

It’s a little embarrassing. I don’t want to be one of ‘those’ people. I’m stubborn and independent, probably too much of both. I’m inherently solitary; I look forward to my ‘me’ time when he’s not around. But this weekend was just-- different. Bad trip mojo or something, I dunno.

I can’t wait to steal all the covers from him tonight when he gets back.

Grouchy-Making Days

The community college here has a horticulture program focusing on indigenous plants. On weekends in April and October, they open their greenhouse doors to the public. Proceeds from the sales fund the program. I've been looking forward to October for months just to visit this place.

We didn’t make it last weekend, so today I was on a mission to get there, visiting family or no. I made a truckload of Eggs Benedict for the eight of us-- three of us, plus my mom & dad, plus my sister & her husband, plus toddler-- and then we packed into the car and drove across town to the greenhouses.

Side note: there's something funny going on with my car the past couple weeks. It's leaking freon fumes from somewhere. Not all the time, but today was one of the stinky days. Because of my extreme sensitivity to scents and chemicals, I had a pre-migraine going roughly 10 minutes into the drive. Mesquite tree, I told myself, willing my headache to disappear, trying not to throw up. Desert willow. Globemallow. Indigo bush.

40 freon-infused minutes later, we pull up to the place, and it's closed. Not just closed-- boards-on-windows closed. No note on the door. No ‘new hours’ sign. Nada.

Days like this are grouchy making.

Immersed

I know just enough about computers & programming to get into trouble, and not quite enough to figure out how to get myself back out. I tried to change some stuff on my blog template about a week ago and things got all wonky. Finally I just switched to a new template and hoped my dad (the computer guru) would throw me a lifeline when he came to town this weekend.

So, today was the day. Dad and I jumped down the HTML rabbit hole. He's a good guide, but it's dark and scary down there. And there doesn't seem to be a quick-n-easy crash course; it's all really involved. But the scariest part about it is that-- well, I might really like it.

I don't need one more thing to be into right now. Because there's no half-assedness about me when I'm into something. It's utter immersion. I start on a project-- mudding a ceiling, let's say-- and I forget to eat lunch; it's dinnertime and there's no groceries. The world outside my project disintegrates. I forget things like packing lunches, laundry, renewing my drivers' license (oops).

Being a mom is already full-time, plus the full-time home improvements. Add painting and writing to that and I'm booked solid. Plus I added gardening to my list of addictions. My hours are full, and I love it that way, but family dinners have become decidedly less balanced now that I shirk my meal-planning to sketch instead. Or weed. Or jot down ideas.

If only I could focus like this on housework.

Happy Birthday, John Lennon!