Anxious Negativity

Could I possibly feel more sensitive right now? Watching Grey's Anatomy tonight I realized something. I am too emotionally involved with this program. Frickasee! Not only did I want to hurt a recently pregnant woman, I almost dropped dead at the new found total hot sexiness of a thirtysomething Chris O'Donnell as McVet. Holy McHump Me, Batman!

What really bothered me though, was the hype for "Bird Flu In America". Do we really need another 'what if' or 'it's only a matter of time' freak out for the fine citizens of this fair country? The thought of my sweet dear SF having to deal with such a fucked up possibility just breaks my heart. At home in the left wing, I am so into conspiracy theories. I find it bizarre that there is an odd outbreak of the mumps in the midwest right now.

Secret test runs and small scale scenarios are enough to set off the Yosemite Sam in me. Certainly you can't blame the sheep, they are just going about their business, making chicken shit into chicken salad. As long as they have the makings of the salad they will be fine, why challenge the status quo? It's a complete 180 from the person that realizes the bullshit of the situation, because although in most cases you can't actually DO anything about it, you are aware of it and that is everything. Make your decisions accordingly.


Grey's Anatomy, conspiracy theories, bird flu, Chris O'Donnell, parental anxiety

Sweet Somethings

Sweet Snowflake was plumb tuckered out last night. Not only did he sleep in the bottom of a TJ Maxx shopping cart, he failed to rouse for some delish marinara and garlicky breadsticks just for him from Rocky Roccoco when we got home.

He was sleeping with the fishes. I felt him stir around 3am and he half woke up and let out a sweet sigh. I played dead. He flopped up on his pillow and quietly whispered,

"I love you mamma."


amazing moments, two year olds, co-sleeping, attachment parenting

Grace

dogs, dalamation, soulful

Ass Talk

This afternoon I was hanging out at my parents reading more information on fasting. I'm proud I've reached my goal of Saturday morning. That is six days of fasting! I feel awesome and I'm not just blowing smoke up anyone's imagined ass here.

I feel so good that I have decided to continue. Anyway, I was reading and thought I'd try a 'salt flush'. It basically keeps your intestinal tract moving. It's two teaspoons of sea salt dissolved in a quart of spring water. I swigged it down no problem(I always knew my love of dirty martinis would come in handy one day. It was like drinking light olive juice.) and waited. And waited. I was thinking maybe this WAS bullshit. I read someone's blog about it not working. Well, they never updated. I will. It AIN'T no bullshit, honey.

SF was passed out in the bottom of my cart at TJ Maxx and I felt the spirit move me. It was high time to skeedaddle. I made it home and WOW-WEE. It's a definite flush allrightie-o. A parting o' the cheeks. Whoa there, matey! I felt like I had Niagara Falls coming out of my ass. Or I was the summer fire hydrant being turned on full blast. Kersplooey! Just when I thought I could make it downstairs, the warning shot returned and I had to sprint back to the bathroom.

I have learned that my body can renew itself. I believe I am going through a very normal and theraputic process. I dig eastern philosophy and Yogis. I hate how whiney people in this country are about being hungry. We are overindulged in so many ways. Over time we ruin our natural predispositions to the taste of healthy foods. Oh hell, maybe I'm just talking out of my ass.


fasting, salt flush, natural health

I'm the A.V. Club

I told SF I'd run down to the subterrainian grotto to get the DVD player. It was still in the same place I left it two plus years ago, covered in basement dust and funk. In the back of my mind I was afraid a vindictive posse of those hard crusty bodied centipedes might wriggle out of the tray and come at me once I gave it some juice. I despise them.

My house babysat a large screen television for my parents a few years ago during one of their many nomadic phases. I was hanging out with the dogs, watching something, enjoying a little 'Marcus Welby'(my codeword for pot) and a margarita when what to my wandering eyes should appear? A giant shadow of a centipede sidewinding across the screen. It was motherfucking HUMONGOUS. Freaking out, I had the balls to move closer only to find that it was inside of the television. Yuck, creeps, fuck. We were on the same level, existing together and I couldn't destroy it.

Luckily I didn't have any run-ins with it's relatives last night. I hauled the Yamaha five disc changer up and pondered, 'Now what in the mother 'F' of Jefferson Davis did I do with those pesky accessory cords to hook it all up to the Microtron SpongeBob?" After 20 minutes of searching with an expensive blue bright LCD flashlight I found one. It didn't work. We had sound but no picture. That is beyond annoying.

That expensive flashlight? Fuck it. It's a 'blue' light, kind of like the irritating, scorch-the-core-of-your-eyeball halogen headlights on european cars. Oh yeah, and you can't tell the difference between yellow and white when you use one in the dark. Since you're polish and unprepared as usual, you don't have an extention cord so that the TV, DVD player AND lamp could all be plugged in at the same time.

Luckily, living without a techie metrosexual(except for the time I dated the Bald Eagle, a hairless, techie metrosexual and mamma's boy seven years my senior) most of my life has rendered me with a can do, never give up attitude when it comes to stereos, cell phones, computers, televisions etc. and all of their connective accoutrements. I found a few more cords and VOILA! we were in business, baby! PeeWee bounded into the living room in his full quirky Technicolor glory. Ice cream soup anyone?

dvd players, centipedes, LCD flashlights, PeeWee Herman

The Mystery of My Machine

Beautiful, sparkling blue skies and wonderful perfect temperatures in the high 60's. I crave this weather, I long for it. It has been so long since the dwindling days of last summer disappeared in their gauzey golden glow. In the fall I wait until the ultimate very last day possible to put on regular shoes and enrobe my feet in cottony, cumbersome, claustrophobic socks. It feels like I'm entombing them, sentencing them to a sweaty suffocating death. I hate it when that day comes.

Although my goth looking lace-up platforms with little dangley pink rhinestone heart charms hanging off the eyelets empower me, I am so relieved that I can go home, take them off and walk around barefoot. BAREFOOT. Being born barefoot, I find a natural predisposition to be it whenever I can. As a general rule, I don't like feet. But damn it people, let go of those aversions and free your feet! Bare your bunyons, hoist those hammertoes and hangnails high into the breeze and let them CHILL.

I haven't felt this good since I was pregnant. Yes, I was a woman blessed with vim and vigor as I grew my favorite little parasite. I feel like Buttercup, the sassy little green Powerpuff. To me it's all about the green, as in life, lusciousness and regeneration. I feel like a green goddess. Hold the dressing.

spring, renewal, feet, fasting, mystery machine

Au Revoir, les au poivres!

It's my third day of fasting. I feel good, energetic and I seem to be thinking alot about steak. While it's true I'm a vegetarian, I still enjoy the smell of the neighborhood as it's denizens fire up the grill to feed their inner carnivores. One of the reasons I became a vegetarian was to see how I felt physically.

Whenever I would eat a steak I wouldn't take a 'dump' for days. My whole body slowed down and I felt sluggish. I read somewhere once that red meat actually has to rot in your GI tract to be digested. Dino elaborated on the mindblowingness of pooping. I couldn't agree more. Poop is very important, just ask any new parent or any oldster just how gratifying it can be. Isn't good pooping universally loved by all?

Back in my meat eating heyday, my constipation wasn't enough to stop me from my beloved 'au poivre'. I'm feeling very kind in my abstinence so I will share my former passion for which I am famous in my family. In fact, some still beg me to make it. My secret is revealed.

Note: It is essential to have a heavy cast iron skillet(my secret, shhhh) for success here.

1. Buy the absolute best Filets you can find.

2. Season them to your liking, fork them a bit and stuff them with fresh slivers of garlic.

3. Prepare a fresh pile of cracked black peppercorns, grind them as fine as you prefer. I suggest a medium uniform grind.

4. Coat the filets in the peppercorns. I personally like ALOT as it forms a nice crust when you sear it.

5. Heat up that heavy cast iron skillet to medium high heat. Throw in some butter, melting it. Place the gorgeous little dressed up beauties in the pan. Look out as they will sizzle, searing in their vital juices. Leave it cook for SEVEN minutes and then flip them over for another seven. (this timing yields a nice juicy red center)

6. Remove them from the pan. Deglaze (ie- pour the wine into the pan and swish it around) the pan for a minute or two with the Port wine (1/4 cup + a smidge) of your choice, stirring to loosen any yummy bits stuck to the bottom of the pan.

7. Plate the steaks and pour the pan drippings equally over them and enjoy with some tasty 'shrooms and a romaine lettuce salad. Enjoy!

Simple, quick and DE-LISH!

Turning away from 'puter as a tear rolls down my cheek in rememberance, back to my bottle of agua. Seven years, seven years.




recipe, steak au poivre, fasting, pooping,

I'm Melting

Examining



"Here's One for Mama!" he exclaims walking towards me. It's my first flower. No one told him to pick it, it was just the two of us and I swooned.

Om

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hands symetrically placed together Japanese style as if I were ready to acknowledge my own reflection. My hair was in the usual late evening disheveled pigtail mess.

"OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMM", I said to myself as SF looked on in wonderment as the sound vibrated off the stone. It was comforting. I was finally feeling the first full days side effects gentley wearing off. My headache was gone. Looking at myself I already began to think I looked better, skin clearer, eyes brighter. Awakening.

It was such a nice progression since a few hours earlier I was pawing at SF's microwaved Amy's Chicagoburger, contemplating the idea of 'fuck it'.

"If you started fasting, I really wouldn't stop it over this because it sucks," my mother said, as I turned away and shoved a gummy piece in my mouth and immediately spit it out. I never microwave anything and it was sick, SICK! I was crabby like a patty.

Easy for her to say, she was eating. The food smelled so good, the aroma of carmelized onions wafting through the air, intermingled with their real burgers frying. A beautiful bowl of organic romaine with shreds of carrot, white onion and a little cheddar sat on the counter wooing me with it's freshness and color.

Although I had never seen such beautiful canned corn and frozen peas, in that moment my resolve strengthened and I knew I could complete my journey.

Sunday Drive 23.04.06

On our way to the the very center of the middle of nowhere, we spied this lonely windmill. Is it crying 'John Deere' or 'Brett Favre'?




It's not just the exact center of the Northern Half of the Western Hemisphere, Mister! It's the Center of my Universe!





Maple Grove School. The kids that attend here are eligible for a full ride to a school of their choice.






SF contemplates moving to the country for a chance at a degree from the University of Whooville.






Successful roadtripping is accomplished through lots of breaks for playtime.







Completely round barn. Built 'so' they say, so that no evil spirit could hide in corners. There are scary stories surrounding this structure.

road trip, center of the western hemisphere, windmill, round barn, little red schoolhouse

Out of Sorts

If I didn't know better I would have thought I drank heavily the night before. Exhausted upon waking, eyes nearly sealed shut with the crusty remains of the night, I felt uneasy, unsettled. I had a strange dream. I was questing after something I couldn't see.

I was going to scour the bungalow as per my monkish Saturday ritual, but something was begging me to go 'up with the people'. The phone rang. It was my brother's GF. I picked her up and the Slaab was loaded with babies and boobs galore. Me the everloving in denial triple venti nonfat white mocha (with whipped)Starbucks junkie/whore, I asked her if she cared for something. Had she ever had a Frappuccino? NO? NO! You must, and right now, it's ON ME! I immediately calmed the fuck down the moment the plastic lid hit my fresh lips. Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Bring it on.

Up with the people. You might think a rummage sale is a great place to BE up with the people. You may even find yourself bonding with your local denizens, sharing a common love for the elusive treasure or you may be like me, completely disgusted, feeling like you want to just call it out when you see it.

Rusted out 1986 blue Buick four door sedan sitting curbside. Inside, four children are out of control waiting and wailing for a very bitchy, very fat chick wearing pajama pants and a hoodie, hair up knotted after a morning roll out. Her big bulbous ass is half way up her back. Her mother/friend is diminutive but you don't want to fuck with this broad because she looks mean. She's the kind of woman who drinks Aqua Velva and shits once a week. She has long black hair, a neat appearance save for the pitted potholes in her face, some open and bleeding along her jawbone, a few covered with little band-aids that can't seem to hang on to her oily skin. She is small and sinewy. She's wearing Transitions lenses.

Oldest boy, about 11 or 12 and very cute, runs after and grabs four year old sister by braid, picks her up and slams her forcefully into the car. Meanwhile other little sister in back seat is trying to get out of the car. Said older brother point blank bitch slaps her HARD in the face and then says, do you want to get out and see your mom? Then stop crying. Audible melee ensues. None of these small kids were restrained in any way as they shambled away.

It made me think about SF and how much I treasure him. How much I love and respect him even though he's only 2 years old. I felt bad for those fucked up brats as they drove away in their 360 degree unsafe situation. I'd like to think that you can rise above anything, but how can you when you're surrounded and suffocating in a big pile of stanky shit? Flies breed in filth and rot and the problem just seems to keep multiplying like that DAMN 70's Farrah Faucett commercial(it applies to so much in life).

Suddenly I remembered my uneasy dream, I told my companion that I had this dream about chasing a man through the woods. In the distance I could just barely make out the glint of his silvery hair as the moonlight danced off his head underneath the thorny bramble. I needed to get to him. I never caught up to him and I never stopped pursuing. I told her he was the Life Expert.

She laughed at me but I knew he'd have the answer.



rummage sales, wild kids, parenting,

On Fire

I was so nervous maybe I would pee my pants like a submissive dog. I'm not a trained artist and I almost never show my work except for here in the very public realm of the internet where no one knows me. Wednesday night was the last "Illustrating for Children's Books" class. I was proud of myself for NOT slacking off and skipping the class, eventually not accomplishing anything.

Instead, I was like the stalwart toddler who scales the furniture to it's highest peak standing precariously on the back of the sofa, teetering and tipsy from the bird's eye view and proud to have reached the acme of the living room. I was the Queen of all I surveyed. When I opened my benign purple file folder (misbegotten from the office supply closet), the room instantly became filled with pleasant gasps of approval.

It was a very nice stroke as this class is heaped to the brim with professionally trained artists and graphic designers. My classmate 'Sal' told me she was glad that I used my digital talents because that was what seemed to excite me the most at the beginning of the class. She was right. I was so frustrated by my inexperience with technique and the lack of quality art supplies that ultimately I went back to what I knew best. Isn't that where I should have started? Everything is a process.

I felt like an Oscar winner. To receive that kind of feedback from people much more experienced and trained is mindblowing. The words of that flaming artist(see #4) I met on State St. in 1994 come back to me, "Girlfriend, you are on FIRE!"

digital art, illustration, kids, outsider art, funky giraffe

More Jive

Image for Front and Back Inside Cover



Composition from Dummy Stage


digital photography, kids, whimsical art, chrysler building, illustrator, giraffe, giant panda

No Substitutions, Please

God, I love pizza. In fact, if there's anything I love more than pizza it would have to be sex. Tonight's last illustration class was a success so I'm celebrating. Since there's no REAL sex on the horizon, I'm having a pizza. Ooooooooo, yeaaah, ummmmmm that definitely hits the non G-Spot. YES!
sex, pizza, substitutions

Just Another Day at Tarjet

I pride myself on being a stealthful shopper. Don't get me wrong, I can and do buy poshful gifts for myself or Snowflake on occasion. However, usually when it comes to Target I have no impulse control. I've blogged on numerous occasions of how I've been seduced by that big red eye. Today SF and I went to the Bullseye for the sole purpose of buying three items: dishsoap( Method Home in Cucumber), diapers (Pampers Cruisers Size 5) and Wipes (Huggies Natural Care).

You're already wondering what I added to my non-existent list of must haves, I know. I needed some cleaning supplies, just a few. I bought some more Kaboom Bowl Blaster for the toilet because they are usually out of it when I need it. It is THAT GOOD. I also picked up some extra strength Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. I love that man. I also wanted to try the Method Home concentrated laundry detergent in the Fresh Air scent. It smells so good and they have a great philosophy: no animal testing ever, biodegradable, etc. Plus, the bottles are designed by Karim Rashid. LOVE IT! I use alot of their products... hand soap, body wash, floor cleaner, glass cleaner, stainless steel and leather wipes, okay, EVERYTHING!

Of course our trip wouldn't have been complete with out checking out the Easter clearance items. SF has these fabulous books by Wendy Ann Gardner. These are really fun cool books. She did some Easter stuff for Target. Handmade looking baskets featuring some of her Naughty Seasonal Pets. So I had to grab a basket and two ceramic dishes for next year. Yeah, I'm THAT kind of mamma. I buy my boy holiday dishes.

Well, Easter was right next to Seasonal outdoor and what should I spy but two very cute and campy cast iron gnomes, begging me with their sweet painted eyes to take them away from this place. We, I mean I have a thing for Gnomes. When I was a wee sprite way back in the 70's my mother had a whole collection of ceramic garden gnomes that were made by mentally challenged people at this co-op. Back then, I hated them. I was embarassed that we had these dotted around in our lava rock landscaping. One day I made up a game called "Bean the Gnome in the Nuts" and my friend Brian and I broke almost every Gnome. My mother was devastated. This is my curse. To love, to be attracted to what I despised most. Sort of like my taste in men.

ANYWAY...

We just happened to breeze by electronics and found this super kick ass Motorola 5.8ghtz cordless phone/answering machine system on clearance for $49.98. About a month ago I purchased one for the office but paid $129.99! So I bought TWO for my house. I needed new phones and they are charging right now as I feverishly pound away in the afterglow of my shopping high. So $206 later I am exhausted but happy. As happy as a good day of bargain materialism can get you.

target, method home, kaboom, naughty pets, Mr.Clean, gnomes

Tweeeeeeeet!

One of the weird things my brother and I have done for the past ten years or so is add "bird" or "bear" to someone's name. It's like our own Polish version of the spanish -ito or -ita. Big Pappy calls his dog Yasha. Therefore, my brother gave him the name "Yasha Bear". Me, I was always "Heidi Bird or Ho-Ho Bird".

In our family we never used the term "Nana". I came to the conclusion that it was much easier to say than grandma and much cuter. So when Snowflake busted on to the scene, he had a Nana. I started calling her "Nana-Bird". Now he calls her Nana Bird. Then there's Yasha Bird. Sometimes there exists a grandpa Bird, but not often.

When he was brand spankin' new I made up a song that went like this:

Bay-beeeee bird, you're my bird
Bay-beeeee bird, you're my bird
And I loooooooove you.
REPEAT Again & Again & Again & Again & Again

It's kind of vaudevilley-show tune-y or sung kind of jazzy and smokey. Sometimes he would get very bashful, bearing a mouth full of drool and gums as he cracked a sweet smile, while I gazed into his eyes and cooed this to him. He was blushing.

Last week we were getting ready to leave for the park and I was shocked when from out of the blue he said,

"Mamma Bird go to car wash with Trueby today?"

Now it's Mamma Bird this and Mamma Bird that.

Yes, I am "The Mamma Bird".

It's so tweeeeeeet.

mama bird, toddlers, parenting, nicknames, songs

Lament

As your world shrinks, so it expands. When I was preggo with SF, I had one really close GF. I had known her for so long and she was there for me through so much. Everyone has their little 'isms' and I'm no exception. She didn't like my boyfriend. In fact, I don't think she ever liked ANY of my boyfriends. I guess when I think of it now, they were all stupid assholes. When I became pregnant, I asked her to PLEASE just keep it to herself. She didn't. She felt the need to tell her boss so that when I walked into the showroom one day, I was caught by suprise as she 'congratulated' me on the 'good news'. I was pissed. I guess I shouldn't have been suprised as she had done this to me on numerous occasions in the past.

Earlier in the summer I purchased tickets for us to see Dave Attel. My boyfriend was taking a friend and I was taking her. The day of the show, we were scheduled to leave at 2pm after my BF finished work. That morning she called me and said that if she had known that we weren't leaving in the a.m. she would have just worked that day. In fact, she could have just went to Minneapolis and helped a friend with her new house for the entire weekend.

Hormones raging, I let loose the dogs of my inner hell. I felt like she wanted me to pick her over him. She may have been the better choice, but I wasn't bending. All of the past insults to my confidences came flooding back and I told her I didn't care if we were ever friends again. She didn't go and I broke up with SF's Y that weekend. I lost them both.

That friend from Minneapolis? She was someone that she became friends with through me. I'm sure they never would have connected had it not been for me. Ex friend was the personal attendant for her wedding this past Autumn.

I spent the following seasons going through my pregnancy alone with my pets. I still consider my Minneapolis GF a friend, but we're not as close. We talk when she comes home to visit her other friends. She called SF on his birthday. She is sweet. We have a connection but I know things will never be the same. I take responsibilty for my half of the drift. Sometimes I avoid her because she is such good friends with my EX friend. I guard myself more now. I just don't want my business getting back to Ol' Jabber Jaw / The Town Crier.

I really miss her sometimes, Big Mouth and all.

friendship, betrayal, trust, loss, big mouth, pregnancy

Future Retro X-er

He's wearing his MisFiTs tee...

But it looks like he should be headed for a Phish fry.


misfits, sock monkey, cute baby

Update!

Feeling at home in the realm of the bizarre, I decided to go the distance. I just ordered Seasons 1-5 of PeeWee's Playhouse on DVD, plus the Christmas special featuring Frankie Avalon from Amazon. I'm excited!

Freak!

This post was inspired by J who was inspired/forced to list six weird things about herself. This should be right up my alley. I will skip the already known facts about my fond attachmment to the Oral B electric toothbrush. Just don't deny yourself, that's all I'll say about that.

1. Since we're talking about carnal pleasures, I didn't have sex, lose my virginity, ride it, etc. until I was 21 years old. Yep. My younger brothers had sex before me. Family weirdo, late bloomer. Actually, I don't think it's weird. I just wanted to wait until I found someone worthy of my "maidenhead". He turned out to be a Puerto Rican named Raul(AKA - first college BF). I have no regrets and it is something I recall very fondly. He was a wonderful first boyfriend. Thanks Raulito, wherever you are!

2. My first celebrity crush was Steve Martin. I remember going down to "The Jock Shop" and having a custom baseball tee with royal blue sleeves hot pressed with the classic image of him in his white suit with a fish peeking out from inside. It was one of those kind of transfers that didn't allow you to breathe. You know, right where the print is you get extra, extra sweaty.

3. In college I became obsessed with Pee Wee Herman. I actually had a huge flying cutout of him in my apartment. Somewhere in my college archives there is a picture of me trying to tongue him. I could have cared less that he was caught jacking off. I mean, hey, I'm right there with him. Everybody does it.

4. I tripped on acid when I was 25 for the first time at a Soundgarden concert. It wasn't just any old trip though. Being uninitiated, I dropped four tabs and tripped well into the next night, coming down gently at the Pink Floyd concert. Earlier in the day(5am to be precise) I hurled a weird indescribable substance at a park near the zoo. I could hear the lions yowling. A very JAPPY middle aged mamma came jogging by in big Versace glasses and floppy brim Vuitton hat with her poufy Bichon. She didn't notice at first he was feasting on my mystery expulsion. "No Muffy" She cried, yanking the little dog away. Later on in the day I met a totally flaming artist wearing a dickie and beret in the August swelter who drew pictures of Barbie dolls and he told me " Girlfriend, you are on fire!" in that particular flamboyant and feminine way. Gross, weird and totally true.

5. I was listening to the radio one morning and there was a spot of trivia about how a certain percentage of Americans have done this particular thing. Thinking, thinking...listening to callers answers. Turns out it was "taken nude pictures of themselves for someone". I laughed but then on the way to work it hit me, I realized that I did too! I looked damn good but I wonder where they are now.

6. In the past I used to wake up at exactly 3:15 am every morning. This was directly related to The Amityville Horror. We're talking the 1979 "the sow is mine" version. I had parents who let us watch alot of R rated horror movies.

Don't you feel better about yourself now?

virginity, Steve Martin, acid trip, Pee Wee Herman, The Amityville Horror, nude photos, weird

Blockage

Like my fellow sweet preggo neighbor gal, I'm just not feeling the bloggin' love lately. What used to come so freely is now like pulling the rotted nibbed teeth of a crackhead turned prison inmate. You just can't get any leverage. Din-din. I am addicted to S'Mores flavored Luna Bars. They remind me of my long lost discontinued Mocha bar from Starbuck's. It's close, but no cigar. Wednesday night I had my illustration class and I wasn't going to go. I was feeling like my old half assed, screw it, who cares self. If there's someone you need to not finish something you started, just call me. I'm a total pro at going gung-ho and fading out to a slow trickling peter. I can make you feel all better. Just put the blame on me boys, put the blame on me.

I went anyway and presented my comp which is one colored illustration from the series of pages from the book. It was unusual and had it's own style but I was feeling embarassed for not giving my all to the project. At least a picture of the moon came out of this night.

There is such talent in this little group of denizens. There's Sal who makes the most amazing collages from her own paper. She's a total dynamo, a formally trained artist that used to be in the realm of high end printing, now turned children's coat designer and mother of two. Tom is a graphic designer who really should be designing graphic novels for kids, adults or anyone with a fancy for quirky gorgeous ink drawn characters. He brought his personal sketchbook to class. I told him what an amazing gift that will be for his little nine month old son one day. Then there's Shirl. Her work is incredibly fine, fine, fine, drawing realistically. There's one more lady who is amazing as well.

I'm an outsider. My work is definitely whimsical and eclectic. We'll just leave it at that for now. Sometime I'll post one of my pages. Trying to find quality art supplies around here is like trying to find a cannoli...they just don't exist.

What does exist is a big bottle of Ciroc Vodka and a container of Organic Valley OJ SF is passed out from our brutal five mile hike so I'm going sailing. Aye aye, maties!

ps... if you're looking for something interesting to read and you're a Gen X-er, head over to LastNail and read Christine's comments of this recent article in New York Magazine about "GRUPS". Yes, Christine, it is scarey. Sofie and Snowflake are gonna have to get together and talk playlists.

ciroc, illustrating, Gen X

Tiny Dancer

SF and I had Kindermusic tonight. I have to say, he's finally blossoming now that the class is almost over. That's our Polish way, we seem to be late bloomers, realizing at the last second "hey dare, dis wiwwy is fun" or why didn't I do this sooner?

In any case, tonight my boy was the bell of the ball. He was wearing his funky form fitting striped Oink Baby outfit, complete with matching skull cap that when stretched across his melon happens to look just like the end of a correctly worn condom. (Yes, like this hat he wore to the park today). He was like Leroy in the movie Fame.

He twirled, he galloped and ran. He rolled all the way across the floor like a hotdog out of control at the ski hill. He leapt and he crouched, throwing his head back with a haughty laugh. He tried to hug or kiss every single kid in his class at some point. It was so fricking sweet I could have cried. Some met this gesture with uncomfortable kindness and hugged awkwardly back. Others freaked out and pushed him back as they scurried away to their grown ups in disbelief.

I'm happy to have a little boy that isn't afraid to show his affections. I know it probably won't last. He has opened up to the idea of Kindermusic and all of the kids in his class. It's beautiful to watch him express himself through music and feelings.

He's gonna live forever, remember his name.

kindermusic, dancing, [fame], toddler

Inner Kitty

Is it wrong to be bothered by someone who has shown you nothing but kindness? Is it alright to turn her away when she shows up bearing gifts unannounced? Can you be cold and give her the brush off just because you're sick of thinking about that part of your past? The truth is, the past will always manifest itself in the best thing that ever happened to you.

Snowflake's Y is not a part of our life. After I had the baby, he made a few pathetic attempts at showing interest, but ultimately fizzeled out like a glass of 7-Up that has been left out on your college nightstand for days. Maybe you're drunk or maybe you're too lazy but one night you take a drink. It still tastes sweet, but it will never be the same, you might even gag. You may in fact never want another frigging 7-Up ever again. EVER.

I haven't spoken to or seen him in over a year. He's supposedly living in this town. We have never crossed paths. His mother adopted him when he was about three and half years old. His history is unbelievably sad, but sad is no excuse for dealing with your life and the here and now. I refused to seek paternity. I don't need the money or the headaches.

She says I was the best thing that ever happened to him. The first time she stopped here after I had the baby she cried and told me how sorry she was. She brought Snowflake a present. She's stopped a few more times since then, always just before or after a holiday or birthday. I get the usual burnout update on the Y and it just brings me down. I gave her my phone number and told her to CALL ME before she came over. She never has. Nor has she ever invited us up to their country hillbilly homestead(sarcasm not intended, it's fo' real and BONA FIDE).

Before the New Year she brought a Christmas present for Snowflake because she didn't want me to think that they didn't care. She said would call me and come down with her husband and spend some time with Snowflake. It didn't happen. I was relieved.

A week and a half after Snowflake's birthday I spied her coming up to the house so I quickly grabbed him and went upstairs, acting like we weren't home. I know the baby thought it was weird, but weirder still is that he has no clue as to who she is.

Today I had no escape. Someone knocked at the door and it was her with an Easter basket. Along side her was another little grandson and her other adopted check bouncing, reproducing rabbit daughter. I had the feeling they must have thought I'd invite them in. I didn't. Instead they got Stone Cold Kiss My Ass Heidi.

I informed them I was just trying to get SF to take a nap before our class at the Conservatory tonight. Did he like the Big Wheel she left him for his birthday? I went and grabbed it out of the garage still in it's box and explained to her that we couldn't use it around here being on a busy street where traffic is 35mph. She asked if he wanted something else and I said no, that's alright. She asked how we were doing and blah de effing blah. Fine, fine. I had to get going and then she adds that she thinks about us all the time. Whatever makes you feel alright, lady.

She is a good person. A kind person. A God fearing person. I cannot replay the same visit over and over on every holiday of the year for sixteen more years. I know her heart is in the right place but her money isn't where her mouth is and I'm moving on down the line.

It's time to move on, even if it means having to bear the fangs of my inner little kitty. Sorry, Georgia.

Snowflake Fix for Shell

When Thoughts Turn To...

Walking around the yard with Snowflake today, a small clump of snow white crocus' emerged from the barren ground. There were three blossoms and I thought that was sort of curious, one for each of us- Snowflake, Charles and myself. I unknowingly transplanted them to the side of my yard when I brought some things from my granny's garden years ago after she died. These little blooms are my yearly reminder that Spring has finally graced us with her presence. No more manhandling the neighborhood. Now it's on to staring at my neighbor's fastidious and beautiful yard, the adventures of the anal retentive gardener. My wild brambley grapevine hedge blocks the view completely about mid summer. For this I am thankful. The simplest and most mundane tasks become incomprehensible when you're alone with a two year old.

Today I began the process of cutting some of the overgrowth away. This entertained Snowflake for about two seconds and then it was chase the crazy chicken. He likes to help in his own way. My hands are all cut and scratched from pulling some of the wild berry vines out. I was happy to uncover the two orange poppies that grow there. No sign of the Bergamot yet. I wish I had the time and the patience to do more.

Yesterday Snowflake and I attended a grade school carnival in a tiny town just west of here. They had simple, fun games, raffles and a silent auction. Tickets were a whopping .25 a piece. I stuck a ticket into a drawing and won a humongous bag of Fair Trade Organic Coffee from Green Mountain Coffee Company(Vermont). Seriously, it's like a 10lb. bag of the house blend. I never win anything. Maybe my Polish luck is changing.

I'm glad Spring is here, but I just can't help but feel a foreboding sense of melancholy. No, Aunt Flo is not coming 'round. Maybe it's global warming. Maybe it's the lack of office space and banks in my town. Maybe I just don't want TomKat to end. In fact, I really think we need a contemporary cable channel that digs into current topics and makes unauthorized biographical Lifetime style movies out of them. Why did Angelina kick Brad to the couch? I have a feeling she's like the black widow, she mates and then she kills! She was just gene shopping. I want to see that horndog Barbara Streisand making it as she goes around the world, flopping gracefully from man to man and bed to bed, doing it her way. I think one of the worst movies I saw was "The Main Event" with her and Ryan O'Neil.

Maybe part of my melancholy is from a post I read by Lotus about Soulmates. A soulmate is not necessarily a lover, although it can be. I think I am obsessing more over that connection you find with someone and you know you'll grow old with them. I know I've met one of my soulmates. My best friend is a very hot gay man living in Miami. He's living such a successful life, filled with travel, love and good friends. If anything happens to me, he is the person I want Snowflake to live with.

I know he's one of my soulmates. I met him when I was 15 although we were in the same Kindergarten class. We moved away until I came back sophomore year. In high school he asked me to our Junior Prom and I freaked out. How could my best bud like me in that way?! (Note to self: HE DIDN'T) The weird thing is, my birthday is 02.07.69. His is 07.02.69. Our fathers have the same exact birthdays. The strangest thing we've learned is that our great grand parents are buried next to eachother in this beautiful little cemetary in a blip of a town two skips from here. We have remained friends through some juvenile and difficult times. I love him so much. I'm thankful for him.

But the whiney bitch in me wonders if I will ever find true love with a straight man.

Tekla

I contemplated what it might have been like to be her. I can't. Not yet anyhow. I really never knew Tekla, she was my father's Aunt. My grandfather's only sister in a house dominated by five boys, she was cast aside, undervalued for her sex.

Tekla worked at a battery factory with my grandmother for many years. I remember asking my grandma Martha how her own hands became so knuckled, like the burls on a twisted tree. She'd show me the exact function her hands held so long ago. After a lifetime of labor, they just naturally fell into an unnatural position. I thought they were beautiful, especially since she always wore bright red nail polish. It was usually chipped off near the tips from working hard in the garden. These were the hands of a caretaker.

Tekla had a little house over by the city's "Athletic Park". This is a classic small town ball diamond, surrounded by a gorgeous red granite fence quarried from the local pit. Her tiny home was right across the street. I wonder if she sat out on the porch and enjoyed a summer night, listening to fans cheering on the local team. Friends, lovers and drunks, walking past her house, happily communing on their way home. Intimacy. Was she lonely?

I asked my dad why she moved out of her house. Was there something wrong with her? Was she crazy? No, she wasn't crazy, she just didn't take care of herself. The house was overrun with filth. Old single woman with cats and such. It was apparently so bad that they only asked $11,000 for the house and took $6,200. I am assuming that "they" are social services or the state. This was over 20 years ago. Calling her a 'Poor Thing' my dad said she never had a chance in that family being the only girl. Why?

"You know how weird that family is, Heid," he says to me.

Yes I do. My dad came from two completely 'Polish' people, both were the first generation of American born from the last big wave of immigrants at the turn of the century. The big similarity was the lack of emotion in troubled times, remaining stoic and stiff if at all possible. I know relatively little about my own father's childhood. He just doesn't share and he's defensive or joking about it when confronted.

He doesn't speak with his own sisters on a regular basis. They see eachother maybe once a year if they all decide to come up for "The Graveyard Tour" of all the beloved. There is a complete disconnect. Their mother Martha, my polish granny was different.

When Tekla was forced to leave her house and placed into a nursing home, it was Martha in old age who showed compassion. No one in her family cared about what happened to her or could be bothered to take the role of guardian. So my granny did it and Tekla wasn't even her sister. Martha took out an insurance policy for her just so she'd be able to have a decent burial. It was my grandmother who made trips on the city bus after my grandfather quit driving to see her on a regular basis, even after he died. She would bring her the comfort and necessities that nursing home care will never provide. She brought love.

I went once with my grandmother to visit Tekla. All I can remember is how much of a little girl she seemed, so suprised and happy by our visit. She was spacey and sweet. It also creeped me out because she looked exactly like my grandfather and my dad looks exactly like him.

Martha died in 1994. What a remarkable woman she was and I barely got to scratch the surface with her. After her death, I'm sure no one ever came to visit Tekla. Not on holidays, not on her birthday, never. When I try to imagine what it must have been like, it brings tears to my eyes and I feel a certain kind of sickening guilt that only death can bring. Can I cry for someone I never really knew and mourn the sadness I feel for her life?

I think of poor Tekla who died on Tuesday at the age of 90 years completely and utterly alone. Her funeral is today. They're finally coming to see her.
R.I.P.

Excercise

The Queen of Procrastination. Not a perfectionist. Pressure. Feed on it. Usual morning smack. Caffeine. Needed it. Wanted it. Coursing into bloodstream. Relief. No lunch, water. Work feverishly. Illustration class. Deadline. Deadline. A dead line. Draw. Erase. Draw. Erase. Crumple paper. Sweat. Ink. Ink. Ink. Break. Stupid mistake. Cigarette with coworker. Don't smoke anymore. Shit or puke? Neither. Work, working. Disgusted. Relieved. Finished six of eight. Nervous. Afternoon ripple effect of morning smack. Good enough? Acceptable? More time. Don't have the time. Out of time. Lame, lame, lame,L-A-M-E----O! Look. See. Put together. Flow. Unusual. Quirky. Cool. Me. The Queen of Procrastination. In time.

Where My Heart Is

What is your idea of ‘home’? Is it a place, certain people or just a state of mind that defines it? When I think of my childhood, sometimes I yearn for that big pastel yellow two story Colonial with creamy blue shutters with the half-moons cut out, set way back from the street, ancient Maple trees standing sentinel, claiming their space on the lush golf course like lawn, completely protected by a white picket fence.

It’s the kind of home where you learned how to ride your first bike in the drive way, or were proud to bring friends from college home to visit for the weekend. Maybe you’d even get married in the backyard. From the curb, this was a place that invited you in, begging you to walk up the sidewalk and knock on the door just to see who lived there.

That’s not what I got.

My childhood is filled with upheaval. Not serious upheaval, but moving from place to place at crucial times for some of us, leaving friends behind. Milwaukee to Minneapolis, Green Bay to St. Cloud, finally resting somewhere in-between, and even THAT was back and forth for a few years.

I have one place I think of as a family home, the first and only my parents ever built. From the ages of seven to fourteen I have some amazing memories. Good memories, enough so that I don’t begrudge the lack of a stalwart yellow colonial in my past. I often wonder if things would have been different for my brother had we not scuttled around so much. It makes me think about Snowflake and what he experiences.

I bought my swank microscopic bungalow two years after I graduated after college. After twelve years, it ‘s finally coming together. It still needs some tweaking to reach the echelons of Uber Swankness. When you have an old house, there is ALWAYS something more that can be done.

I may have hansgrohe Axor Philippe Starck faucets and a freestanding, white, shiny English soaking tub in my funky bathroom, but I still need new front steps and a garage door.(I am enamored of my faucetry, especially considering I had leaky “antique ones” and an old drain that oozed enough spew to ruin the downstairs ceiling, but now it’s all GONE). The creature comforts I most desire.

My cozy abode sits on one of the busiest streets in our non-megaopolis. Snowflake loves looking out of the windows and into the huge HUGE park filled with old towering pines across the street. What little boy wouldn’t be mesmerized by the warp speed of police cars, fire trucks and ambulances as they blur by humming? I like the buzz of all the activity but wonder if there isn’t somewhere quieter and more spacious for us.

Snowflake and I went to an Open House in a quiet neighborhood for a gorgeous Arts & Crafts jewel built in 1916. I walked in and fell in love. The woodwork was simply breathtaking and lovingly preserved. A few years ago it was included on the city’s Historical Homes Tour. The perfectly quaint sized back yard is fenced in for Charles and has a two car garage. Everything is in move in condition. It’s just D-R-E-A-M-Y.

Then I slapped myself for thinking the thought. I could definitely afford it, but we do have everything we need and are so happy here. Great neighbors are a total bonus. My coworker argues that Snowflake wouldn’t even remember the move, no big deal. It is a big deal. He is losing his Nan’s house(they sold it) this year AND the cottage(they’re tearing it down and rebuilding). Maybe I'm not ready to let go of this place I call home.

One thing I want for him IS the colonial and everything that comes with it, even if it is a cracker box.

Can't You Hear That?

Humans Are SOOO Deaf

Slow Day

Birnamwood, Wisconsin March 30, 2006