Confessions


A client confessed a secret to me the other day.  It was a secret she had never admitted to anyone, ever, in her life.  Brace yourselves.

She had, in fact, cheated during a high school pep rally while trying to hit a pinata with a bat.  You see, she could see through the blindfold.  Instead of smashing the pinata with her secret sight, she hit one of her teachers, on purpose, in the stomach!

Talk about a gut buster!

She said she didn’t hit her hard enough to really hurt her, but enough for it to be really funny.  She never even told any of her friends from high school that she did it…probably for fear of having rumors spread and getting in trouble.  And she held that secret up inside her for maybe 15-20 years just to tell me.

I feel quite privileged to accept that information.  It must be how a taxi driver sometimes feels.

It also reminded me of my husband finally admitting to me that he cheated on a male/female smell test in high school.  They were testing to see which sex had the keener sense of smell.  My husband admitted to me that he, too, could see through the blindfold.  He completely ruined all that data!!  He really had no reason to even admit it to me…because what the hell do I care?

It’s as if these secrets and lies just work themselves out sometimes.

 

sometimes motherhood blows


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Well, what do we have here?  It looks like a tasty easter egg treat all tucked away in the grass, doesn’t it?

Right.

This here is the top of a blow pop sucker nestled in a fuzzy little fluff of carpeting.  Yeah, it’s green apple.  Isn’t green apple the best flavor of blow pop?  And yeah, my carpeting is green.  It is unfortunate and something I’ve been planning on replacing for the past 5 years that we’ve lived in this house.

For those of you that may still be wondering just what in tarnation is happening, let me fill you in on my morning.

It began much like any other day off:  my eyes blinked awake when they were ready.  It was later than a typical day since I had a bout of insomnia the evening prior and was awake until after 4:30.  My intentions for the day were to prepare the kids’ area for a few girls that are sleeping over this weekend.  I wouldn’t want these 10 year old girls thinking that we live in a dirty house and are unorganized.  No.  After fetching a morning coffee, I began the always daunting task of cleaning their toy/play area.

I gathered up 4 bags of plastic toys and dumb shit that they don’t play with anymore or that is broken….and also toys that I think are annoying.  It’s true, I’m a mother that secretly gets rid of toys.  Let’s be honest…they never even know.  I loaded them up in the car ready to be donated to Goodwill.  I managed to make it out of there with only one bag of trash as opposed to the usual 4.  Despite arming their room with 2 garbage cans, papers, beads, wrappers and goldfish crackers always ended up on the floor and all over the place.  Savages.

I made it through the session without flipping into a maniacal cleaning madwoman.  I get angry when I clean.  I do.  I curse and bitch.  I ask questions to my invisible family like ‘Did you know we own a garbage can? Have I not given you the tools to pick up after yourself? Are you fucking kidding me??’

I made it all the way through today.  I did!  It was impressive!  My finest hour!  Until I moved the couch to vacuum and saw this green eyed beast staring at me.  Oh, what’s this?  Oh…huh…oh, it’s stuck to the carpeting….Oh man…Fucking A!!!  What the fuck?!?  A Fucking blow pop?

It sent me over the edge.

It was so lodged in there…pressed in further by the couch leg.

I had to slice it out with a razorblade.  It felt good.  Maybe now we can get new carpeting?

Brussel Sprout


So my co-worker’s boyfriend is really great at awesome craft cocktails. He makes his own bitters and puts together really interesting liquors and syrups and what not.  They sound like really delicious combinations.  My co-worker’s job is to name the cocktails and she told us this and asked for input.

Now, knowing me, I couldn’t help but think of really stupid names, like Pippy Pear or Spicy Brutus.  But, then I thought, how hilarious would it be if the name had absolutely nothing to do with the actual cocktail and as something super mundane and completely opposite?  It’s not really that funny, but I couldn’t help but cackle about it.

I mean, what if the cocktail was called the Brussel Sprout and it was really just a cider beer?

Or a drink called The Chicken Strip Basket…oh man, I’m dying over here…and it’s really just a whiskey and coke?

Or a Corn Dog…that’s a strawberry daiquiri.

Maybe there could be a plain old mimosa called the Cobb Salad.

Yes, easily amused and over caffeinated.

 

Bit


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Someone bit the snow dick!  The snow dick cookie has been violated!   

Someone laughed when I called it a snowman dick and then snuck a nibble of it secretly.  At least eat the whole thing…..unless it tastes like garbage.  Throw it away like a used condom if it tastes like garbage.   Don’t simply take a bite and scram.

This mystery must be solved.  I’ll find the powdered sugar remnants on someone…in the corner of their mouth.  Snowman ejaculate.

Thee Arteest


pee wee

Being an artist myself (not on a daily basis and not for money. Ha.) I think that it is totally acceptable to make a little fun of my own kind.  Don’t you think?

Yes.

It just makes me giggle so hard to myself to think of some of the things we arteests do and say and with what conviction we believe in them.  And that we are so serious about it.  It lends to that whole ‘pretentious artist’ stereotype when we don’t admit that what we do is actually quite humorous.

Searching dumpsters for interesting found objects, sewing with hair, stomping on a canvas, laboring over the perfect shade of teal, not sleeping, ingesting caffeine and nicotine like we’re being paid to, making things, destroying the thing we just made, and then repurposing our destroyed piece.

And we say, ‘it’s about the process.’

It’s hilarious!  It is.  admit it.  And I’m guilty of it too.  I used to make things with Rold Gold pretzels.  It’s not that I’m some New York Times art critic with 23 degrees in art and art history.  I respect artists immensely for their sacrifice and passion and I think everyone should.  I think it’s great when people can sustain themselves solely by creating things that they love.

I’ve met many artists in my days.  And many non-artists and people that don’t get it.  What’s to get?  They think we’re crazy and they all say I can’t even draw a stick person.  To the stick person drawing, I say Bullshit.  It’s really fucking easy to draw a stick person.  3 year olds can do it.  They just don’t criticize themselves.

That’s another giggly part about art.  We are so tortured.  We love what we do so much that it pains us.  Curled up in little, dirty fetus positions on paint stained floors sobbing.  Oh, and candles lit.  Radiohead playing quietly to encourage the sobs.

I met a kid the other day who said, ‘I just find things in the trash that speak to me, and then I place them against the wall in an interesting composition.’

Um…hilarious.

I once told a client that I was going to make an art show just showcasing the different ideas that I had for the art.  Just ideas on paper, hung interestingly around a room.  No actual art.  He loved it.  He thought I was batshit crazy and thought it was hilarious and that I was making it up.  I sure was.