Due to an annoying lack of internet connection on the train this blog is being posted from Colorado Springs after being written in word.
Hah! So there Derek! My spirit of adventure is not to be taken lightly! I will not be thwarted! Even as I type, I am whisking…well, more like trundling slowly really, towards Colorado Springs on the 10:39 pm California Zephyr Amtrak, bound for points west. My beloved daughter and granddaughters have declared it long past time for a visit from Nana and I have agreed. The other day on the phone Eden, who is 2 ½ going on 16 asked me if we could have a webcam tea party this week and while I thought this was a lovely idea, I so preferred the thought of a real, in person tea party that I jumped the train and will be in Denver tomorrow morning at 7:30 am. I like traveling by train. People just don’t know what they’re missing. The seats are wider with considerably more leg room than airplanes and you can get up and wander around any time you want without a single sky marshal sizing you up or tackling you in the isle. Not that this has ever happened to me…really. The only downside to the California Zephyr, Omaha to Denver run is that it is always in the middle of the night. 10:39 is actually just a very loose number that they use as a place mark for the real departure time which is never before 11:30 pm. I don’t why they don’t just admit that the train will not be leaving until 11:30, but they don’t. The really interesting thing is that somewhere between Omaha and Denver there is obviously a worm hole because no matter what time the train actually leaves here, it will invariably arrive in Denver at the exact time originally stated on the schedule. This is proof that people in Nebraska are far less punctual than our Coloradan neighbors.
Anyway, I’ve derailed already (I thought you might appreciate the train pun). My point was that though the trip is always accomplished in the middle of the night, I don’t really mind it. Though I love riding the train through the countryside in daylight, seeing pastoral scenery and quaint towns whizz past, the truth is none of these things exist between here and Denver. It is easily the most boring stretch of country anywhere in the United States…well…except Texas…the whole state. Truckers traveling this stretch of countryside have been known to gnaw their own arms off just to keep from being driven mad by the truly boring scenery.
No, what I really enjoy about this night ride is the train itself. There is a rhythmic lull that is incredibly peaceful. It’s like Zen travel. The gentle rocking motion of the train lulls you into a peaceful tranquility. Late at night, the train is dark and quiet…okay, quiet except for the guy snoring raucously in the seat in front of me, waking occasionally just long enough to hock up a good spit wad. He is not quiet. I would like to suggest he seek a doctor’s referral for a sleep study as I’m certain he has sleep apnea. And before I get back to my blissful Zen train ride, can I just mention that the guy in the seat across from me is sleeping half on and half off his seat in an extremely uncomfortable looking position and has carried the ‘half on/half off’ theme all the way to his trousers, which are literally bunched up around his knees. Yes…I mean his knees! And I don’t mean from the bottom. I mean from the top. The waistband. IT’S AROUND HIS KNEES! Praise be, he is wearing boxers, but his trousers themselves are literally off his butt and around his knees. I am officially appalled. I’ve put up with the baggy trousers look for 11 years. Since we first moved back to the states from England as a matter of fact and I’m done. I’m ticked off and I’m not going to take it anymore. I have decided just this moment that whenever I see someone who’s pants are about to fall off I’m going to help them along. Just drop ‘em to the ground right then and there. The pants, not the person. I will probably be arrested and sent to jail for doing it, but at least there, they make everyone wear jumpsuits that completely cover your backside! Where was I? Something about Zen and peaceful quiet. Thanks guy in seat 57 B. The Zen has left the building. Okay. Once I have the picture of his tush hanging out into the isle out of my head and the other guy as stopped coughing stuff up, I will be back to explain about the peace and Zen of train travel. In the meantime I am going to watch a movie so that I can stifle the urge to pull this guys pants off.
Its 3:30 in the morning and the impossible has happened. Snoring guy is fast asleep and quiet. I’ll assume he’s still live, and boxer guy…well, I’m just not looking in that direction. I have finally achieved that train Zen that I began to soliloquize about earlier in my journey. Gazing out the window into the inky dark only yields the occasional light pinpoints of civilization off in the distance. The train sways and bounces along the tracks gently. The sounds are soft and muted and the sound of ours and other train whistles are like a lullaby. It feels like I’m in a library and should be whispering, but it doesn’t matter because it’s already silent. I have slept comfortably for three and a half hours which is about two thirds of my normal night’s sleep anyway. I am excited to see Samantha and Mark and the girls in a few hours. Today Eden has a dentist appointment, but tomorrow we will have a very grand tea party, just Mantha and Eden and Autumn and I.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A burning in my bosom...no really.
It's been several days since my last entry. I would like to tell you that it's because I've been busy climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro or something equally adventurous, but in truth it's because I haven't had anything particularly interesting to write about. My husband tells me that this is perfectly normal. He swears to me that there are people who go for days...even weeks at a time leading singularly uneventful lives and that they are actually okay with it. I say that's nonsense. I actually think that every day is packed with new adventures and insights. It's just that some adventures are more...well, adventurous than others. My adventures this week have centered around getting past pain and trying to learn to deal with my most annoying limitations. I hurt! My neck hurts, my back hurts, my elbow hurts (they say I have golfers elbow which is ridiculous because I don't golf), my shoulder hurts, my knee hurts. My chiropractor said that I have tendinitis. Everywhere. The doctor has suggested that I might have fibromyalgia. This is nonsense. I refuse to have that. It would be entirely too inconvenient. Derek says that I push myself too hard and then I pay the price for the next several days. I say if you give in to pain, it gets the better of you. Okay, there MIGHT be some wiggle room in there for a reasonable level of caution and sensibility. I just haven't found it yet. So my week has been spent trying to find that fine line between reasonable care and total capitulation. I'm not having much success. I thought I was, but Derek tells me that painting the kitchen and steam cleaning the carpets does not fall in line with the concept of "taking it easy". I think he's being unreasonable.
In light of my inability to stand straight without collapsing into a spasming heap, I have instead, taken to reading about adventures instead of living them. I've just finished reading a book called Percy Jackson and the Olympians. As it turns out, if you are prone to accidents, have dyslexia and are ADHD, the chances are good that one of your parents was a Greek God, thereby making you a Demi-God. Apparently the dyslexia is because your brain is actually wired for ancient Greek, so English is a bit confusing The ADHD is because you are, by heritage, a warrior and therefore find the average classroom a bit boring. That explains so much about my childhood! It's true that I don't actually have dyslexia, but the other two are a given, so I still think I have a good shot at being a demi-God.
Do you see what I've been reduced too by my enforced inactivity?? I have tried to make the best of an inactive week, but Derek insists that the definition of an inactive week does not include doing four photo shoots, photo editing, cleaning the carpets, painting the kitchen and cleaning the entire house. I say it does. There was so much more that I wanted to get done!
Anyway, after a very shaky start, today was fully redeemed because I got to go back to Crystal Forge and do some more glass blowing. This time Derek came with me to take pictures and cheer me on. Ed (the owner) had to leave for a while, leaving me to my own devices. This was good for me because it gave me a little time to just refresh my memory and fiddle around a bit. My first endeavor was a nice little paperweight. It promised to be quite lovely until I dropped in on the ground while putting it into the aneeler. It didn't shatter into a million pieces, so I'm going to take that as a good sign and wait 'til tomorrow to see whether it survived. My second project was another little oil lamp that started out quit nice and then suddenly deflated like a flat tire. At that point Ed came back and started working with me on a medium sized vase. The interesting thing about vases, or really any vessel, is that it takes a lot closer contact than a paperweight or a small oil lamp. You have to get your jacks right into the opening of the vessel in order to shape and expand it. Everything was going fine at first and then Ed instructed me to to start jacking the opening. I leaned in to position my jacks and started slowly opening them to broaden the mouth of the vase. I quickly realized that something was not quite right. Though I was definitely not actually touching the rod or the glass (I checked) my right breast was heating up uncomfortably. My hand was quite warm too, but not unbearably so. My breast was definitely the real problem. Ed, my instructor, has been doing glass blowing for over thirty years and I'm convinced he lost all feeling in his extremities a couple of decades ago because he seems completely un-phased by the heat. I couldn't figure out how he managed to lean over his projects and not jump off the bench from the pain. My breast felt like it was on fire. I arched my back upward , trying to pull my chest a few centimeters further from the glass before I spontaneously combusted. Now, some women have to ability to arch their backs and create a concave chest sort of a thing. I am just not one of them. My chest will never be concave. Ever. It got so bad I actually reached up with my left hand to cover my breast which, had I looked, would undoubtedly have been glowing as brightly as the forge. This was taking the phrase "a burning in my bosom" to a ludicrously literal level. It finally ocured to me that the reason Ed wasn't experiencing this discomfort was because Ed apparently doesn't wear a bra. I, however, do and this bra was apparently a different fabric than what I was wearing the last time because the fabric felt like it was ready to melt. In my instructors defense, he does always recommend that people wear only cotton shirts because synthetics do react badly to fire, but in my defense, he never mentioned bras! After finishing my vase mere seconds before my breast actually ignited, I fell back to a new plan wherein my breast would NOT catch fire and swore to go buy a nice ugly, matronly cotton bra before I tried to make any more vases. I actually feel better about my near incineration because I think it firmly qualifies as an adventure, thereby redeeming my otherwise uneventful week.
In light of my inability to stand straight without collapsing into a spasming heap, I have instead, taken to reading about adventures instead of living them. I've just finished reading a book called Percy Jackson and the Olympians. As it turns out, if you are prone to accidents, have dyslexia and are ADHD, the chances are good that one of your parents was a Greek God, thereby making you a Demi-God. Apparently the dyslexia is because your brain is actually wired for ancient Greek, so English is a bit confusing The ADHD is because you are, by heritage, a warrior and therefore find the average classroom a bit boring. That explains so much about my childhood! It's true that I don't actually have dyslexia, but the other two are a given, so I still think I have a good shot at being a demi-God.
Do you see what I've been reduced too by my enforced inactivity?? I have tried to make the best of an inactive week, but Derek insists that the definition of an inactive week does not include doing four photo shoots, photo editing, cleaning the carpets, painting the kitchen and cleaning the entire house. I say it does. There was so much more that I wanted to get done!
Anyway, after a very shaky start, today was fully redeemed because I got to go back to Crystal Forge and do some more glass blowing. This time Derek came with me to take pictures and cheer me on. Ed (the owner) had to leave for a while, leaving me to my own devices. This was good for me because it gave me a little time to just refresh my memory and fiddle around a bit. My first endeavor was a nice little paperweight. It promised to be quite lovely until I dropped in on the ground while putting it into the aneeler. It didn't shatter into a million pieces, so I'm going to take that as a good sign and wait 'til tomorrow to see whether it survived. My second project was another little oil lamp that started out quit nice and then suddenly deflated like a flat tire. At that point Ed came back and started working with me on a medium sized vase. The interesting thing about vases, or really any vessel, is that it takes a lot closer contact than a paperweight or a small oil lamp. You have to get your jacks right into the opening of the vessel in order to shape and expand it. Everything was going fine at first and then Ed instructed me to to start jacking the opening. I leaned in to position my jacks and started slowly opening them to broaden the mouth of the vase. I quickly realized that something was not quite right. Though I was definitely not actually touching the rod or the glass (I checked) my right breast was heating up uncomfortably. My hand was quite warm too, but not unbearably so. My breast was definitely the real problem. Ed, my instructor, has been doing glass blowing for over thirty years and I'm convinced he lost all feeling in his extremities a couple of decades ago because he seems completely un-phased by the heat. I couldn't figure out how he managed to lean over his projects and not jump off the bench from the pain. My breast felt like it was on fire. I arched my back upward , trying to pull my chest a few centimeters further from the glass before I spontaneously combusted. Now, some women have to ability to arch their backs and create a concave chest sort of a thing. I am just not one of them. My chest will never be concave. Ever. It got so bad I actually reached up with my left hand to cover my breast which, had I looked, would undoubtedly have been glowing as brightly as the forge. This was taking the phrase "a burning in my bosom" to a ludicrously literal level. It finally ocured to me that the reason Ed wasn't experiencing this discomfort was because Ed apparently doesn't wear a bra. I, however, do and this bra was apparently a different fabric than what I was wearing the last time because the fabric felt like it was ready to melt. In my instructors defense, he does always recommend that people wear only cotton shirts because synthetics do react badly to fire, but in my defense, he never mentioned bras! After finishing my vase mere seconds before my breast actually ignited, I fell back to a new plan wherein my breast would NOT catch fire and swore to go buy a nice ugly, matronly cotton bra before I tried to make any more vases. I actually feel better about my near incineration because I think it firmly qualifies as an adventure, thereby redeeming my otherwise uneventful week.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
A peaceful end to a hectic day
It seems old habits die hard. Before I had even managed to pry my eyes open this morning, I lay in bed dreading the day...contemplating miserably all that I would have to accomplish and the hours that I would have to work, and then synapsis started firing and I remembered the awesome truth! I quit my job over a month ago effectively terminating my indentureship to corporate America! Don't get me wrong. Corporate America is very nice if you like that sort of thing, but it can be stifling for a right brained, bohemian such as myself (see previous entries for Bohemian references). I am now a self employed professional photographer, with all of the rights and privileges that come part and parcel with such an auspicious title, to include; creative freedom (as long as the client likes it), the ability to work whatever hours I chose (currently all of them...all 24), and I write my own paycheck (after business expenses, roughly the equivalent of minimum wage...in 1975). Okay, maybe it's not perfect but despite everything it's perfect for me! I want to hug Derek every morning for trudging off to that afforementioned corporate America so that I can indulge my creative whims.
Now even the mundane details of running a business seem interesting and fun. At least it's fun watching my sister Jeannie set up all the bookkeeping for me. The really fun part is watching her face get all red and flustered looking as she mutters dire epithets about my accounting skills under her breath. Hey, I'm a photographer, not an accountant.
So once I remembered my newly acquired status as a photographic entrepenuer my mood took a quick upswing. In fact the last vestiges of yesterdays menepausal meltdown even began to fade...unfortunately not before I downed half a bag of mini baby ruth bars, most of a box of rice krispie treats and a third of a box of Lucky charms as a midnight snack last night.
I jumped out of bed now, actually eager to begin my day. I send e-mails, edited photos, returned calls and did all manner of other things that business women do. Then it was off to an appointment at The Pain Clinic. I had been my original understanding that The Pain Clinic was a place of healing and compassion where men and women of science alleviate pain and suffering. I was quickly disabused of this faulty misimpression when Dr. Death grabbed two hypodermic syringes and uttered those infamous and horribly inaccurate words "You'll feel a little sting now". With wicked precision he jabbed the first syringe into my knotted right shoulder muscle, which apparently needed punishing for its sins. Oh sure, the needle was tiny, about the size of an insulin needle but when you fill even the tiniest syringe with acid a little needle is still going to pack a punch. He swears it was only an anesthetic and that there was no acid involved, but of course he's going to say that. Before I could get out more than a whimper he had plunged the other needle into my equally sinful left shoulder muscle. I would have taken him down but the sneakly little bugger was standing behind me, rendering my flailing feet ineffectual.
In Dr. Death's defense within minutes of the injections the rock hard muscles in my shoulders and neck that have tormented me for weeks, began to loosen and relax. I practically floated out of his office, more relaxed than I had been in ages. I had to stop at Westroads mall to look at the display wall for a shoot I'm currently working on, so I called Derek on my way to let him know how my appointment had gone. To my intense delight, he said he would tear himself away from his vendor filled schedule and meet me for lunch. You can't beat the little mid-day stolen moments. After a fantastic lunch I ran a couple of errands and headed home to find Jeannie involved in what, I'm fairly certain, was a voodoo ritual involving my expense receipts. I'm certain there was a chicken head hidden under the desk.
I talked to Samantha on the phone, who informed me that my beautiful eldest grandchild, Eden, had decided to run herself a bath. Please keep in mind that when I say eldest, I mean eldest of the four grandkids. It is really a relative term as she is still less than two and a half years old. Seems that Samantha, for lack of a better place, had temporarily dumped several loads of clean laundry into the bathtub to be folded and put away later in the day. Eden didn't seem at all bothered by the present of the pile of clean clothes and went ahead and started running her bathwater. Samantha suspected that something was up when Eden came in and the first words out of her mouth were "I love you mommy". Grandkids are the coolest. You get all of the cute, funny experiences and none of the cleanup.
In the evening we had a photoshoot. There I was getting to be all creative again. I just love that! A little time spent editing and here I am wrapping up a particularly creative, productive and wholly enjoyable day. Well, except the Dr. Death thing. But even that had a happy ending and now I will toddle off for a good nights sleep with my newly relaxed shoulders.
Now even the mundane details of running a business seem interesting and fun. At least it's fun watching my sister Jeannie set up all the bookkeeping for me. The really fun part is watching her face get all red and flustered looking as she mutters dire epithets about my accounting skills under her breath. Hey, I'm a photographer, not an accountant.
So once I remembered my newly acquired status as a photographic entrepenuer my mood took a quick upswing. In fact the last vestiges of yesterdays menepausal meltdown even began to fade...unfortunately not before I downed half a bag of mini baby ruth bars, most of a box of rice krispie treats and a third of a box of Lucky charms as a midnight snack last night.
I jumped out of bed now, actually eager to begin my day. I send e-mails, edited photos, returned calls and did all manner of other things that business women do. Then it was off to an appointment at The Pain Clinic. I had been my original understanding that The Pain Clinic was a place of healing and compassion where men and women of science alleviate pain and suffering. I was quickly disabused of this faulty misimpression when Dr. Death grabbed two hypodermic syringes and uttered those infamous and horribly inaccurate words "You'll feel a little sting now". With wicked precision he jabbed the first syringe into my knotted right shoulder muscle, which apparently needed punishing for its sins. Oh sure, the needle was tiny, about the size of an insulin needle but when you fill even the tiniest syringe with acid a little needle is still going to pack a punch. He swears it was only an anesthetic and that there was no acid involved, but of course he's going to say that. Before I could get out more than a whimper he had plunged the other needle into my equally sinful left shoulder muscle. I would have taken him down but the sneakly little bugger was standing behind me, rendering my flailing feet ineffectual.
In Dr. Death's defense within minutes of the injections the rock hard muscles in my shoulders and neck that have tormented me for weeks, began to loosen and relax. I practically floated out of his office, more relaxed than I had been in ages. I had to stop at Westroads mall to look at the display wall for a shoot I'm currently working on, so I called Derek on my way to let him know how my appointment had gone. To my intense delight, he said he would tear himself away from his vendor filled schedule and meet me for lunch. You can't beat the little mid-day stolen moments. After a fantastic lunch I ran a couple of errands and headed home to find Jeannie involved in what, I'm fairly certain, was a voodoo ritual involving my expense receipts. I'm certain there was a chicken head hidden under the desk.
I talked to Samantha on the phone, who informed me that my beautiful eldest grandchild, Eden, had decided to run herself a bath. Please keep in mind that when I say eldest, I mean eldest of the four grandkids. It is really a relative term as she is still less than two and a half years old. Seems that Samantha, for lack of a better place, had temporarily dumped several loads of clean laundry into the bathtub to be folded and put away later in the day. Eden didn't seem at all bothered by the present of the pile of clean clothes and went ahead and started running her bathwater. Samantha suspected that something was up when Eden came in and the first words out of her mouth were "I love you mommy". Grandkids are the coolest. You get all of the cute, funny experiences and none of the cleanup.
In the evening we had a photoshoot. There I was getting to be all creative again. I just love that! A little time spent editing and here I am wrapping up a particularly creative, productive and wholly enjoyable day. Well, except the Dr. Death thing. But even that had a happy ending and now I will toddle off for a good nights sleep with my newly relaxed shoulders.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Post Menopausal Stepford Wives
I think I may have stumbled onto a conspiracy. I'm sending this question into the ether and I'm hoping someone will tell me the truth. Has anyone ever survived menopause? Don't lie to me. I think this may be a pod person thing. Or...no! More like a Stepford Wives thing! Yes! I think that may be it. Here is my theory. We, as woman, are relatively safe when we're younger because we're relatively stable. Hey...I said relatively. Then we get pregnant and we turn into crazed hormonal weapons of mass destruction, BUT we are still safe because of the baby! The average man might WANT to kill us, but they have a soft spot for babies. Then for the next several years, the couple are so busy raising kids that the men go into a survival mode and won't risk killing their wives because they don't want to end up raising the kids alone.
The danger starts when we aren't in a 'delicate' condition and our children are grown, effectively eliminating any stumbling blocks that would keep a man from blissful freedom and peace and quiet. Things may go smoothly for a while; sometimes as long as a decade or more, but then it happens. The hot flashes, the cold sweats, the mood swings, the homicidal tendencies...and there we are...exposed without cover! When we wake up in the morning and immediately start snarling at our husbands about transgressions and misdemeanors they committed 20 years ago, there is nothing to stop them from plotting our gruesome and grisly demise. No pregnancy, no children to raise on their own. Just peace...
This is where the Stepford wives thing comes in. There has to be some secret society that is replacing us with calm and sane robots when our husbands snap and can finally take no more. I know this because I've seen them. Society calls them "Post menopausal women". Come on. I've been pre-menopausal for like 10 years. You can't tell me this process ever actually ends. Haven't you ever met the replacements? They are the happy, contented, sane women over 60 that act like they don't even know what a hot flash feels like. That's not even possible! They CAN'T be human.
I woke up this morning and started snarling before I had even opened my eyes. I could hear myself launching into a tirade about some heinous crime that Derek had committed IN MY DREAM and I couldn't even stop myself! I was ready to shoot me, so I KNOW Derek was fighting awfully hard to resist the urge. I don't know how much longer I can hang in there. More importantly, I don't know how much longer Derek can hang on. As I was getting dressed something occurred to me that I hadn't thought of before. Derek has been spending a lot more time at the shooting range lately...I tried really hard to put on my prettiest smile and made him an extra special lunch to take to work...just in case.
The danger starts when we aren't in a 'delicate' condition and our children are grown, effectively eliminating any stumbling blocks that would keep a man from blissful freedom and peace and quiet. Things may go smoothly for a while; sometimes as long as a decade or more, but then it happens. The hot flashes, the cold sweats, the mood swings, the homicidal tendencies...and there we are...exposed without cover! When we wake up in the morning and immediately start snarling at our husbands about transgressions and misdemeanors they committed 20 years ago, there is nothing to stop them from plotting our gruesome and grisly demise. No pregnancy, no children to raise on their own. Just peace...
This is where the Stepford wives thing comes in. There has to be some secret society that is replacing us with calm and sane robots when our husbands snap and can finally take no more. I know this because I've seen them. Society calls them "Post menopausal women". Come on. I've been pre-menopausal for like 10 years. You can't tell me this process ever actually ends. Haven't you ever met the replacements? They are the happy, contented, sane women over 60 that act like they don't even know what a hot flash feels like. That's not even possible! They CAN'T be human.
I woke up this morning and started snarling before I had even opened my eyes. I could hear myself launching into a tirade about some heinous crime that Derek had committed IN MY DREAM and I couldn't even stop myself! I was ready to shoot me, so I KNOW Derek was fighting awfully hard to resist the urge. I don't know how much longer I can hang in there. More importantly, I don't know how much longer Derek can hang on. As I was getting dressed something occurred to me that I hadn't thought of before. Derek has been spending a lot more time at the shooting range lately...I tried really hard to put on my prettiest smile and made him an extra special lunch to take to work...just in case.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Just a few more weeks please
I am sitting on my beloved patio at 6:00 am, watching the water bubble over the waterfalls and into our pond and I have noticed with great sadness that all the koi are huddled in a cluster at the bottom of the pond. I know what this means. It means it's getting too cold for them to stay on the surface. Oh sure, when the sun comes up in another hour they will slowly venture up to wander around the pond looking for food, but I've noticed that they aren't eating as much as they usually do. These are the obvious signs of the heralding of autumn. The funny thing is, I love autumn! It's always been my favorite season, but this year I am a bit melancholy because I have had the best summer ever since moving to Nebraska. I have curled up on my wicker couch, sheltered under the gazebo in the predawn hours typing away or reading or sometimes just watching the water. As the sun begins to creep just slightly over the crest of the forest, I sit quietly, hardly daring to breath, as deer come out of the forest and across the meadow for an early morning graze. Wild turkeys sometimes cross down from the meadow as well and if I'm very quiet, they come to the edge of the pond for a drink and never notice that I'm there. Once the sun is a bit higher, the rabbits and squirrels appear, scavenging through the wild flowers and herbs looking for anything interesting. Once I can see well enough, I will scour the grounds for errant weeds and attempt to tame the mint that grows so prolifically next to the rocks with the fairy doors. At some point during the day, Derek will IM me to check and make sure I have spent a sufficient amount of time lolling around on the hammock. Don't get me wrong, there will still be opportunities to spend time outside until it is decidedly colder, but I have noticed how busy the squirrels are, running back and forth from all points to the huge cottonwood tree in our neighbors yard, always with some treasure that they haul up the tree and squirrel away (pardon the pun) for the upcoming winter months. Sadly our local weather forecaster tells us that fall is coming three weeks early this year. It seems so unfair. I finally have this incredible garden to while away the days in and soon it will be too cold. I'm not faint hearted though. I can always lay on my over sized, quilted hammock wrapped in a blanket. At least for a while.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Retribution is theirs...
The Gods of Bohemia are reigning retribution and wrath down upon me for trying to break out of my suburbian shackles. Since my little glass blowing junkett last weekend I have slipped into a steady decline until my back is so seized up I'm starting to feel like the tin man. That's what a middle aged woman with a history of back problems gets for standing hour after hour being artist and creative. It's clear I will never see the fulfillment of my dream to work in a McDonalds drive through. I just don't have the stamina for all that standing.
So, after getting my fill of Derek's chiding I made an appointment with my masseuse and chiropractor
So, after getting my fill of Derek's chiding I made an appointment with my masseuse and chiropractor
Friday, September 11, 2009
You've got to be kidding...
Really...now I've seen it all. So, my sister Jeannie bought this really great curling iron on line and it turned out to be a buy one get one free deal, which we all know actually means "We are charging twice as much for this than it's worth, but by doing a BOGO deal we are technically selling twice as many at what should have been the real price all along".
It's one of those spinning barrel with bristles things and I was frankly a little nervous when she surprised me by presenting me with her "free" iron. I had a traumatic experience with an early version of a brush style curling iron back in the '80s. No one really wants to find themselves walking through the mall with a curling iron stuck in their hair. The original brush curling irons were all cleverly designed to permanently entangle themselves in your hair, all the way to the root, thereby necessitating a visit to a hair salon where a stylist would then have to spend 6 hours carefully extricating said iron from your hair just far enough to be able to cut it into a choppy 'shag' style in order to camoflauge the fact that she had to cut it to within 2 inches of your scalp in places. Few people realize that this is, in fact, the very reason 'The Shag' was invented. It is my belief that these bristly hair carnivores were invented by the cosmetology industry as a means of forcing women back into salons in the wake of a beauty recession brought on by deluded women thinking that they could just do their own hair and save a few bucks. Having said all that, I will concede that this particular 21st century spinny sort of curling iron is fabulous. I really like it and have found no cause to fear it...until now.
I was just in my dressing room, getting ready for the day, when I noticed a large white tag attached to the cord of my spinny iron. On this tag is a picture of the curling iron and a picture of an eye with long eyelashes. There is a cross through these two images and in large, dire letters is a warning that reads: "Caution: This product can burn eyes"....seriously?..Really???...someone needed to tell me this? It took my muddled brain a moment to realize that they were seriously warning me against trying to use this rather large barreled curling iron on my eyelashes...are you staying with me here? On the handy quick start guide, I am informed that on the lowest setting, my curling iron gets up to 285 degrees farenheit. At it's highest setting, 385 degrees. That my rotating curling iron company has deemed it necessary to put such a label on this product tells me that someone somewhere has actually attempted to use this for the purpose of curling their eyelashes...on their eyes...I weep for society. With all of the genetic research being done, rather than trying to create some super race, couldn't we just focus on bumping up the current populations IQ points a few notches? If we did, then the need for warnings like this could be avoided. So really, I just added this blog entry in the hopes that I can save someone, somewhere, from the heartache (and burns) attached to using curling irons on eye lashes. Please...fight the impulse for the good of society. The IQ you save may be your own.
It's one of those spinning barrel with bristles things and I was frankly a little nervous when she surprised me by presenting me with her "free" iron. I had a traumatic experience with an early version of a brush style curling iron back in the '80s. No one really wants to find themselves walking through the mall with a curling iron stuck in their hair. The original brush curling irons were all cleverly designed to permanently entangle themselves in your hair, all the way to the root, thereby necessitating a visit to a hair salon where a stylist would then have to spend 6 hours carefully extricating said iron from your hair just far enough to be able to cut it into a choppy 'shag' style in order to camoflauge the fact that she had to cut it to within 2 inches of your scalp in places. Few people realize that this is, in fact, the very reason 'The Shag' was invented. It is my belief that these bristly hair carnivores were invented by the cosmetology industry as a means of forcing women back into salons in the wake of a beauty recession brought on by deluded women thinking that they could just do their own hair and save a few bucks. Having said all that, I will concede that this particular 21st century spinny sort of curling iron is fabulous. I really like it and have found no cause to fear it...until now.
I was just in my dressing room, getting ready for the day, when I noticed a large white tag attached to the cord of my spinny iron. On this tag is a picture of the curling iron and a picture of an eye with long eyelashes. There is a cross through these two images and in large, dire letters is a warning that reads: "Caution: This product can burn eyes"....seriously?..Really???...someone needed to tell me this? It took my muddled brain a moment to realize that they were seriously warning me against trying to use this rather large barreled curling iron on my eyelashes...are you staying with me here? On the handy quick start guide, I am informed that on the lowest setting, my curling iron gets up to 285 degrees farenheit. At it's highest setting, 385 degrees. That my rotating curling iron company has deemed it necessary to put such a label on this product tells me that someone somewhere has actually attempted to use this for the purpose of curling their eyelashes...on their eyes...I weep for society. With all of the genetic research being done, rather than trying to create some super race, couldn't we just focus on bumping up the current populations IQ points a few notches? If we did, then the need for warnings like this could be avoided. So really, I just added this blog entry in the hopes that I can save someone, somewhere, from the heartache (and burns) attached to using curling irons on eye lashes. Please...fight the impulse for the good of society. The IQ you save may be your own.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
And the consequences kick in...
How am I supposed to fight the onslaught of middle age when my body won't cooperate?? Seven hours a day standing in the hot shop has taken it's toll! I am beaten! I woke up today stiffer than a brits upper lip. The awful truth is staring me in the face. I'm out of shape. So, in order to rail against middle age I'm going to have to go into training mode. My only option is to become an anti geriatric ninja warrior. Sadly, this will not be the first time I have attempted this mission. Past attempts always start out optimistic and end in dismal failure lying prostrate on the couch panting heavily...usually with a bowl of ice cream clutched in my defeated grasp.
It's obvious what I have to do. I will have to swallow my pride and drag out my Wii fit. I hate that thing. Don't get me wrong. I love the exercises and games. They're entertaining and fun to do. What I hate is that obnoxious groan it makes every time I step on the board. Does it really have to moan like a herd of wildebeasts just stampeded over it? And then it gives you the third degree if you gain a pound. But I can do this. I'll just start small. Maybe I'll just set the board in front of the TV the first few days. Then I can work my way up from there.
Unfortunately, a little Wii time just isn't going to do it all by itself, so at the risk of completely humiliating myself, I am declaring myself to be in training. If I fail this time, I will do so publicly. So here goes.
It's obvious what I have to do. I will have to swallow my pride and drag out my Wii fit. I hate that thing. Don't get me wrong. I love the exercises and games. They're entertaining and fun to do. What I hate is that obnoxious groan it makes every time I step on the board. Does it really have to moan like a herd of wildebeasts just stampeded over it? And then it gives you the third degree if you gain a pound. But I can do this. I'll just start small. Maybe I'll just set the board in front of the TV the first few days. Then I can work my way up from there.
Unfortunately, a little Wii time just isn't going to do it all by itself, so at the risk of completely humiliating myself, I am declaring myself to be in training. If I fail this time, I will do so publicly. So here goes.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Triumph and Redemption!
I have been redeemed! But before I discuss this triumphant redemption, I should mention what a fabulous day I had today! Derek and I woke up obscenely late and lolled around until we felt ready to cease our...well...lolling.
I spent a little time on Facebook IM with a friend who had the nerve to IM me from Greece. Then he added insult to injury by sending me photographs of where he was staying that were so fabulous, that they still looked great despite being taken by an iPhone. Seriously now! Who takes pictures of opulent greek islands with a cell phone? It's akin to blasphemy.
Anyway, I digress...frequently........and at length.......
Where was I? Oh! Talking to Steven on IM. So, after berating him about his lack of respect for the photographic arts, Derek and I headed off to 11worth cafe for breakfast. The 11worth is a local landmark. The food is fabulous. Housed just west of the Old Warehouse district in downtown Omaha, this one small cafe is most likely responsible for half the heart attacks in Omaha. I suspect that if you tried to order any fruit or anything with the words 'lite', low calorie, or 'organic' in it, you would be politely asked to leave. They do serve diet coke though. Their specialty is heart stoppingly rich foods like sausage and gravy and chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and a pound of butter. It is a very WORTH-while cafe.
After a stupendous breakfast spent trying to come up with some great ad material for a client, we drove to the Joslyn Art Museum only to discover that they were closed on holidays. Who closes a place tourists go on a holiday? It's okay, we got over it and checked out the newly upgraded and very beautiful grounds in front of the building. It was a perfect morning. Cool and cloudy and the leaves on the trees at the museum had just started to transform into flaming autumn colors.
Then we went to Lauritzen Gardens. When we first moved here we stumbled across Lauritzen on an outing with the kids. There were about three trees and a couple of rose bushes. Fortunately it was also free. 10 years later, it is no longer free, but it IS well worth the price of admission. We wandered around admiring the impressive gardens and displays, then returned to the arboretum/gift shop/cafe where, as an homage to my mother, we stopped for a snack and a drink.
I love those little cafe's at museums and gardens and zoos and other like places. My mothered love them too. I love them because she did. My sweetest memories of her are outings we took together, just the two of us. In particular, I loved going shopping with her to Valley Plaza, in Bakersfield CA. We would wander through the stores for a while and stop and throw pennies into the large water feature in the center of the mall. Then we would stop for lunch at Wyatt's Buffet. I loved the array of culinary possibilities displayed before us and I was fascinated by the huge fireplace that imposed itself on one wall. To my adolescent eyes it was beautiful and elegant.
So mom and I would go through the line and choose things like meatloaf or roast beef, and tapioca pudding, vegetables and rolls and finally, and most importantly we would arrive at the delectable looking desserts and I would agonize over which one to choose until my mother would finally insist that I pick one. Upon reflection, I am certain that the food wasn't nearly as good as I remember, but it was still always a grand adventure to me and on those treasured afternoons, my mother and I were in a little world that was only big enough for the two of us.
My mother passed away two years ago this weekend. So, my sweet husband and I ate our chocolate cake and I cried and missed my mother and Derek held my hand. Thank you Derek.
From the gardens, we headed home and I collapsed into the fabulously relaxing hammock in our garden for a quick power nap. Then it was off to pick up Jeannie. We were on a mission to retrieve the undoubtedly grotesque and inferior projects from my last day of glass blowing class. You cannot imagine my delight at discovering that my overly tired mind had apparently painted my artistic endeavors in a much grimmer light that was necessary.
Not only were the items I had finished quite good...well, to me at least, there were in fact, an alarming number of them! It seems that after I had finally abandoned my futile efforts to create a useable lemonade glass, I had gone into a feverish oil lamp making frenzy. I remember feeling quite pleased that I had finally found something I could do, but in my grim determination to focus on this ray of possibility, I had not noticed how many I had actually made! There were a few small and dainty, though occasionally lopsided bud vases, a very respectable, larger and heavier jar that I will put candy corn into just as soon as I buy some, a very nice, swirly sort of candy dish and at least 5 or 6 of my little oil lamps which I have now tested and which I am thrilled to declare, work perfectly. The day was saved!
To round off the perfect day, Derek and I spent the evening barbequeing (well, Derek actually did all the barbequeing while I watched) with Chi and Heather and the grandbabies, and Colt and Michelle and Jessica. Julia was her usual charming and precocious self and ran screaming for Nana to save her when her father tried to wrangle her into the car to go home. My day ended on a perfect note. I have my family and I have my oil lamps and I have my memories.
Good night mom.
I spent a little time on Facebook IM with a friend who had the nerve to IM me from Greece. Then he added insult to injury by sending me photographs of where he was staying that were so fabulous, that they still looked great despite being taken by an iPhone. Seriously now! Who takes pictures of opulent greek islands with a cell phone? It's akin to blasphemy.
Anyway, I digress...frequently........and at length.......
Where was I? Oh! Talking to Steven on IM. So, after berating him about his lack of respect for the photographic arts, Derek and I headed off to 11worth cafe for breakfast. The 11worth is a local landmark. The food is fabulous. Housed just west of the Old Warehouse district in downtown Omaha, this one small cafe is most likely responsible for half the heart attacks in Omaha. I suspect that if you tried to order any fruit or anything with the words 'lite', low calorie, or 'organic' in it, you would be politely asked to leave. They do serve diet coke though. Their specialty is heart stoppingly rich foods like sausage and gravy and chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and a pound of butter. It is a very WORTH-while cafe.
After a stupendous breakfast spent trying to come up with some great ad material for a client, we drove to the Joslyn Art Museum only to discover that they were closed on holidays. Who closes a place tourists go on a holiday? It's okay, we got over it and checked out the newly upgraded and very beautiful grounds in front of the building. It was a perfect morning. Cool and cloudy and the leaves on the trees at the museum had just started to transform into flaming autumn colors.
Then we went to Lauritzen Gardens. When we first moved here we stumbled across Lauritzen on an outing with the kids. There were about three trees and a couple of rose bushes. Fortunately it was also free. 10 years later, it is no longer free, but it IS well worth the price of admission. We wandered around admiring the impressive gardens and displays, then returned to the arboretum/gift shop/cafe where, as an homage to my mother, we stopped for a snack and a drink.
I love those little cafe's at museums and gardens and zoos and other like places. My mothered love them too. I love them because she did. My sweetest memories of her are outings we took together, just the two of us. In particular, I loved going shopping with her to Valley Plaza, in Bakersfield CA. We would wander through the stores for a while and stop and throw pennies into the large water feature in the center of the mall. Then we would stop for lunch at Wyatt's Buffet. I loved the array of culinary possibilities displayed before us and I was fascinated by the huge fireplace that imposed itself on one wall. To my adolescent eyes it was beautiful and elegant.
So mom and I would go through the line and choose things like meatloaf or roast beef, and tapioca pudding, vegetables and rolls and finally, and most importantly we would arrive at the delectable looking desserts and I would agonize over which one to choose until my mother would finally insist that I pick one. Upon reflection, I am certain that the food wasn't nearly as good as I remember, but it was still always a grand adventure to me and on those treasured afternoons, my mother and I were in a little world that was only big enough for the two of us.
My mother passed away two years ago this weekend. So, my sweet husband and I ate our chocolate cake and I cried and missed my mother and Derek held my hand. Thank you Derek.
From the gardens, we headed home and I collapsed into the fabulously relaxing hammock in our garden for a quick power nap. Then it was off to pick up Jeannie. We were on a mission to retrieve the undoubtedly grotesque and inferior projects from my last day of glass blowing class. You cannot imagine my delight at discovering that my overly tired mind had apparently painted my artistic endeavors in a much grimmer light that was necessary.
Not only were the items I had finished quite good...well, to me at least, there were in fact, an alarming number of them! It seems that after I had finally abandoned my futile efforts to create a useable lemonade glass, I had gone into a feverish oil lamp making frenzy. I remember feeling quite pleased that I had finally found something I could do, but in my grim determination to focus on this ray of possibility, I had not noticed how many I had actually made! There were a few small and dainty, though occasionally lopsided bud vases, a very respectable, larger and heavier jar that I will put candy corn into just as soon as I buy some, a very nice, swirly sort of candy dish and at least 5 or 6 of my little oil lamps which I have now tested and which I am thrilled to declare, work perfectly. The day was saved!
To round off the perfect day, Derek and I spent the evening barbequeing (well, Derek actually did all the barbequeing while I watched) with Chi and Heather and the grandbabies, and Colt and Michelle and Jessica. Julia was her usual charming and precocious self and ran screaming for Nana to save her when her father tried to wrangle her into the car to go home. My day ended on a perfect note. I have my family and I have my oil lamps and I have my memories.
Good night mom.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Glass blowing as a tool for torture...
I will NEVER drink another glass of water again without paying silent homage to all glass blowers everywhere. Yesterday was my shining glory. I could tell that I was destined to be the 21st century's iconic standard for the fine art of glass blowing. I successfully executed a number of lovely paperweights and flowers destined to become family heirlooms that my descendants would display proudly, telling visitors the story of their talented and artistic great, great, great grandmother.
Okay, so some of the paperweights are not the traditionally recognized shape that so many are used to seeing, but I feel that mine have a special flare of their very own that sets them apart from their more mundane and traditional counterparts. It's true that my first drinking glass looks a lot like something you would find Fred Flintstone drinking from at cocktail hour, but I think it's...rustic appearance gives it character.
The blistering heat of the furnace seemed quite tolerable in light of my artistic triumphs but I will admit that 7 hours of standing in front of the fiercely orange glowing Glory Hole trying to keep a blob of liquid glass rotating at just the right speed to avoid it either flying through the air towards an unwitting bystander, or puddling onto the floor in a crackling goo was a bit grueling, but I felt that my bone numbing fatigue had a certain righteous worthiness to it. I had run the gauntlet and survived. I didn't even get burned this time!
I stumbled home exhausted but jubilant, looking forward with eager anticipation to another day of artistic, and don't forget, Bohemian artistry. I was considering joining an artists colony.
I got up this morning and headed to hot shops daydreaming merrily of the stunning glass blown works of art that I would create today. I pictured museums and art galleries vying for the honor of displaying them amongst other priceless treasures.
...I suspect there is a reason that middle aged women from suburbia don't often take up glass blowing and join artists colonies.
My day was an exercise in glaring defeat and humiliation. I am out of sync with the Universe. We aren't even on speaking terms. My groove is broken, my Karma verklempt. My aura is a muddy gray and black noxious cloud. From the moment I got to the studio I seemed doomed to abject failure. After watching a stunning demonstration on how to create artistic and colorful drinking glasses I approached the sweltering forge with supreme confidence. I was already planning on inviting company over just so that I could serve them lemonade in the uniquely beautiful and artistic set of six glasses that I would undoubtedly finish before lunchtime. I would pass the drinks around and my guests would gasp in appreciation, exclaiming, "Where did you get these stunning glasses"? I would demurely admit that I had made them myself. "Just whipped them up the other day really". I would then bask in their glowing admiration as they went on endlessly about my unearthly artistic prowess.
I dipped my rod in for the first gather, then blew a puff of air into the blow rod and the glass expanded into a perfect little bubble. In it went for the second gather, a harder puff of air this time and a beautiful orb appeared. Step by step the perfect lemonade glass began to take shape. I approached the glory hole for a final heating before jacking the end of the glass and depositing it gently into the aneeler. I have no idea what happened next. One moment I had a perfectly shaped glass, the next I had a hideously deformed mutation. The glass folded in on itself in defeat. No one would ever be drinking lemonade from this glass. Three attempts later, I was mentally cancelling my dinner party. The rest of the day went down hill from there. Three fabulous pieces all fell off the rod seconds before achieving perfection. Others collapsed in on themselves. The pile of mutant glass carnage continued to grow at my feet as one dismal failure after another either hit the ground or ended up in the scrap glass bin. The forge seemed about 1000 degrees hotter than it did yesterday, I grew red faced and sweaty. My focus disappeared and I got more frustrated with each failed attempt. I think at one point my Aura actually started to smell a bit funny.
I wondered whether Derek had actually bought me the class as a means to facilitate my suicide. Maybe he was trying to get rid of me.
Then, in my darkest moment...I realized that I was missing an element of the day that was profoundly important. I was missing the vital lessons that I so desperately need to learn.
I have spent my whole life shying away from anything that I suspected I might fail at. I only took my music to a level that I was comfortable with, being careful never to venture into territory where I had a chance of failure. I have done the same thing with everything I have ever tried. I live in a safe and comfortable place in my head where I can always succeed and I'm never scared. Failure is terrible. It's terrifying. It's...well...Failure.
I remember being wildly intrigued by the outrageous message presented in the cartoon movie 'Meet The Robinson's'. According to this ludicrous film, failure is something to be celebrated as an opportunity for growth.
I decided that instead of wallowing in my failure, I would celebrate and embrace my glaring defeat. I reminded myself that I have only been a glass blowing artist for two days and there might just be a learning curve involved that I had not yet reached. My instructor had pointed out at the beginning of the class that he had been a glass blower for 30 years and still made loads of mistakes. I thought...well, sure...YOU, but not ME. Now I decided that I would embrace each dismal and grotesque artistic catastrophe as an opportunity to learn something more about what not to do. I felt better. I decided to abandon my 6 piece glass set and work on something a bit smaller. Soon, I had cranked out 4 very respectable little glass bubbles just like the tiny oil lamp that I have treasured for a number of years. My aching muscles and steaming skin did not find relief, but my spirits lifted measurably. 4:00 came and the class was at its end. I limped to the car, stiff, sore, hot and sweaty, but feeling like I had conquered something really important. I have taken a step towards embracing failure and ceasing to view it as my mortal enemy. Now that the class is over, I am looking forward to going back to the studio on my own and hope to have many more failures as well as triumphs because it will mean that I am progressing.
Okay, so some of the paperweights are not the traditionally recognized shape that so many are used to seeing, but I feel that mine have a special flare of their very own that sets them apart from their more mundane and traditional counterparts. It's true that my first drinking glass looks a lot like something you would find Fred Flintstone drinking from at cocktail hour, but I think it's...rustic appearance gives it character.
The blistering heat of the furnace seemed quite tolerable in light of my artistic triumphs but I will admit that 7 hours of standing in front of the fiercely orange glowing Glory Hole trying to keep a blob of liquid glass rotating at just the right speed to avoid it either flying through the air towards an unwitting bystander, or puddling onto the floor in a crackling goo was a bit grueling, but I felt that my bone numbing fatigue had a certain righteous worthiness to it. I had run the gauntlet and survived. I didn't even get burned this time!
I stumbled home exhausted but jubilant, looking forward with eager anticipation to another day of artistic, and don't forget, Bohemian artistry. I was considering joining an artists colony.
I got up this morning and headed to hot shops daydreaming merrily of the stunning glass blown works of art that I would create today. I pictured museums and art galleries vying for the honor of displaying them amongst other priceless treasures.
...I suspect there is a reason that middle aged women from suburbia don't often take up glass blowing and join artists colonies.
My day was an exercise in glaring defeat and humiliation. I am out of sync with the Universe. We aren't even on speaking terms. My groove is broken, my Karma verklempt. My aura is a muddy gray and black noxious cloud. From the moment I got to the studio I seemed doomed to abject failure. After watching a stunning demonstration on how to create artistic and colorful drinking glasses I approached the sweltering forge with supreme confidence. I was already planning on inviting company over just so that I could serve them lemonade in the uniquely beautiful and artistic set of six glasses that I would undoubtedly finish before lunchtime. I would pass the drinks around and my guests would gasp in appreciation, exclaiming, "Where did you get these stunning glasses"? I would demurely admit that I had made them myself. "Just whipped them up the other day really". I would then bask in their glowing admiration as they went on endlessly about my unearthly artistic prowess.
I dipped my rod in for the first gather, then blew a puff of air into the blow rod and the glass expanded into a perfect little bubble. In it went for the second gather, a harder puff of air this time and a beautiful orb appeared. Step by step the perfect lemonade glass began to take shape. I approached the glory hole for a final heating before jacking the end of the glass and depositing it gently into the aneeler. I have no idea what happened next. One moment I had a perfectly shaped glass, the next I had a hideously deformed mutation. The glass folded in on itself in defeat. No one would ever be drinking lemonade from this glass. Three attempts later, I was mentally cancelling my dinner party. The rest of the day went down hill from there. Three fabulous pieces all fell off the rod seconds before achieving perfection. Others collapsed in on themselves. The pile of mutant glass carnage continued to grow at my feet as one dismal failure after another either hit the ground or ended up in the scrap glass bin. The forge seemed about 1000 degrees hotter than it did yesterday, I grew red faced and sweaty. My focus disappeared and I got more frustrated with each failed attempt. I think at one point my Aura actually started to smell a bit funny.
I wondered whether Derek had actually bought me the class as a means to facilitate my suicide. Maybe he was trying to get rid of me.
Then, in my darkest moment...I realized that I was missing an element of the day that was profoundly important. I was missing the vital lessons that I so desperately need to learn.
I have spent my whole life shying away from anything that I suspected I might fail at. I only took my music to a level that I was comfortable with, being careful never to venture into territory where I had a chance of failure. I have done the same thing with everything I have ever tried. I live in a safe and comfortable place in my head where I can always succeed and I'm never scared. Failure is terrible. It's terrifying. It's...well...Failure.
I remember being wildly intrigued by the outrageous message presented in the cartoon movie 'Meet The Robinson's'. According to this ludicrous film, failure is something to be celebrated as an opportunity for growth.
I decided that instead of wallowing in my failure, I would celebrate and embrace my glaring defeat. I reminded myself that I have only been a glass blowing artist for two days and there might just be a learning curve involved that I had not yet reached. My instructor had pointed out at the beginning of the class that he had been a glass blower for 30 years and still made loads of mistakes. I thought...well, sure...YOU, but not ME. Now I decided that I would embrace each dismal and grotesque artistic catastrophe as an opportunity to learn something more about what not to do. I felt better. I decided to abandon my 6 piece glass set and work on something a bit smaller. Soon, I had cranked out 4 very respectable little glass bubbles just like the tiny oil lamp that I have treasured for a number of years. My aching muscles and steaming skin did not find relief, but my spirits lifted measurably. 4:00 came and the class was at its end. I limped to the car, stiff, sore, hot and sweaty, but feeling like I had conquered something really important. I have taken a step towards embracing failure and ceasing to view it as my mortal enemy. Now that the class is over, I am looking forward to going back to the studio on my own and hope to have many more failures as well as triumphs because it will mean that I am progressing.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Adventures in Glass Blowing
Yesterday I embarked on a new and exciting adventure. Okay, Actually the adventure started around a month or so ago when my good friend Jessica suggested that a bout of weekend boredom could be easily alleviated by signing up for a glass blowing class she had discovered on line. I should have learned by now that Jessica's ideas are generally either violent, or dangerous (she's really into jui jitsu and is therefore classified as legally insane), but I was bored so I went along with it. We showed up on Saturday morning for the $30 Introduction to Glassblowing class at an establishment called Hot Shops. I have since discovered that it's name is quite accurate and delivers on the "Hot" part in spades. It's a fairly amazing building in the old warehouse district, filled with three floors of artists of every imaginable ilk. There's glass blowing, welding, blacksmithing, woodworking, jewelry making, painting, and something with knives that I'm a little afraid to ask about. It is essentially, an artists coop and it made my little suburban heart flutter wildly to be doing anything quite so Bohemian. The class was two hours and we made our own paperweight and a lovely flower (with a certain amount of help from the instructor).
Jessica and I declared the class a resounding success and I left with a flyer proclaiming that there was a far more adventurous and FAR more expensive three day, all weekend class, in which we would unearth all of the secrets and delights of glass blowing and would leave having made any number of artistic and bohemian art glass pieces. Upon my arrival back home, I extolled the virtues of the class to my loving husband, Derek, and in a studied and carefully casual voice mentioned the three day class...you know...just in passing...
Truth be told I really did just mention it casually, because as interesting as it sounded, it was $350.00 and I wasn't about to ask Derek to shell out that kind of money on a midlife whim. The moment passed, the weeks wore on and I took every opportunity to show anyone and everyone my handmade glass treasures.
Then, a few weeks ago, in an unprecidentedly vicious attack, my 48th birthday snuck up from behind and pounced.
I have relatively low expectations for birthdays. I don't do birthday parties. As for Derek, some years he remembers my birthday and some years, not so much. As regards my children, as far as they are concerned I have been old since the beginning of time and will simply continue to be old forever, so birthdays aren't particularly relevant. This being the case, I was quite content to just forget that the grave was looming in a little closer than before. Imagine my surprise when my sister, Jeannie, my son Colt, and Derek presented me with a blue legal sized envelope and declared that I should have a happy birthday!
My jaw dropped lower than my double chins as I read the certificate inside, stating that I was the recipient of a gift certificate good for the very same glass blowing class that I had previously resigned myself to NOT taking. The story unfolded that Derek, in a blinding flash of inventive ingenuity and love, had contacted our family via e-mail and stated his intentions to purchase the class for me. He apparently indicated that he was putting every ones name on the certificate and if anyone wanted to pitch in, they could! There I sat near tears at the thought of my sweet family putting together such a stupendous gift! Derek wins the game! Forever!!!
A few days later, I had a class date of September 4th, 5th, and 6th on my calender. Yesterday was the 4th.
I showed up at 6pm for day 1 of the three day class. It was to run 6-9 pm. I'm not sure whether we had been drugged or hypnotized at the introductory class, but in my mind's eye, I remember it being much more pleasant and much easier and I definitely don't remember it being so hot! It might have something to do with the fact that they were helping us along every step or the way, or possibly because there were 10 of us taking a two hours class, but my earlier foray into glass blowing did NOT prepare me for yesterday evening!
The class was hot, sweaty, frustrating, intimidating, difficult, and DANGEROUS! Or so it felt...initially. The first mistake I made was in forgetting that I am left handed and therefore, handicapped and backward. In my eagerness to master the art of glass blowing, I armed myself with my 4 ft metal rod and pressed down on the foot lever at the base of the glass forge. As the doors flew open to reveal the deepest depths of hell, I was quickly reminded why they call it Molten Glass. It is because in many ways, it resembles Molten Lava. Inside the forge was a vat of 2100 degrees molten glass glowing a brilliant orange. As I nervously stuck my rod into the glass for my first gather, I could feel the hairs on my arm curling away in protest and the heat was so intense I nearly dropped my rod. I pulled my rod out of the liquid glass and jerked my foot off the lever to cut myself off from the offending heat. My mind spun frantically. How do I get out of this!? Derek was going to be so disappointed that I wasted $350 running out of the building wailing like a sissy.
The instructor came to my rescue. It seemed that I was once again being punished for being left handed. I cursed my Kindergarten teacher for not trying harder to convert me to right handedism. Apparently not only are you not supposed to stand directly in front of the two thousand degree flaming forge, you are supposed to hold the rod to your right, while you cower in safety to the left of the doors, safely out of range of Satan's wrath.
Once I knew how to work around the forge without melting into a middle aged heap of Leni goo, things improved. Or so I thought. What was Derek thinking sending an ADD woman who gets distracted by every shiny thing she sees into a room full of glowing and irrefutably shiny glass!? I had successfully completed a practice exercise on a small glob of glass and was heading to the work bench when the shiny, glistening orange glow of a classmates gather caught my eye for an instant. As I gave her a verbal pat on the back for her excellent marvering technique, I moved my right hand to my rod to swing the end over to the bench. Only I didn't look down first and I apparently grasped the rod higher than anticipated. It is a scientific fact that if you put molten glass on a metal rod, the rod WILL get hot. Not all the way down, but definitely down far enough to be scalding hot where I stuck my hand. In an instant, the rod hit the floor, the glass shattered into pieces, and my hand shot into the bucket of water placed strategically for just that very purpose. Apparently, I am NOT the first person to burn herself on a metal rod while working with molten glass, though it was little comfort right then. BUT I am a grown woman! NOT a silly girl and I had on my big girl pants, so I sucked it up, smiled and pretended I was perfectly fine. Inside my mind was singing a chorus of "I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry"...while outside I was saying "No, really...I'm good". I spent every possible moment with my hand in a glass of water for the remainder of the evening, but I'm proud to say that I didn't cry and I still completed a couple of lovely (well one lovely and one with...character) paperweights and a flower.
By the end of the class, my fingers were throbbing, I was hotter and sweatier than I had been since leaving the Philippines and I was physically and mentally exhausted. As I drove home, I realized that I couldn't wait to get back for day 2 of the adventure.
Jessica and I declared the class a resounding success and I left with a flyer proclaiming that there was a far more adventurous and FAR more expensive three day, all weekend class, in which we would unearth all of the secrets and delights of glass blowing and would leave having made any number of artistic and bohemian art glass pieces. Upon my arrival back home, I extolled the virtues of the class to my loving husband, Derek, and in a studied and carefully casual voice mentioned the three day class...you know...just in passing...
Truth be told I really did just mention it casually, because as interesting as it sounded, it was $350.00 and I wasn't about to ask Derek to shell out that kind of money on a midlife whim. The moment passed, the weeks wore on and I took every opportunity to show anyone and everyone my handmade glass treasures.
Then, a few weeks ago, in an unprecidentedly vicious attack, my 48th birthday snuck up from behind and pounced.
I have relatively low expectations for birthdays. I don't do birthday parties. As for Derek, some years he remembers my birthday and some years, not so much. As regards my children, as far as they are concerned I have been old since the beginning of time and will simply continue to be old forever, so birthdays aren't particularly relevant. This being the case, I was quite content to just forget that the grave was looming in a little closer than before. Imagine my surprise when my sister, Jeannie, my son Colt, and Derek presented me with a blue legal sized envelope and declared that I should have a happy birthday!
My jaw dropped lower than my double chins as I read the certificate inside, stating that I was the recipient of a gift certificate good for the very same glass blowing class that I had previously resigned myself to NOT taking. The story unfolded that Derek, in a blinding flash of inventive ingenuity and love, had contacted our family via e-mail and stated his intentions to purchase the class for me. He apparently indicated that he was putting every ones name on the certificate and if anyone wanted to pitch in, they could! There I sat near tears at the thought of my sweet family putting together such a stupendous gift! Derek wins the game! Forever!!!
A few days later, I had a class date of September 4th, 5th, and 6th on my calender. Yesterday was the 4th.
I showed up at 6pm for day 1 of the three day class. It was to run 6-9 pm. I'm not sure whether we had been drugged or hypnotized at the introductory class, but in my mind's eye, I remember it being much more pleasant and much easier and I definitely don't remember it being so hot! It might have something to do with the fact that they were helping us along every step or the way, or possibly because there were 10 of us taking a two hours class, but my earlier foray into glass blowing did NOT prepare me for yesterday evening!
The class was hot, sweaty, frustrating, intimidating, difficult, and DANGEROUS! Or so it felt...initially. The first mistake I made was in forgetting that I am left handed and therefore, handicapped and backward. In my eagerness to master the art of glass blowing, I armed myself with my 4 ft metal rod and pressed down on the foot lever at the base of the glass forge. As the doors flew open to reveal the deepest depths of hell, I was quickly reminded why they call it Molten Glass. It is because in many ways, it resembles Molten Lava. Inside the forge was a vat of 2100 degrees molten glass glowing a brilliant orange. As I nervously stuck my rod into the glass for my first gather, I could feel the hairs on my arm curling away in protest and the heat was so intense I nearly dropped my rod. I pulled my rod out of the liquid glass and jerked my foot off the lever to cut myself off from the offending heat. My mind spun frantically. How do I get out of this!? Derek was going to be so disappointed that I wasted $350 running out of the building wailing like a sissy.
The instructor came to my rescue. It seemed that I was once again being punished for being left handed. I cursed my Kindergarten teacher for not trying harder to convert me to right handedism. Apparently not only are you not supposed to stand directly in front of the two thousand degree flaming forge, you are supposed to hold the rod to your right, while you cower in safety to the left of the doors, safely out of range of Satan's wrath.
Once I knew how to work around the forge without melting into a middle aged heap of Leni goo, things improved. Or so I thought. What was Derek thinking sending an ADD woman who gets distracted by every shiny thing she sees into a room full of glowing and irrefutably shiny glass!? I had successfully completed a practice exercise on a small glob of glass and was heading to the work bench when the shiny, glistening orange glow of a classmates gather caught my eye for an instant. As I gave her a verbal pat on the back for her excellent marvering technique, I moved my right hand to my rod to swing the end over to the bench. Only I didn't look down first and I apparently grasped the rod higher than anticipated. It is a scientific fact that if you put molten glass on a metal rod, the rod WILL get hot. Not all the way down, but definitely down far enough to be scalding hot where I stuck my hand. In an instant, the rod hit the floor, the glass shattered into pieces, and my hand shot into the bucket of water placed strategically for just that very purpose. Apparently, I am NOT the first person to burn herself on a metal rod while working with molten glass, though it was little comfort right then. BUT I am a grown woman! NOT a silly girl and I had on my big girl pants, so I sucked it up, smiled and pretended I was perfectly fine. Inside my mind was singing a chorus of "I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry"...while outside I was saying "No, really...I'm good". I spent every possible moment with my hand in a glass of water for the remainder of the evening, but I'm proud to say that I didn't cry and I still completed a couple of lovely (well one lovely and one with...character) paperweights and a flower.
By the end of the class, my fingers were throbbing, I was hotter and sweatier than I had been since leaving the Philippines and I was physically and mentally exhausted. As I drove home, I realized that I couldn't wait to get back for day 2 of the adventure.
I will not go quiety into old age...
Looking back through the foggy, and often revisionist annals of time, I distinctly remember being around 23 or so (I did mention foggy), and wondering what it would be like to be 30, 35, 40...would I still be the same? Would I feel like I did then? Would I enjoy the same things? Have the same emotions? As I remember those trepidatious questions, I feel a little foolish realizing how naive I was, because, as I have now discovered all these years later, I am and always will be, me. Leni Musick Hester. Queen of all I survey. Just a slightly more...mature version. Trouble is, my brain seems quite happy with who I was at 23-ish and looking in the mirror is just confusing because, in my head, I am younger, thinner and better looking that that middle aged grandma looking back at me. That is okay though, because you couldn't pay me to be 23 again! The angst! The drama! The acne! Nope, I'm good right where I am...okay, I wouldn't mind the 48 year old brain and emotions IN the 23 year old body, but since that is not currently an option, I'm good with being short, roundier than before and living large. I wouldn't trade the 29 years with my husband and the life experiences that I have had for anything. The trouble is, I must admit to being a little afraid of the whole getting REALLY old thing and more importantly, the part about what happens when you STOP getting old. For now, I have decided to believe that, just as I discovered that I feel just the same at 48 as I did at 23 (with the addition of a few more aches and pains), I will undoubtedly feel just the same at 80 as I do this very moment (with the addition of even more aches and pains unless medicine really improves in the intervening years). And in my opinion, being me is a completely acceptable and adventurous thing to be!
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