Anthropological Motherhood: How to Conduct Organized Chaos

Day One: (Jack & Bidee)
1. Invite Children to a family slumber party on Christmas Eve. The Anticipation is palpable.
(Leiland & Mr. C)
In fact, feelings run so high, the infamous Booty Dance erupts without warning.
(Booty-Asia & Booty Jack)
For others, the slightest upturn of a modest smile speaks volumes of screaming, festive joy ~ on the inside.
(James & his own cartoon logo customized hat)
2. Allow for technical prep. Brand new ultra-thin cameras in working order. Batteries charged. Automatic focus. Nanas & Papa back home waiting for holiday pictures. Check.
(Trigger-happy Trisha)
3. Feel the thrill witnessing the 2 1/2 year old cousin meeting his 4 week old cousin and holding her for the first time. Listen with glee to his spontaneous celebratory song of 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' repeated endlessly.
Feel hearts bursting with joy
(Ray Baby & Bidee)
as Jack and Baby Mak bask in his sweet crooning ~ and time as we know it in the universe stops.
4. Begin displaying fave foodstuffs registered in advance by each of the adult children and spouses. Feel satisfaction the veggie tray is the most popular attraction.
(photo = pre cheese ball & crackers)

Homemade Chex-Mix just like Granny used to make courtesy of Chef Bi.
5. Admire Leiland's version of the Heisman Trophy pose. Apparently it is an Alpha male challenge posture intended to intimidate the competition.
6. Stand back and give the big boys plenty of room as they begin probably the most competitive hours long round of wii Mario Kart in the civilized world.
(Christian in the zone...)
See Jack feel happily included with the controller that is not plugged-in.
Sportsmanship always a plus; when deserved - high-fives all around.
7. Get Ready for Santa.

Day Two: Christmas Morning
1. Be prepared for anything. Wow! Look what Santa left under the tree!
Raise your hand if you want to open your present . . . ! On your mark, get set . . .

2. Encourage good manners. Showing appreciation for the thoughtfully given gift is just plain good-manners.
Some people are incredibly appreciative. "Prego!"

4. Provide homemade gifts whenever possible. Jack is obviously over-whelmed with his new big boy quilt. Thank you, Mimi!
Some gifts are so apropos they actually magnify one's alter personality. Thank you, Auntie Asia. Now Gotham can rest easy.

(super cool bat utility belt below the bicep pose)
MaKenna is dwarfed by her new non-pink quilt.

(first Christmas as a family of 3)
5. Accept the post-gift opening disaster zone.
(Jack re-programing our hard drive in the background)
6. Embrace the Christmas afternoon puzzle coalition.

7. Provide respite under the tree for sleepy revelers.
8. Manipulate the crowd to be all in one place at one time looking happy.

Christmas 2008 ~ Phoenix, Arizona

Agri-Whatever

It's not just biology, it's Agri-science; and Rachel has enjoyed this extended-length new class very much. In fact, she has enjoyed her freshman semester and the whole High School experience very much so far. Her agri-science teacher invited her to join a flower-arranging class after school once swim team season was finished. Having never expressed an interest in doing anything with flowers before, we laughed inwardly and signed multiple field-trip permission slips. For a six-week class they sure covered a lot of ground. It was serious business right from the start.

There was a regional competition in Prescott. The competition was surprisingly stiff. They had to wear black skirts, hose and shoes with a white blouse and a blazer (provided by the teacher). Not only were they required to construct a flower arrangement appropriate for a specified occasion and complete it within a given budget and time-limit, but the competitors were also expected to answer pretend phone calls from green-house clients who needed assistance.

Rachel's moment "on the phone" representing commercial flowerdom went something like this:

Judge: "Hello, I'm calling about a plant I recently purchased from your store."
Ray: "O.K. So what's the problem?"
Judge: "I don't think it's getting enough water."
Ray: "Oh. Is this an indoor plant or an outdoor plant?"
Judge: "I'm pretty sure it's an indoor plant."
Ray: "Are you sure?"
Judge: "Yeah, I'm pretty sure. That's what the tag says."
Ray: "Oh."
Judge: "Well, it's dying. How much water should I put in it each day?"
Ray: "Uh, about a cup."
Judge: "A cup! Every day?"

Ray: "Yeah."

Judge: "Well, If this plant dies, can I get a refund?"
Ray: "What? No - I mean, I don't think so. Maybe you could get half a refund..."
Judge: "Half a refund?"
Ray: "Yes. But it sounds like your plant is still alive..."

Judge: "Yes, it has some green still."

Ray: "Um, so it might come back. Or - maybe you could come down here and get a new plant."
Judge: "Well, I don't want to spend any more money...I already bought this one, and it's dying."
Ray: "But we only have the best!"
Judge: (laughing) "O.K. Thanks. Since I'm getting a new plant, I only want to get it from you, because you understand my problem. Are you sure you're going to be there?"
Ray: (beginning to panic since they were instructed to only be on the phone for a certain amount of time) "Oh, yeah - sure. I get off at closing."
Judge: "What time is that?"
Ray: "7 PM."
Judge: "You're going to be there all day?"
Ray: "Actually, 10:45 AM."
Judge: "Wow."
Ray: "Yes. I'm a very busy woman."

At State, things really went down hill. Not only were they required to identify plants on the

spot, but they had to identify common problems and offer remedies one on one with a Judge. Rachel sat down across the table from a Judge. Between them was a paper. It was divided into illustration boxes depicting plant parts and various ailments. She silently stared at the options. The swirling, black void in her brain was a dizzying inner battle of nothingness. This was an exercise the teacher had utterly failed to prepare them for. Rachel had no clue.

She began to smile. The judge said reassuringly, "It's alright. You can take your time. I won't count you off or anything." The uncontrollable smile had become a grin. Sensing her nervousness, he coaxed her a second time. "Why don't you just tell me what's wrong with these plants and how I can fix it." The grin became a giggle. The judge leaned forward. "Take your time..." he said.

Rachel looked at the illustration of a leaf browning on the edges, and another with little holes all over it. Pointing at one illustration, the judge patiently asked, "So..do you have any ideas?"He was chewing his gum real loud. Rachel wished she had some gum. She wasn't even thinking about the pictures. She was thinking about laughing. Which is what happened next. Finally, in a last-ditch effort for personal dignity, she offered: "It looks like something has been eating them..."

Judge: "Well, yes..that might explain the holes."
Rachel:"You can probably put something on the plants to stop the bugs from eating them.."
Judge: (hopefully) "Like what?"
Rachel: (thinking hard) "A NET! Yeah, a net should work..you know..to keep the bugs out?"
Judge: "Right..anything else?"
Rachel: "There is some sort of spray you can put on plants to kill the bugs."
Judge: "What's that?"
Rachel: "Ummm....well...I don't remember what it's called."
Judge: (staring at Rachel)
Rachel: "Yeah that's all I got."
Judge: (laughing) "Okay, thanks Rachel, have a nice day."
Rachel: (wanting to crawl in a hole and die) "You too!"

The construction part of the competition required making a corsage and a centerpiece. Rachel had been absent the day a corsage was explained in class. Now it was do or die. After clipping her 3 blossoms two short and one long, one of the flowers broke. She spent a lot of time trying to wire the flower. With the clock ticking, and the elastic band refusing to accept placement of her awkward looking corsage, Rachel realized this effort was also all she had.

The final element was creating a centerpiece within the limits of the budget sheet provided. Calculations at last completed, this is what she produced:

New-found feelings of satisfaction and self-worth evaporated with a crash once she realized she had misread her final instructions. Her lovely centerpiece (just shy of 4 inches tall), was supposed to be displayed on a 4 foot tall pedestal. Her teammates, having experienced similar disasters all morning long, petitioned their teacher for immediate escape. No one wanted to wait around for scoring results or the awards ceremony. Panda Express seemed infinitely more appropriate to cap off a stressful State competition.

I propose that the world would be a far better place if more people would adopt the Rachel Philosophy: when faced with the bitter and ultimate unknown ~ take your time, and laugh.

How To Carve a JACK o'Lantern & other interesting pursuits

First:

The Daddy demonstrates proper technique. It is very important to proceed with only the best equipment on hand. A sharp blade goes a long way.

It is also helpful to prepare for any eventuality. (Participants are situated in the kitchen, where food and juice are readily available). And at least one assailant is wearing combat fatigues.

Second:
After initial excursion through the epithelial,
gross-out is often an immediate reaction.

Extraction of the superficial and basal flesh is achieved only with careful and focused exertion.
A pumpkin-load of reproductive organs are a pesky, sticky, and fascinating hindrance.

Third: The cavity finally excavated, some element of success is perceived though not completely understood.

Fourth: Replacing the skull-cap is second only to the joy of wearing the fresh splatter-pattern on your face.
Pumpkin-lust now fully awakened, the subject is thoroughly committed to the slaughter of an even larger, more formidible specimen.

A traditional follow-up to the carving operation involves indulging innocent children's fantasies with colorful, cute costumes of recognizable and beloved characters from classic children's literature or young children's entertainment entities.

One's backpack should always have the necessities, as - well, you can see here.

Always high on the list of seasonal delights, is a visit to the petting zoo.

Jack is thrilled with the tactile experience of clutching a squirming, squealing piglet. The fact that his beautiful mommy is likewise clutching him is a precious irony completely lost on him.

A literal blue Bucket o'Chicks is probably the best of the best in a full day's agenda. (Get a load of the pansy-fireman get up - sheeesh. That poor kid is almost as embarrassed to be seen in public as the girl in the sissy Snow White outfit held in her dada's arms to the left...)

Failing to provide the Sleep Disorders Clinic with any reliable data, JACK concludes a long day's tutorial with nothing less than cosmic aplomb.

Nite-nite, Jack.

*this post is the result of a surprise photo folder I somehow missed viewing when the action was current!

Exposed

Dear KTAR Phoenix

It was fairly routine, your invitation to a press conference at a prominent valley law firm this afternoon. You didn't give it much thought, after all, the leading news story today was a dog mauling. Blood is good. News is all about competition. And entertainment. So today's official announcement of another law suit against the city didn't seem to merit sending your top reporter. Too bad.

When your representative made her grand entrance, she was unaware of the invisible ones. Clad in a low-cut, too-tight dress and knee-high boots, she casually picked up her press kit envelope and found a seat in the front row. Tripods in place, t.v. cameras secured, reporters seated comfortably with notepads at the ready; there was very little attention to the grisly bulletin board display of crash scene photos placed next to the smiling faces of people who are no longer with us.

Asia ^ the demolished bus stop to the right of her image

There were exchanges of pleasantries and hellos between media colleagues, and a little sense of impatience as they waited for the press conference to begin. We who were not seen could see all of this.

A tall, distinguished man entered the room and stood behind all the media microphones at the podium. He was Dick Treon. We knew him.

He began his presentation on behalf of the Ahmad family, whose 24 year old son and brother was killed in a high-speed police chase one year ago tomorrow. We listened in sickened silence to a truly obscene aspect of the case: the bank robber's measly $13,000 was marked with an electronic tracking device which effortlessly alerted the authorities to his whereabouts. In addition to multiple unmarked vehicles, a police helicopter also followed the suspect from the sky. The first street chase was aborted once the thief began driving recklessly. This action follows policy. What does not follow policy or logic, was the renewal of the chase many miles and several cities later. The second chase attracted a literal glut of some 20 police vehicles.

A beautiful twin sister spoke of her missing other half, his humor, his goodness, his innocence. She couldn't stop looking at the pictures on the wall. The family was asked to leave the room. We watched video clips of the last nano-seconds of the chase, mercifully edited to avoid the moment of impact, but the effect was violently disturbing anyway.

Many of the invisible ones began silently weeping, but one gave a little sob out loud. She was my daughter. One of the cameras whirled around to sweep for the source of the painful sound.

Then there was another sound, the harsh sound of your reporter, asking the most idiotic question. The answer was concise and articulated in simple terms. Her question was moot. However, she obsessed with it, and continued to harp 4 more times if the perpetrator had not 'committed suicide' by crashing head-on at 110 mph to Alex Ahmad's car as the city claims. The fact that 4 different law enforcement agencies were engaging in a second chase against their own policy and against the logic of waiting for the electronic beacon to guide them to the suspect when he finally stopped and put his feet up - was not important to your stylish reporter. Money was. She made a comment about the dollar amount of the law suit. Mr. Treon said what the invisibles knew; it wasn't the money. It was only the means by which the public could frighten the arrogance of the police to stop the slaughter of innocent people. Something had to interrupt their cowboy testosterone pursuit reaction to a minor bank robbery, or a stolen truck.

A woman who was one of us, suddenly became visible. She spoke out loud. She began telling her story of how a 27 mile police chase that began in Gold Canyon ended in their engine block in Superior. Her broken neck and broken body and her husband's broken body were the price for a stolen car. We didn't hear her story though, because on an unspoken signal, the cameramen were packing up their equipment. Reporters closed their notebooks, stood and began to leave, chatting with each other. The woman continued talking, nearly invisible once again. We were stunned.

One voice flew out from the back. It was a young voice, charged with emotion, a suitable emphasis to her hand poking the air above her. "Are you done?!" she said. "You are so rude! You're leaving?! That's it?"

Conversation stopped. Several cameras spun around. Faces turned - surprised. I said, "Is this the standard protocol - some arbitrary decision that you are all finished while a woman - a survivor - is telling her story?! These are real people! This is the story, too!" David spoke up. The cameras approached us, and a few reporters seemed genuinely bewildered at our hurt. But this was not the case with your reporter, KTAR. She knew something we obviously didn't. She remained where she was, at the front of the room, her hand now in the air in the proverbial 'stop' signal, her voice raised much too loud as she shot a very disrespectful, "with all due respect -" aimed at my 19 year old daughter, one of the crime victims, the one mentioned by name during Treon's presentation. One that had survived.

Asia and bodyguard

Asia cut her off, "NO! YOU be quiet! You HAD your turn!" KTAR turned on a spiked heel and stomped out of the room, safely removed from the invisibles who dared break with holy tradition of muteness. "I'd like my leg back - " Asia continued. She gestured to the camera. "You can look at it. I don't care," and looking up again to the whole room of a dissolving press conference she said forcefully, "but what happened to me is nothing compared to losing someone. People died, here!" A few reporters were now trying to apologize. They wanted to explain that "we" were not customarily "available" to the press. "So why are we here?!" Asia would not be stopped. The three of us hammered what diminished press corps still remained. I wanted to shame them into opening their eyes to all the invisibles in their midst. We demanded they never conduct a press conference the same again.

Only 3 reporters humbled themselves, they assured us they did indeed want to acknowledge us, to see us after all. One especially was aware. We were finally exposed ~ and the force of this acceptance was overwhelming to the husband of the first woman. He hugged my little girl, and sobbed openly in her arms, a husky frame shaking as if his heart would break. He tried but could not describe feelings that were too painful to express. His name was Robert. I promised him we would pray for him. It was a room of pain, but also of relief.

Jeanne, Asia, Dick Treon, Christina - a fighting team

A young man approached me. He wanted to touch me, to hug, to shake my hand, to thank us for speaking up. He was married to Alex Ahmad's older sister. She was the next person to hug me. There was something important happening in our emotional circles of touching other human beings we did not know. But it seems in moments like these, we can learn what we need to know about others in a very short amount of time. I could feel - in my chest - that Mr. Richard Treon was a very good person. We were all part of an effort to call the police to accountability, that the emblem on their cruiser doors 'to protect and serve' would actually be honored one fine day. In a post 9-11 world, this is an unpopular crusade. We very much want to support those who are supposed to protect us, because there are scarier things out there. But today a very young, very scarred girl stood up to the establishment and defined being humane.

Into the camera, into the microphones, she summed up the press, the police department and the city officials: "...they should do the right thing." When asked if she felt a sense of justice for herself, she answered that she was grateful. Grateful to firemen, paramedics, those who fought for her, and the surgeons. "Has anyone apologized to you?" Mr. Camacho asked gently. Asia looked him in the eye and replied solemnly, "The only one who ever said they were sorry, was Archie Ruiz." (perpetrator, at the sentencing)

I would have liked to ask Ms. KTAR when she lost her passion for journalism. A career that used to symbolize a trust with, and a service to the public. I would have, but she already got her story. It was about the money. Sandra Haros, shame on you. You are exposed.

Recognition

There are very few brief, flashes of brilliance and opportunity that come along setting the average person apart from the mundane. Occasionally there are opportunities that make head-lines almost ~

Like the time the kids and I attended a public service at the Colonnade Mall. We joined about 3,000 other volunteers to pack relief boxes for our troops during Desert Storm. Local T.V. channel 3 hosted the event and soon realized they were completely overwhelmed by it, too. They had planned for a few hundred volunteers. Crowds of people waited patiently for hours on end for their 10 minute stint on an assembly line packing boxes Gulf Region bound. The waiting was unremarkable; lowered, random conversation or none at all, avoidance of eye-contact, much shifting weight from one foot to the other. Crammed as we were shoulder to shoulder with patriotic citizens of every description, age and color on all sides in an extremely wide line that progressed barely an inch or two every so often, I smelled a golden opportunity for song.

On my signal, Bi ("Bee"), James and I opened our mouths and began singing, "My Country, 'Tis of Thee", "America" and "The Star Spangled Banner". All the while we prodded a little girl scout troop in uniform that stood right in front of us - "C'mon!" we urged, "Sing with us! You can do it!" They refused and did not join in until we had bravely carried on for an entire song and most of the next selection. However, response from our captive audience was just like those cheesy Hollywood moments when silence prevails, until one person begins clapping slowly and deliberately. Then 2 more people clap, then 5 more, until at last everyone is clapping in unison steadily faster until a final eruption of total jubilation. Except replace the clapping with singing.

After the awkward silence while only our voices were lifting up over the surprised and hushed throng, our first singing companions were a group of retired people about 35 feet away. They came in timidly on about the 3rd line, almost the end of the verse. Our second selection began with just us again, but was immediately joined by many more voices once they knew what we were singing. By the time we launched into the National Anthem, hats came off and it appeared everyone in the place was singing, open-mouthed and full voice.

We tried "Yankee Doodle Dandee", "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" and "God Bless America". I think we even offered "Columbia the Gem of the Ocean". It was by now a literal song-fest; we looked around and everyone was singing, even the people who were far back in the line that curved out of the cavernous building and deep into the parking lot.

Encouraged, Robin and James and I began singing some of the military signature songs

"The Caissons Go Rolling Along" and "The Marine's Hymn". This was the truly thrilling part of our group singing experience; we began bravely - not sure of all the words - but almost as soon as we began, hearty, deep voices in little pockets here and there full of vibrato rose up and stole the moment. The veterans were singing! We could spot them standing straighter and taller, their white hair or shining hairless pates distinguishing them from the younger and oh so less experienced crowd. Once the military songs began, we listened joyfully as each branch was represented in turn. The old men shouted and raised their hands in the air when they were done, their wives smiled admiringly at them, the young vets shouted "Semper Fi!" and the rest of us cheered long and loud for all of them.

I don't remember how many songs we did, and some we even repeated, but after a while, the magical moment wore off as we were all a little closer to the head of the line. About this time a news crew approached the head of the group. The girl scouts now in front and easily accessed by the reporter, microphone in hand. Heavy makeup impeccably applied, she told the girls someone had identified them as the ones who started the singing. "Is that true?" she asked brightly, thrusting the mike their direction. And right there, illuminated in the blazing t.v. camera glare, the girls and their adult troop leader all nodded "yes" and eagerly piped up about their inspiration to begin singing while waiting in line.

Seven year old James was spitting indignant. I had to literally hold him back from sucker-punching a pig-tailed girl scout. Robin seethed in 12 year old dignity, articulating the injustice under her breath while the t.v. interview continued to laud a precious and exempelary group of young girls. They both looked up at me to right the wrong. But, I declined. I let the brilliant flash of recognition pass us by.

I quietly explained to two very disappointed children that we didn't sing for the notoriety - we had done it simply to express our love of country, and our love of song. Soon enough we were finally ushered into the warehouse and busy with packing soap, shampoo, toothpaste, chewing gum, stationery and other useful things into endless rows of clean, empty boxes on a conveyor belt. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Recently I fired-off a letter to V8 Vegetable Juice. Tired of a ridiculously long-running, sexist and truly insulting advertising theme that featured men being physically assaulted first by their wives and then by total strangers simply for their choice to not buy their product - I spelled it out in an e-mail to their 'promotion feedback' department. I asked V8 if they really wanted their product associated with corporal punishment? Getting smacked on the forehead was not clever, it was not funny, it was not effectively representing the benefits of their product. I concluded with a zinger about the 'sucking vacuum' of their board room 'devoid of any really worthwhile, positive promotional ideas'. A couple days later I received a nice form letter e-mail thanking me for my valuable input to V8. I kind of expected a complimentary coupon, but was disappointed in that regard.

The very next week (plus a few days) - no kidding: a brand new V8 advertising theme with 2 totally new commercials. Have you noticed? They both feature people with amazingly active lives attributing their healthy success to a regular dose of tasty V8 vegetable juice products.

I have no proof, of course - however, after what? - a 9 month to year-long campaign of nothing but the head-thumping theme (not counting the years-long focus on individuals hitting themselves on the forehead preceding), now we suddenly have total abandonment of what they obviously considered an effective angle?

Seems I have been passed up once again for my brief flash of brilliance. Only, this time I am more willing to take the credit.

You're welcome, V8.

Performance Anxiety

The blank page is not what it used to be.

As a child, I relished with exaggerated delight the delicious feel of cool, smooth blank paper at my finger tips. My fingernail-bitten fingers lingered on the surface, smoothing it slow-motion from the center out. It was beautiful. It was enormously energizing and existed only for me to draw on it. I believed that paper - no matter its source (cardstock, butcher, notebook, papa's business stationery, reverse sides of junk mail, etc.), was meant for me. The blankness of it was a personal invitation. It was a comfortable relationship. I hoarded stacks of blank paper of all types, and prized them for their destined potential. People knew this about me, and sometimes old ladies at church would bring me a box of old paper or yellowing packets of blank greeting cards. The quality of the paper was a non-issue; I had no concept of real art paper. I was easily satisfied.

Now everything is different. The blank paper is a specific make of hot-press watercolor paper, and still holds great appeal ~ yet my ability to respond to it has changed. I am lost and hesitating to the point of rejecting my lovely blank paper. It requires an exhausting reaching deep inside myself gently asking my self-confidence to please come out, if I don't mind . . .

I resent the effort. It is stupid. I feel stupid. I miss my younger self; mostly sweaty from galloping outside in my beloved acre California yard and breathless with anticipation of one of multiple daily drawings I would execute with fearless conviction and absolute confidence. It didn't matter that 99% of my subject matter was equine; variety was not important. Everything was about my freshly sharpened number 2 pencil ~ and the paper.

I am too impatient to do studies. I pencil, then I paint. This time, nervous about my brand new collection of amazing Daniel Smith watercolors ~ (a true milestone for me since the 30 year old pallet of student-grade watercolors has been retired) I forced myself to do a preliminary study. My goal was the Church-wide art competition. I think the theme was, "Remembering the Great Things of God". This is study # 1:

Two Chipping Sparrows, a Forget-me-not and some kind of frothy thing, Queen Anne's Lace I think. The snail shell was just for fun. The masking agent I tried was a colossal waste of time, and the birds turned out too fat; I made note of it.

Study # 2 resulted in a much more successful drawing, but when I attempted painting the stormy sky - disaster: (image darkened to make pencil visible)

Final piece: the grand juxtaposition of nature's glory in concert with classic evidence of man . . . (scanned in sections since the paper is too large)

I struggled with plausible proportions of Anasazi petroglyphs and the diminutive Chipping Sparrow. Having never seen either up close and certainly not together for comparison, this was tricky.

The nest, eggs and Hedgehog blooms were O.K., but the dry grass turned out to just be a mess. Much like the foreground before the foothills. This was not what was in my head. Oh well.

Globemallow hopelessly lost in a flat, one-dimensional world. Again, the grass mess ~ now coupled with a truly hideous, busy sunset. One saving grace however, is that today I saw real, live Chipping Sparrows on my walk with Ellie in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve! The down-side of this lucky observation is that they are much smaller than I have depicted. I need specimens like Audubon, but it's probably illegal.

After disciplining myself for the first time to actually complete 1 full study, a second partial study and then the final piece in a fit of constant self-talk and a frustrating middle-age vision handicap, I discovered it was all a melodramatic mistake. I missed the entry dead-line by remembering the wrong date. This merited a go-to-bed-in-the-middle-of-the-day moment.

Following an appropriate grieving period, next I explored heretofore untried subject matter. I added the mudcloth hanging on the wall, took out other people milling around in the background and exchanged the man in my reference photo for a woman in a print dress. I was forced to guess about the larger foreground continuation of the plastered wall to the right not shown here.

The colors did not scan true on any of these examples. They are much brighter in person. This last piece surprised me. The paint spread easily across the paper. It smelled good. It felt good. And, I finally felt a small sense of the 9 year old me transporting myself into what came off the end of my pencil, and of course, paint brush. I very badly want to take these 2 little boys home with me. But their pretend mom would miss them, I suppose.

Too bad.

The Best

Hurray for Halloween!
Season of fun
spine-chilling shouts
from house to house
make kids run
dragging their loot
in a Spiderman suit
or witches - all sizes
princesses, too
eager for candy prizes
smiles as bright
as gleaming jack o' lanterns
in the black, black night.

By the way, did you see this festive Michael Jackson mask? The creepy-factor is off the scale only because it happens to be so true-to-life.

Defining Moment

A new low in the American political arena prompted me to research the definition of Hate crimes in the U.S. Wikipedia seemed to satisfy an answer to that.

Then, deciding to read various articles on the topic (and being a little challenged in all things computer), I didn't notice the source listing on a title I wanted to read, "Gov. Palin 'Effigy' in a Noose: Halloween...". Now I had accidentally landed on Greta Van Susteren's blog.

My next move was to notice a button for VOTE: Do you think the Palin effigy went too far? I clicked on that. I was asked for my name and my e-mail (with privacy assurances, of course), and a message window followed. I thought, "Oh, I guess it's like an e-mail message vote." I gave my whole name and my whole thought process on the topic at hand.

When I had finished, I clicked the SUBMIT button. The little hour glass icon pulsated for a while, and then ~ kapow. There I was, on page 75 of 7, 461 responses to the issue with my full name as the title to my comment. Swell. Based on my exceedingly limited experience glancing at exhaustively long lists of comments to blogs of different types, I knew I would be in questionable company.

At least I hadn't written anything in CAPITALS!!!!

Full of Himself

There's only one thing more universal than the language of love...a good laugh. A cheap novelty product has been launched from complete obscurity to star status because Le Pouty President lacks a pithy comeback.

The intrepid French President is positively steaming about this little voodoo doll fashioned in his likeness. He was pretty upset about his former chief of police spreading titillating gossip of the Sarkozy private party life, too, and is suing him big time. But that was yesterday. Today it's all about the doll. And the pins, I presume.

The emotional Presidential quotes printed on the doll are not in dispute. Nor is the realistic rendering of the famous face floating detached above a modest black body suit. Nick clearly takes offense that his image is used at all. It's sounding very commercial as his attorney sputters, "... he has exclusive and absolute rights over his own image!" Well, la-tee-da.

Sark! Put a pin in yourself, s'il vous plait; it's funny. In case you didn't know, voodoo isn't real. You will be O.K. You should have learned something from the whole 'let them eat cake' incident a while back. Seriously!

Oh! And at your next press conference, rub your neck or your shoulder and mention a sharp, pricking sensation that is nagging you. Allow for a pregnant pause, then smile knowingly directly into the camera. Trust me. It will make up for a lot of partisan carping from the little people.

Negligent Homicide

Carpet is wet
with my mail-order friends.
Spilled entirely by accident.
Little brothers
are a hazard,
and cannot make amends.

*An add in a Marvel Comic book sealed my fate: I had Sea Monkey Fever. For about $1.75, one could mail away an exciting order for “Instant Life”; scientific magic crystals that when added to a special salt water solution, would brew tiny aquatic pets any kid would delight to own.

During the interminable 4 – 6 weeks waiting for delivery, I imagined the fun dancing and playing my very own Sea Monkeys would perform for my viewing pleasure. Based on the promotional illustrations, I knew they would all have smiling faces like so many teensy-weensy water babies.

After mixing my coveted crystals with the brine solution in a mason jar, it was almost a week before I could actually see my precious friends with the naked eye. I would lie on my stomach in front of our living room window for the longest time, gazing at the jar sitting on the carpet in front of my nose impatiently willing the Monkeys to grow. One afternoon I carelessly got up from my vigil to get a snack ~ and left my Sea Monkeys tragically vulnerable to toddler attack.

Sea Monkeys are a type of brine shrimp first marketed in 1957 by a true American gimmick master Harold von Braunhut as "Instant Life". He christened them "The Amazing Sea-Monkeys" on May 10, 1962. (Braunhut is also the inventor of x-ray glasses.) Sea Monkey adds were known for their exaggerated advertisements and packaging, which featured smiling anthropomorphic creatures alien to reality. Promotions appeared regularly in comic books throughout the 60’s and early 70’s.


*excerpt from 'Station Wagon Wars ~ growing up in the 60's' by cTanner

The Awful Awesome

The Santa Anas are back. (view of Porter Ranch area)

Oblivious of national news while focusing on a painting for which I missed the submission deadline (don't ask), an e-mail today from my Aunt Lois in Van Nuys caught me by surprise. "...You can add all of us in your prayers..." she said.

Growing up in the Valley, I had little awareness of dangers associated with one of childhood's most beloved seasonal features. Every September like clock work, the Winds would begin. They were warm and velvety gusts on gentle days ~ shuffling the crimson and gold leaves shed from our sweetgum trees into crunchy piles against my bedroom window. More often they were fiercely hot and blew with a tireless, eiree force that seemed otherworldly. It was

fun despite the number of kites it trashed in seconds (until the plastic *"bird" kites came out, boss!) - and superwoman contortions required to keep our skirts from going over our heads on the playground.

One day I chased a scarf whipped from my head for blocks until it soared so high it literally disappeared from view. Day after day, week after week, the Santa Ana toyed with us tiny people and our tiny people things.

When we left home for Arizona on August 21, 1971, Porter Ranch was still a vast and mostly untouched scrub land up in the northern foothills. Movie stars built horse ranches out there during Hollywood's heyday. We had a Regional church picnic there once. It was beautiful, open land dotted with oak and sycamore trees and classic, grass-filled Southern California rock-crested hills. Soon after our departure, development that had infiltrated all of San Fernando Valley finally began to chisel away at Porter Ranch. Too many people building too far up into canyons and hills too heavily wooded to thwart the evil bride of Santa Ana. Fire is hungry, and the 'homeland' is brimming with fodder toasted dry and eager to burn.

The winds are too strong for kites this year.

*Delta style kite we didn't see until the late 1960s.

Lucky

Oh, man, do I wish I was Eric.

What a lucky guy!

He’s got divorced parents.

His real dad just sent him a bike -

a brand new Schwinn Orange Krate,

it sure is nice ~

it’s like he has every birthday twice.

Then there’s the kid across the street.

He’s an only child.

He’s sure got it sweet!

No little brother’s stuff piled up

all over the place.

I swear, he’s really livin’ in style -

he gets whatever he wants with just a smile.

And did you hear what happened to Lloyd?

His two mice got out,

and his mom went freakazoid!

The whole family flew screaming about

(and their dad in his underwear)-

just tryin’ to catch a stupid mouse.

Yeah, Dan saw it all - he was at their house!

And even a sissy like that Julian Truss -

it just ain’t fair

he’d be luckier than us!

He saw a dead squirrel all swollen in the sun,

and got to poke it with a stick ~

some guys just have all the fun.

I wish for once I could be the lucky one.

Luck is a relative perception. Cognizant that divorce was a terrible thing in an era that described the aftermath as a “broken home” instead of “single parenting“, we nevertheless focused on the more attractive issue (to 3rd party kids like us, anyway) of the impressive gift-giving sometimes offered by absent fathers. We never saw Eric’s real dad, and it didn’t seem like Eric saw much of him, either. But he sure sent him some cool stuff.

Oh, and it was really Eric who witnessed the crazy mouse chase. Only it was at our house, not the fictional Lloyd's. He was standing at our front door looking in the window wondering what the heck was going on.

Bicycle giant Schwinn saw the writing on the wall in 1963 with West Coast fascination for customizing bikes, and began offering the classic banana seat and variations of stylish handle bars. A few years later, the Sting Ray with a killer mag wheel front sprocket was born, igniting a bicycle love-affair with kids on every suburban block. However, the defining moment of peddling prestige was 1968; the year of "factory custom" Sting-Rays ~ the bold, the beautiful, the screaming orange "Krates." By 1970, you needed $94.95 to roll one out the door. A brand new Sting Ray could be had for only $56.95. Hence our buddy Eric's instant status boost when his glorious Krate arrived and had us standing breathless in a reverent semi-circle.

*Excerpt from "Station Wagon Wars" ~ growing up in the '60's by cTanner

Cyberspace Validation

An extended cousin in London e-mailed me today with startling news: "Was that you?" he wrote. "...I came across a very moving letter from an LDS woman with your own name. If so, bravo." He was referring to Feminest Camille Paglia's online column, and MY comment posted there.

Here is my write-in, on page 3 following Paula Cook from Dayton, Virginia. Paglia's original article which prompted my letter is here.

Silly me. There was never even the slightest hint in my brain that 1) the author would actually read my e-mail, 2) it would be posted online, and 3) she would personally respond.

Thanks, Camille!