This is the time of year when many or most people start thinking of all the shit they are thankful for.* Bully for them.
I've tried to do that whole positive thinking thing, you know, where every day or week or month or hour you think of things you're thankful for, or things you love, or people that rock your world or whatever. However. Even when I try to be positive, most of my thanks are not phrased in a positive way. Example:
I am thankful that I am not a complete asshole, just a partial one. (Note: this is not necessarily true. It's just a damn example, for christ's sake)
or:
I love the way that the tornado did not knock over my house, but at least it got my idiot neighbor's garage.
So. Instead, it is easier for me to stay true to myself and think of things that annoy me, because there are so many more of them, and also, because I am having enough trouble making myself write anything let alone blog entries. I've started and abandoned literally 14 entries in the past month or so, many of which were thoughtful and touching and funny or at least, long. Because I keep making the mistake of trying to write things that are either nice, or interesting, or related to my art, or have some kind of value related to personal growth and all of that kind of woo woo self improvement crap.
And who am I fooling? Really, I'm mostly just rude. And depressed. And kind of annoying to be around, most of the time. I mean for myself. For other people, I'm not just kind of annoying, I'm pretty much unbearable to be around. Which is sad, but such is life.
Anyway, it is Nanwrimo, and I signed up again, but here's the thing: I am not so much of a fiction writer. I can't decide if its because I am so self obsessed that I don't find anyone else, even fictional characters, as interesting as my own mangled brain chemistry, or if because I am too lazy to make up a bunch of stuff and then keep track of all of it since I have a hard enough time keeping track of my real life**. Or, both.
Okay, probably both.
But, even if I'm not going to write a novel, well, I need to at least write SOMETHING. Every day, or at least almost every day. Because supposedly I have all this writing talent and crap and maybe I should use it. I have lots of talents, most of which go unused or are wildly mis-used. All of that is ok when you are like, 20. Or even 30. There's all this time, and even if you don't like your job/career/house/friends/life, you still know there's all this time in the future, and that you're still just starting out, and can't be expected to have everything all nice and settled with a great career, spouse, kids, and excellent cable.
Around 35, you start thinking, Huh. I am kind of an adult. What about my career? My personal life? Have I ever owned a decent car or furniture without three previous owners? Should I breed? Am I happy with my significant other, or, if single, is it time to stop slutting around and get permanently coupled off? Am I ever going to go back and get that degree? Is it time to admit that I might need to stop getting facial tattoos since that one I got on my cheekbone is suddenly near my jawline? And if you haven't done any of these things, by 35, you realize, Whoa. I need to either do it or realize it isn't happening.
Okay, as should be clear by now, I am not normal people. I will turn 42 in two months. And suddenly it occurs to me that not only have I done none of these things, which is fine because I don't care about most of them anymore (if I ever did), but that there are things that I do care about, which I need to, uh, do. I am making dolls pretty much full time, although I always think I should do more, and I also haven't been beading much at all, which I feel guilty about. But, the truth is that neither of these things in themselves is ever going to enable me to make anything approaching an actual living wage.
I mean, I might be able, someday, to make as much as I did being a librarian, but I need enough for like, food.
(god it is SO HARD not to put in a comment about how tax caps and republicans will complete the destruction of a profession already committing suicide from within!!)
So. I need to write. Because as unlikely as it is that I will make a living at it, I might as well add something to my arsenal of unemployability.
Whoa I think I finished this. I think I'm going to post it. SCORE.
*This week, most of them are probably republicans, but then again, I don't usually count them as "people". But whatever.
**Which is surprising because my "real life" is a pretty lame imitation of one and does not contain much worth remembering in the first place.
dolls, jewelry, and other tomfoolery
Friday, November 5, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Oldsramblings
One would think that as someone who works from home, has no social life besides Facebook, and few if any other responsibilities, that I would be able to
1. Blog more than once a month
2. Actually finish some dolls, jewelry, etc*
3. Read books I haven't read before at least four times
4. Read books written for those over 12
5. Bathe regularly
6. And whatever else it is that normal adults do.
Naturally, this isn't the case. I have started about ten different entries in the past month but have not finished them for many reasons including but not limited to a overage of Oldstime, incredibly ill behaved dogs, and my own fascinatingly fluctuating brain chemistry.
I know that the Olds live here, and that it is technically their home in which they are gracious enough to allow me to live. But they are here ALL the TIME. The Oldest Old is retired, and spends a lot of time puttering around his home office, but comes out periodically to chastise me for whatever I am currently doing that does not look worklike to him. Then he lets out the worst of the three Incredibly Ill Behaved Dogs, pats her on the head, plays with her for 30 seconds until she's in a complete frenzy, and then, as he's running back up the stairs, he yells "Watch that dog for me! Don't put her back in her crate right away!"
Then he disappears for two hours, claiming he is working but quite often is just untwisting paper clips and moving stacks of papers into other stacks and then knocking them over and cursing. There is a lot of cursing with the Oldest Old.
The Other Old mostly hovers around the foodroom and the adjoining TVroom. The OldestOld and I have ridiculed her continually for a year now about her soap operas but the thing about the Other Old is that criticism has never had any effect on her. She is one of those people who does exactly what she likes, and even if you tell her not to, and give her actual reasons why she shouldn't do a certain thing, she will nod, agree, smile sweetly, and then quietly do what she was going to do in the first place. I don't know why I still find this at all surprising. She has been this way my, and I'm sure her, entire life. It is just that she seems so nice while she's doing it that you don't realize that she is completely immune to everyone else's opinions. I am pretty sure that as she gets older that this will become even more pronounced and annoying than it is now, but the bonus will be the amusement value.
That is the reason that the Olds are actually fun to live with; because they have no idea that anything [let alone everything] they do is completely opposite from how most people do things. Most people, when the kitchen trashcan is full, will, you know, EMPTY it. The Olds, though, play a game called "Whoever Complains Takes It Out". They have one of those trashcans that slides into the cupboard and looks like a cupboard door. Which is good because at least when it is full they can't just continue to balance things on top of it until the stack is six feet tall, like they did at our old house. No, now they just start putting things on the counter right over the trash drawer. I will walk into the foodroom only to find the trash packed so tightly that the wooden joins of the drawer are straining, and a pile of used paper towel, dried limes, empty jello cups and wine bottles precariously balanced on the edge of the counter. Oh, and there will also be peanut shells sprinkled through the pile and often in a trail across the floor. However, if I break and take the trash out, then I lose the game. Also, I'm denied the pleasure of listening to them bicker about taking it out, and then watching when they finally crack and do it. Because since they both hate to do it so much, they always insist that it is a two person job that both of them must do together. Of course, I always do it myself. But I am not [quite] an old. Yet.
*tomfoolery
1. Blog more than once a month
2. Actually finish some dolls, jewelry, etc*
3. Read books I haven't read before at least four times
4. Read books written for those over 12
5. Bathe regularly
6. And whatever else it is that normal adults do.
Naturally, this isn't the case. I have started about ten different entries in the past month but have not finished them for many reasons including but not limited to a overage of Oldstime, incredibly ill behaved dogs, and my own fascinatingly fluctuating brain chemistry.
I know that the Olds live here, and that it is technically their home in which they are gracious enough to allow me to live. But they are here ALL the TIME. The Oldest Old is retired, and spends a lot of time puttering around his home office, but comes out periodically to chastise me for whatever I am currently doing that does not look worklike to him. Then he lets out the worst of the three Incredibly Ill Behaved Dogs, pats her on the head, plays with her for 30 seconds until she's in a complete frenzy, and then, as he's running back up the stairs, he yells "Watch that dog for me! Don't put her back in her crate right away!"
Then he disappears for two hours, claiming he is working but quite often is just untwisting paper clips and moving stacks of papers into other stacks and then knocking them over and cursing. There is a lot of cursing with the Oldest Old.
The Other Old mostly hovers around the foodroom and the adjoining TVroom. The OldestOld and I have ridiculed her continually for a year now about her soap operas but the thing about the Other Old is that criticism has never had any effect on her. She is one of those people who does exactly what she likes, and even if you tell her not to, and give her actual reasons why she shouldn't do a certain thing, she will nod, agree, smile sweetly, and then quietly do what she was going to do in the first place. I don't know why I still find this at all surprising. She has been this way my, and I'm sure her, entire life. It is just that she seems so nice while she's doing it that you don't realize that she is completely immune to everyone else's opinions. I am pretty sure that as she gets older that this will become even more pronounced and annoying than it is now, but the bonus will be the amusement value.
That is the reason that the Olds are actually fun to live with; because they have no idea that anything [let alone everything] they do is completely opposite from how most people do things. Most people, when the kitchen trashcan is full, will, you know, EMPTY it. The Olds, though, play a game called "Whoever Complains Takes It Out". They have one of those trashcans that slides into the cupboard and looks like a cupboard door. Which is good because at least when it is full they can't just continue to balance things on top of it until the stack is six feet tall, like they did at our old house. No, now they just start putting things on the counter right over the trash drawer. I will walk into the foodroom only to find the trash packed so tightly that the wooden joins of the drawer are straining, and a pile of used paper towel, dried limes, empty jello cups and wine bottles precariously balanced on the edge of the counter. Oh, and there will also be peanut shells sprinkled through the pile and often in a trail across the floor. However, if I break and take the trash out, then I lose the game. Also, I'm denied the pleasure of listening to them bicker about taking it out, and then watching when they finally crack and do it. Because since they both hate to do it so much, they always insist that it is a two person job that both of them must do together. Of course, I always do it myself. But I am not [quite] an old. Yet.
*tomfoolery
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Fair; In Which We Finally Learn to Add Pictures
Everyone has been asking me how I did at the Monroe County Fair.
Well. I guess you could say I did well. Really well, in fact. I won several ribbons. Which is an honor, except I'm pretty sure there weren't all that many doll entries, and I don't really know how the judging was done; if they give ribbons solely based on skill, or, say, if there are only three dolls entered in a category that they're all then assured a ribbon.
Clearly, it is a little difficult for me to blow my own horn. That's why I'm posting all of this here, instead of on Facebook. That way, if you want to read what I consider bragging* you can choose to do so instead of just having it pop up on your newsfeed. Also, I spent about two hours taking really bad photos with my iPhone, uploading them to flickr, and then figuring out how to post them here, which I really needed to do. Sometimes I feel that my rants might be less, uh, intense if I peppered them with a few pictures of kittens and rainbows.
So here are the dolls I entered in the Monroe County Fair this year.
I made this doll from an Antiqueannies pattern. She is nearly 30 inches tall, made of muslin, and her head, arms, and legs are painted with three coats of black gesso, two layers of acrylic paint, and then treated with a crackle finish. Under her cotton dress, which is finished with tucks and trimmed with a piece of antique lace, she wears lace trimmed pantalets. First place.
This doll is made from a Patti Culea pattern, from her first book, Creative Cloth Dollmaking. Her body is made of collaged fabric with a transfer of my mother's wedding photo on the front. Her legs and arms are also made of the collaged fabric, done by sprinkling odds and ends of glittery yarn, fabric scraps, and other embellishments on a base fabric, covering it with a netting, and then holding it all together with freeform embroidery. Her hair is made of Tibetan goat fur.** First place.
This Santa is made from a Barbara Willis pattern. He was not entered in the Fiber Arts Division, but in the Holiday Division. He has a fully lined jacket, complete with little buttons not visible in the picture, flannel knickers, and black boots made of wool felt. His beard and hair are Tibetan goat, and his eyebrows are bits of the fur that are attached with a felting needle.*** First place.
This little elf is made from Dru Esslinger's Snuffy pattern, which was a Dollstreet online class from at least ten years ago!! I did enlarge him a bit, and I gave him turned up toes. He has bells on his toes and his beard and eyebrows are made from acrylic fur. He was also entered in the Holiday Division, under "ornament". First place.
Here's another view of the elf, so that you can get an idea of how small he is:
I can't tell you how many versions of this pattern I've made over the years. I probably made ten from the original pattern, all of which I gave away as gifts. Eventually I changed him into more of a christmassy elf with the toes, and I've probably made at least another ten to twelve Christmas ornaments that I've given away. In fact, this is the ONLY one I still have...and even he is not really mine, but my mom's. He is sitting in the antique high chair that was my mom's and I think my grandfather's before that.
Something that most people don't know about me is that I started making bears before I made dolls. In fact, at first I only made dolls so my bears would have someone to sit on! I started making little bears, mostly out of felt and crappy fake fur from JoAnn's, when I was maybe 13. The smallest bear I've ever made was about two inches tall. The biggest one was over two feet tall. The big one was ruined when my basement flooded several years ago, and the teeny one I still have. He was made from a kit by Gail Wilson, an amazing doll designer, and years later when she cleaned out her studio, she sold off a lot of older pieces and I was actually able to purchase one of her bears made from that very kit. Now I only make bears between four and seven inches tall, because I sew my bears completely by hand with a tiny backstitch. Sewing them on the machine is almost impossible, because the mohair is so thick and it slips. I use mostly mohair fabric, either the german or english type produced specifically for bearmaking. I also use the woven mohair fabric used for coatmaking, and sometimes wool coating. Unlike my dolls, I almost never use someone else's bear pattern. I have very specific features I like in my bears; I like them to be very old fashioned, with long arms, humps in their backs, and fat tummies. So I started making my own patterns probably 15 years ago....although I have to say, drawing a bear pattern is a LOT easier for me than designing doll patterns.
I almost never sell my bears. Most of them live with family or very close, special friends. No one except other bearmakers or serious collectors understand why they cost so much, so I'd rather give them away to special people.
This panda is made of german mohair, from my original pattern. He is fully jointed, with a hand embroidered nose of perle cotton and german glass eyes on a loop. He is completely handstitched with waxed thread. First place with honors.
These two lovely ladies are made from a pattern by Tonya Turvold. They have painted bodices and shoes of acrylic paint. I mixed the colors to match the fabrics I used. Their hair is hand dyed wool. I call them Chataqua and Susquehannah. The names just came to me when they were sitting on my sewing table one day awaiting their hair.
First place with honors. Reserve Champion, Doll Class.
This little guy I call the Pied Piper, because of his perfect little flute that I found years ago at World Market. I kept it because I knew that some day I would need it for a doll, and I did! The Pied Piper is made from a Marilyn Halcomb design. She is an Australian designer and often uses a lycra fabric that isn't easily obtainable in the US. I ordered some of this fabric and had it shipped from Australia. He has a full wire armature. His face is needlescupted, and then covered with another layer of lycra and needlesculpted again. He has needlesculpted fingers, toes, ankles, and knees....and under his clothes he also has a bellybutton and a really cut little bum! His hair is hand dyed Australian mohair****, which is the best in the world.
First place with honors. Champion, Doll Class. Reserve Grand Champion, Fiber Arts Division.
So that was my fair experience. It was really wonderful, and I'm pleased with all of my ribbons...but as usual, once I'm finished making a piece, I'm ready to move on. Which is what I should be doing right now!
* I hate bragging. Really, really hate it. I think there's a difference between sharing/marketing your work, and just flat out bragging about it. I'm hoping that I can achieve the former, because I know all too many artists who end up just sounding obnoxious, and so even if I appreciate their work, I can't really like it any more. I'm sure that's wrong of me. But it is the truth.
**Yes. It is on the pelt. Yes, I feel kind of guilty when I use it. But I choose to believe [just as I choose to believe that the cows that live in the field near my house are DAIRY cows, even though they periodically all disappear and are replaced with new ones] that since the goats are, um, food in other countries that at least they didn't die to be doll hair, and, um, it is good to not let stuff go to waste??? That's green, right?? Dammit. I wish it didn't look sooooo perfect on dolls and take dye so beautifully.
*** He also, you may notice, has a golden retriever puppy lurking behind him. I do not recommend trying to take photos of anything with a golden puppy on the loose, especially one that is as untrained and full of badness as this one. I was just glad she had stopped trying to EAT the Santa and managed to get a somewhat decent shot while she was taking a bite out of the leg of the antique high chair.
**** Sheared from the angora goat!! Which does not die, but lives on to be sheared again and again....although the very first shearing is the finest and curliest.
Well. I guess you could say I did well. Really well, in fact. I won several ribbons. Which is an honor, except I'm pretty sure there weren't all that many doll entries, and I don't really know how the judging was done; if they give ribbons solely based on skill, or, say, if there are only three dolls entered in a category that they're all then assured a ribbon.
Clearly, it is a little difficult for me to blow my own horn. That's why I'm posting all of this here, instead of on Facebook. That way, if you want to read what I consider bragging* you can choose to do so instead of just having it pop up on your newsfeed. Also, I spent about two hours taking really bad photos with my iPhone, uploading them to flickr, and then figuring out how to post them here, which I really needed to do. Sometimes I feel that my rants might be less, uh, intense if I peppered them with a few pictures of kittens and rainbows.
So here are the dolls I entered in the Monroe County Fair this year.
I made this doll from an Antiqueannies pattern. She is nearly 30 inches tall, made of muslin, and her head, arms, and legs are painted with three coats of black gesso, two layers of acrylic paint, and then treated with a crackle finish. Under her cotton dress, which is finished with tucks and trimmed with a piece of antique lace, she wears lace trimmed pantalets. First place.
This doll is made from a Patti Culea pattern, from her first book, Creative Cloth Dollmaking. Her body is made of collaged fabric with a transfer of my mother's wedding photo on the front. Her legs and arms are also made of the collaged fabric, done by sprinkling odds and ends of glittery yarn, fabric scraps, and other embellishments on a base fabric, covering it with a netting, and then holding it all together with freeform embroidery. Her hair is made of Tibetan goat fur.** First place.
This Santa is made from a Barbara Willis pattern. He was not entered in the Fiber Arts Division, but in the Holiday Division. He has a fully lined jacket, complete with little buttons not visible in the picture, flannel knickers, and black boots made of wool felt. His beard and hair are Tibetan goat, and his eyebrows are bits of the fur that are attached with a felting needle.*** First place.
Here's another view of the elf, so that you can get an idea of how small he is:
I almost never sell my bears. Most of them live with family or very close, special friends. No one except other bearmakers or serious collectors understand why they cost so much, so I'd rather give them away to special people.
This panda is made of german mohair, from my original pattern. He is fully jointed, with a hand embroidered nose of perle cotton and german glass eyes on a loop. He is completely handstitched with waxed thread. First place with honors.
First place with honors. Reserve Champion, Doll Class.
First place with honors. Champion, Doll Class. Reserve Grand Champion, Fiber Arts Division.
So that was my fair experience. It was really wonderful, and I'm pleased with all of my ribbons...but as usual, once I'm finished making a piece, I'm ready to move on. Which is what I should be doing right now!
* I hate bragging. Really, really hate it. I think there's a difference between sharing/marketing your work, and just flat out bragging about it. I'm hoping that I can achieve the former, because I know all too many artists who end up just sounding obnoxious, and so even if I appreciate their work, I can't really like it any more. I'm sure that's wrong of me. But it is the truth.
**Yes. It is on the pelt. Yes, I feel kind of guilty when I use it. But I choose to believe [just as I choose to believe that the cows that live in the field near my house are DAIRY cows, even though they periodically all disappear and are replaced with new ones] that since the goats are, um, food in other countries that at least they didn't die to be doll hair, and, um, it is good to not let stuff go to waste??? That's green, right?? Dammit. I wish it didn't look sooooo perfect on dolls and take dye so beautifully.
*** He also, you may notice, has a golden retriever puppy lurking behind him. I do not recommend trying to take photos of anything with a golden puppy on the loose, especially one that is as untrained and full of badness as this one. I was just glad she had stopped trying to EAT the Santa and managed to get a somewhat decent shot while she was taking a bite out of the leg of the antique high chair.
**** Sheared from the angora goat!! Which does not die, but lives on to be sheared again and again....although the very first shearing is the finest and curliest.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Wherein we get craft related
So, sometimes I have trouble corralling my scattered brain into writing [semi] coherent blog entries. I usually don't have trouble thinking of things to write about. Obviously, my preferred topic is Myself. *
But sometimes, there are things I really shouldn't share, for the sake of my nearest and dearest, my own vague sense of propriety, or because, suprisingly, no one really wants to read about menstrual clots.
Also sometimes I type an entry all fast and furious and go back and do the pre-pub read and think "Whoa. That is some crazy/mean/unbelievably boring shit, even for me". So I don't publish it, in the interest of my own personal safety and my continuing desire to not be institutionalized.
But apparently the whole point of this blog thing is to have an interwebs presence, and one that people like reading**. At some point, once I figure out how to post pictures, I fully intend to concentrate [at least sometimes] on my works in progress, and also amusing/adorable/random photos of my dog. *** On reading through my previous entries, I've also realized that there is a serious dearth of crafty-ness in most of my entries. Yes. I really AM that self absorbed, that I can start a blog meant to talk about my OWN work, and yet ignore said work in favor of extreme navel gazing and smart ass remarks.
So in order to 1. Force myself to write more regularly about 2. Things that do not always have to do with how fabulously insane I am and bring a more 3. Artsy crafty vibe to my posts, I intend to start writing some reviews of craft books. I used to review books professionally, which in libraryspeak meant that I reviewed them for big name library professional magazines who, in the general spirit of librarianship, did not actually pay you money. Although, it was totally cool to get so many galleys, and I admit that the first time one of my reviews was quoted on the back cover of the book, I squealed and jumped up and down in the aisle at Barnes and Noble.
Also, this gives me a totally legitimate excuse to buy more books. Excellent.
* Fine, it is my ONLY topic. As if you didn't find me as least as fascinating as I do, if for no other reason than reading my blog makes everyone else feel that much better about their own lives.
** Admittedly, most often because of reasons detailed in the previous footnote, and because they can supply themselves with more blackmail material
*** Amusing, adorable, and very much NOT random to me. Pretend they are likewise to you. Remember, if you have children, people have been doing this for you for years.
But sometimes, there are things I really shouldn't share, for the sake of my nearest and dearest, my own vague sense of propriety, or because, suprisingly, no one really wants to read about menstrual clots.
Also sometimes I type an entry all fast and furious and go back and do the pre-pub read and think "Whoa. That is some crazy/mean/unbelievably boring shit, even for me". So I don't publish it, in the interest of my own personal safety and my continuing desire to not be institutionalized.
But apparently the whole point of this blog thing is to have an interwebs presence, and one that people like reading**. At some point, once I figure out how to post pictures, I fully intend to concentrate [at least sometimes] on my works in progress, and also amusing/adorable/random photos of my dog. *** On reading through my previous entries, I've also realized that there is a serious dearth of crafty-ness in most of my entries. Yes. I really AM that self absorbed, that I can start a blog meant to talk about my OWN work, and yet ignore said work in favor of extreme navel gazing and smart ass remarks.
So in order to 1. Force myself to write more regularly about 2. Things that do not always have to do with how fabulously insane I am and bring a more 3. Artsy crafty vibe to my posts, I intend to start writing some reviews of craft books. I used to review books professionally, which in libraryspeak meant that I reviewed them for big name library professional magazines who, in the general spirit of librarianship, did not actually pay you money. Although, it was totally cool to get so many galleys, and I admit that the first time one of my reviews was quoted on the back cover of the book, I squealed and jumped up and down in the aisle at Barnes and Noble.
Also, this gives me a totally legitimate excuse to buy more books. Excellent.
* Fine, it is my ONLY topic. As if you didn't find me as least as fascinating as I do, if for no other reason than reading my blog makes everyone else feel that much better about their own lives.
** Admittedly, most often because of reasons detailed in the previous footnote, and because they can supply themselves with more blackmail material
*** Amusing, adorable, and very much NOT random to me. Pretend they are likewise to you. Remember, if you have children, people have been doing this for you for years.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
ProcrASStination, but for a good reason
Here is something funny. I have two or three drafts of posts, which I never finished, and two of them have titles like "Procrastination" or "Why I am a lame blogger". And yet, I never actually posted either of them. Now I realize it has been a month and a half* since I posted, which is really lame.
Oh well. In my defense**, I did have a pretty busy couple of months. I went back to Ohio for the first time since I moved here last October, but not to Columbus; only to a family reunion in Appalachia***. It was interesting to meet so many people I didn't know I was related to, and a relief to think that I never have to see most of them again.
Then I came back, picked my dog up from the kennel, and discovered that she was as sick as, well, a dog. Really.
She rid herself****of everything she has ever eaten of drunk in her entire life in about two hours, and ended up spending a week at the vet's. She's fine now, but it was very, very scary. When she was a puppy, she wasted away to almost nothing and nearly died after eating a [live] baby bird, and this was like that. I can't even talk about how relieved I am that she's fine now, because it makes me sound a little crazy [er].
I also had my second farmer's market, where it was so hot I felt my skin melting, but where I talked to a lot of great people, sold some more dolls, and a couple of bracelets.
I discovered I am allergic to either strawberries or geraniums, by developing a pretty impressive rash, which is now gone, but was not much fun while it lasted.
And, my friend Mary came to visit!
I have known Mary since we were about two. Okay, more like ten, but whatever. We like to say we have been best friends since the third grade, although that is not technically true. I mean, we would have, if I hadn't lived in Missouri in the third grade, and then later if it weren't for all the clique nonsense in school. In 5th grade, she was in the smart kids class, while I, because I was new, was put in the class with the nasty old nosepicking teacher who told us that boys were evil.
Mary and I knew each other in middle school, where I was kind of afraid of her because she really had the preppy look down. Plus, she had way more button-on purse covers than me. In high school we moved in all the same circles, but she was cooler than me, and I had a boyfriend which meant I ignored all my girlfriends anyway and concentrated only on him which was a totally good idea since we broke up the summer after graduation and I didn't see him again for 11 years.*****
Luckily, though, when I was home for breaks from college, and then when I was in graduate school for about seventeen years, Mary and I really did become best friends. The kind of friends who are perfectly happy to hang out and read together [which is one of my favorite qualities in someone], or go out to a bar, or, um, go to Build a Bear at age 41 and spend three hours picking out animals, outfits, and taking full, serious part in the heart ceremony. (No. I will NOT explain it. Borrow a seven year old and go find out for yourself.) The kind of friends who are what Anne of Green Gables calls "kindred spirits", where you meet someone once and feel like you've known them all of this life and maybe a few past lives too. That friend who says out loud what you're thinking right at the minute you realize it, and who always calls right at the minute you feel really down.
Anyway, before Mary got here I was a Nervous. Wreck. Seriously. When she moved to Seattle something like 15 years ago, I cried for a month. Which, I probably never told her. And, being poor AND lame, I have never actually visited her. Partly it is because I really don't like flying, but a lot of it is because I was kind of scared that I would visit her there and it would be clear that she no longer really needed a breadstick eating reading companion. Especially once she got married. I mean, her husband is in a band. And he's Welsh. How cool is THAT? Plus, she, too is a librarian, and a much better and successful one than I ever was.
So, when she announced her visit, I was SURE that we would find out that we had totally grown apart and had nothing to say to each other anymore. And also that she would be so sophisticated, vegan, thin, intellectual, and knowledgeable about things like microbrews, Pilates and coffee that we would meet up once and then she would be "too busy" for the rest of the time she was here. Which, since she was here because of a family member's illness, would have been a totally good excuse and saved us a lot of awkwardness.
Except, of course, it didn't happen like that at all. We met for coffee (where she drank plain, drip coffee!!So boring and reassuring!) and it was like I saw her yesterday. I blurted out "OMG I was SO NERVOUS to see you!" And she said "So Was I!! I got all dressed up!!" We dissolved into giggles. And then we talked solidly for over two hours, and talked really fast because there was so much to fit in. Driving home afterwards, I kept laughing out loud, because of COURSE I should have known that if I was all nervous, Mary would be too.
We saw each other several more times over the 10 days she was here, and it was great. She wasn't just the same old Mary, she was better. I want to go to Seattle tomorrow and stay for a month. And I want to go during the summer, while her husband is on summer vacation, so that I can bond with him properly while she is at work. I can't wait to meet her italian greyhound and her brother's Bernese Mountain Dog, Shasta. I won't even have to worry about my ignorance of microbreweries, because Mary and her husband prefer Pabst Blue Ribbon. I don't actually drink beer, except for Guinness while in Ireland, but still.
And, since God knows I can't write a bunch of nice stuff about someone else without finally bringing it back to ME, I have to admit that one of the most interesting things about seeing Mary was that, at least for a few days, I felt like my old self again. Like the last two and a half years never happened, and I was still the same clueless, brash, but happy person I was until my life as I knew it ended in a library administrator's office. I even felt like the 8 years of working for literal psychopaths that preceded those two happy years never happened. I just felt like me, and like that was enough. Because if someone as awesome as Mary had liked be back before all of that, and yet still likes me now.....well, maybe, just maybe, I'm not as huge of a failure as I think I am.
* Fine, more like two months. I never claimed to be good with numbers.
**Like anyone gives a damn anyway
***Please pronounce that "apple-atcha". Thank you.
****Or, as I just learned from an article on the International Federation Of Competitive Eating, she suffered a "Roman Event".
*****Remind me not to tell you what happened when I saw him again after 11 years. And not to go into any details of the five or so years after that.
Oh well. In my defense**, I did have a pretty busy couple of months. I went back to Ohio for the first time since I moved here last October, but not to Columbus; only to a family reunion in Appalachia***. It was interesting to meet so many people I didn't know I was related to, and a relief to think that I never have to see most of them again.
Then I came back, picked my dog up from the kennel, and discovered that she was as sick as, well, a dog. Really.
She rid herself****of everything she has ever eaten of drunk in her entire life in about two hours, and ended up spending a week at the vet's. She's fine now, but it was very, very scary. When she was a puppy, she wasted away to almost nothing and nearly died after eating a [live] baby bird, and this was like that. I can't even talk about how relieved I am that she's fine now, because it makes me sound a little crazy [er].
I also had my second farmer's market, where it was so hot I felt my skin melting, but where I talked to a lot of great people, sold some more dolls, and a couple of bracelets.
I discovered I am allergic to either strawberries or geraniums, by developing a pretty impressive rash, which is now gone, but was not much fun while it lasted.
And, my friend Mary came to visit!
I have known Mary since we were about two. Okay, more like ten, but whatever. We like to say we have been best friends since the third grade, although that is not technically true. I mean, we would have, if I hadn't lived in Missouri in the third grade, and then later if it weren't for all the clique nonsense in school. In 5th grade, she was in the smart kids class, while I, because I was new, was put in the class with the nasty old nosepicking teacher who told us that boys were evil.
Mary and I knew each other in middle school, where I was kind of afraid of her because she really had the preppy look down. Plus, she had way more button-on purse covers than me. In high school we moved in all the same circles, but she was cooler than me, and I had a boyfriend which meant I ignored all my girlfriends anyway and concentrated only on him which was a totally good idea since we broke up the summer after graduation and I didn't see him again for 11 years.*****
Luckily, though, when I was home for breaks from college, and then when I was in graduate school for about seventeen years, Mary and I really did become best friends. The kind of friends who are perfectly happy to hang out and read together [which is one of my favorite qualities in someone], or go out to a bar, or, um, go to Build a Bear at age 41 and spend three hours picking out animals, outfits, and taking full, serious part in the heart ceremony. (No. I will NOT explain it. Borrow a seven year old and go find out for yourself.) The kind of friends who are what Anne of Green Gables calls "kindred spirits", where you meet someone once and feel like you've known them all of this life and maybe a few past lives too. That friend who says out loud what you're thinking right at the minute you realize it, and who always calls right at the minute you feel really down.
Anyway, before Mary got here I was a Nervous. Wreck. Seriously. When she moved to Seattle something like 15 years ago, I cried for a month. Which, I probably never told her. And, being poor AND lame, I have never actually visited her. Partly it is because I really don't like flying, but a lot of it is because I was kind of scared that I would visit her there and it would be clear that she no longer really needed a breadstick eating reading companion. Especially once she got married. I mean, her husband is in a band. And he's Welsh. How cool is THAT? Plus, she, too is a librarian, and a much better and successful one than I ever was.
So, when she announced her visit, I was SURE that we would find out that we had totally grown apart and had nothing to say to each other anymore. And also that she would be so sophisticated, vegan, thin, intellectual, and knowledgeable about things like microbrews, Pilates and coffee that we would meet up once and then she would be "too busy" for the rest of the time she was here. Which, since she was here because of a family member's illness, would have been a totally good excuse and saved us a lot of awkwardness.
Except, of course, it didn't happen like that at all. We met for coffee (where she drank plain, drip coffee!!So boring and reassuring!) and it was like I saw her yesterday. I blurted out "OMG I was SO NERVOUS to see you!" And she said "So Was I!! I got all dressed up!!" We dissolved into giggles. And then we talked solidly for over two hours, and talked really fast because there was so much to fit in. Driving home afterwards, I kept laughing out loud, because of COURSE I should have known that if I was all nervous, Mary would be too.
We saw each other several more times over the 10 days she was here, and it was great. She wasn't just the same old Mary, she was better. I want to go to Seattle tomorrow and stay for a month. And I want to go during the summer, while her husband is on summer vacation, so that I can bond with him properly while she is at work. I can't wait to meet her italian greyhound and her brother's Bernese Mountain Dog, Shasta. I won't even have to worry about my ignorance of microbreweries, because Mary and her husband prefer Pabst Blue Ribbon. I don't actually drink beer, except for Guinness while in Ireland, but still.
And, since God knows I can't write a bunch of nice stuff about someone else without finally bringing it back to ME, I have to admit that one of the most interesting things about seeing Mary was that, at least for a few days, I felt like my old self again. Like the last two and a half years never happened, and I was still the same clueless, brash, but happy person I was until my life as I knew it ended in a library administrator's office. I even felt like the 8 years of working for literal psychopaths that preceded those two happy years never happened. I just felt like me, and like that was enough. Because if someone as awesome as Mary had liked be back before all of that, and yet still likes me now.....well, maybe, just maybe, I'm not as huge of a failure as I think I am.
* Fine, more like two months. I never claimed to be good with numbers.
**Like anyone gives a damn anyway
***Please pronounce that "apple-atcha". Thank you.
****Or, as I just learned from an article on the International Federation Of Competitive Eating, she suffered a "Roman Event".
*****Remind me not to tell you what happened when I saw him again after 11 years. And not to go into any details of the five or so years after that.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
First market
This past Saturday I attended the Bloomington Farmer's Market as a vendor for the first time. Once a month, from May to October, our market has an art fair adjoining the regular farmer's market. I applied to it months ago, and then didn't hear anything, so, due to my usual complete lack of self esteem, I assumed I didn't get in. I'd heard that getting into this fair wasn't easy, because the vendors from previous years get first dibs....plus, I am never quite sure than anyone really likes my stuff. I have a sneaking suspicion that many people just pretend to like it because they feel sorry for me....while saying "Wow, that's great, you're so talented, they're actually thinking "God, that's so sad. She lives in her parents' basement, she can't get a real job, she has no romantic prospects to speak of; I better pretend I like this doll/bracelet/amorphous knitted item that looks like it was made by a kind of clumsy third grader".*
About a week later, I got a letter welcoming to the market for May, June, July, August, and September. Woo-hoo! Ten minutes later, I was in my studio having a panic attack.
I worked like a fiend all through the month, getting ready for the market. Usually when I've done art shows, I tend to sell a lot of my jewelry, some smaller dolls, and maybe one to three bigger, more expensive dolls. I'd never done a show in Bloomington before, so I was hesitant to put big city prices on things....and I assumed that, as usual, I'd probably sell more jewelry than dolls.
I was delighted to be wrong. Although I love beading, dolls are my passion. I sold only dolls. Two larger ones, and then seven or eight little ones. Since Saturday dawned grey and unseasonably cold, most people were literally running through the market, snatching up strawberries, flowers, and eggs, and then dashing back to their cars. From what the other vendors said, if the weather was nicer, we probably would have had even more shoppers. I enjoyed watching people walk past my booth and smile at the dolls, even if they didn't stop to buy. And some old friends came by to say hello, which was great.
What was even nicer was remembering that the main reason I moved back here is because I fit in here....I love Bloomington people. We might look very different, but we all agree that this is a pretty cool place to be. There were people speaking Chinese, French, and languages I couldn't identify happily purchasing vegetables from solemn Amish farmers and their pink cheeked, silent children. Dreadlocked vegans munched homemade tamales next to suburban housewives hurriedly sharing a chocolate chip cookie they weren't sharing with the kids.....crowds enjoying cloggers and fiddlers at one corner of the market, while at the opposite corner, an Asian man listened to live Thai music with tears in his eyes.....hippie moms carrying babies in slings.....fathers with baseball caps and NASCAAR shirts carrying their kids on their shoulders....and everyone was just happily coexisting and enjoying the day.
I love this town.
*Don't lie. You know that's what you thought the last time I showed you something. And don't deny it, because then I'll know you're totally busted.
About a week later, I got a letter welcoming to the market for May, June, July, August, and September. Woo-hoo! Ten minutes later, I was in my studio having a panic attack.
I worked like a fiend all through the month, getting ready for the market. Usually when I've done art shows, I tend to sell a lot of my jewelry, some smaller dolls, and maybe one to three bigger, more expensive dolls. I'd never done a show in Bloomington before, so I was hesitant to put big city prices on things....and I assumed that, as usual, I'd probably sell more jewelry than dolls.
I was delighted to be wrong. Although I love beading, dolls are my passion. I sold only dolls. Two larger ones, and then seven or eight little ones. Since Saturday dawned grey and unseasonably cold, most people were literally running through the market, snatching up strawberries, flowers, and eggs, and then dashing back to their cars. From what the other vendors said, if the weather was nicer, we probably would have had even more shoppers. I enjoyed watching people walk past my booth and smile at the dolls, even if they didn't stop to buy. And some old friends came by to say hello, which was great.
What was even nicer was remembering that the main reason I moved back here is because I fit in here....I love Bloomington people. We might look very different, but we all agree that this is a pretty cool place to be. There were people speaking Chinese, French, and languages I couldn't identify happily purchasing vegetables from solemn Amish farmers and their pink cheeked, silent children. Dreadlocked vegans munched homemade tamales next to suburban housewives hurriedly sharing a chocolate chip cookie they weren't sharing with the kids.....crowds enjoying cloggers and fiddlers at one corner of the market, while at the opposite corner, an Asian man listened to live Thai music with tears in his eyes.....hippie moms carrying babies in slings.....fathers with baseball caps and NASCAAR shirts carrying their kids on their shoulders....and everyone was just happily coexisting and enjoying the day.
I love this town.
*Don't lie. You know that's what you thought the last time I showed you something. And don't deny it, because then I'll know you're totally busted.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
A very big bag of lucky [but dumb] things
By spring 2009, my parents had already been supporting me for a year, and I knew the time was approaching when I had to either move back in with them and sell my house, or win the lottery. I chose the first, because I never know what lottery tickets to buy. There are so many, and they all have all these different instructions and it is just too hard to choose. Then, you have to pay cash for them, which I either don't have, or which has fallen into the other dimension of time and space that lives at the bottom of my horrible old lady purse.
Also, I was tired of living alone and just the word "Ohio" seemed to leave the bitter taste of failure in my mouth.
I didn't realize it then, but I was also more depressed than I have ever been. I knew I felt pretty damn bad, but it wasn't until I'd been back in Bloomington for 6 months and started feeling better, that I realized just how far down I really was. See, sometimes it pays not to Know Thyself too well.
Before I moved back, though, I had to have a talk with the Olds. Clearly, they had, have, and continue to do more for me than any parents should ever be expected to. Clearly, I am luckier than a bag of very big lucky things to have them. Clearly, they should have children who are successful, functional grownups, and luckily, they have two of those--my brother and sister. Two out of three is pretty good, I guess. And I am not one of those people who could [or would] ever blame them for any of my own problems*.....but during my exhausting 30 minutes of self realizations, I also could see that many of the decisions I had made to date in my life, I had made based on Not Wanting To Disappoint Other People, Especially But Not Limited to, My Parents.
Things like going to Vassar, although I am very glad I did go. Going to grad school in history [Why I thought THAT was a good idea, I still don't know]. Going to library school [I pretend that I decided this myself, but really, it was my mom's idea and it was also a good one at the time since the alternative was to simply continue to alternate between playing Super Nintendo and crying for another three months]. Buying a house. Staying in a bad relationship way longer than I should have because I didn't want to fail at that AGAIN and be a disappointment in yet another way. [Even though my parents had been tired of that relationship since the 80s]
All my parents have ever really wanted for their children is for us to be happy. You know, like Sally Field in Steel Magnolias minus the fake Southern accent. I honestly don't think that they would have cared much if I had gone exactly the opposite on most of the above. But apparently, my sense of duty and guilt is so overdeveloped that I will consistently do things that I THINK they want me to do, and continually judge myself against what I think that they might think, rather than, you know, just do what I really honestly want to. There are so many levels of dysfunction in my sick little monkey mind that it is hard to pry them all apart.**
But I know my parents, and I knew that if I lived with them, that unless I had a real plan for what to do, that life would eventually degenerate into them subtly reading aloud the help wanted ads, and asking me leading questions, and that pretty soon I would find myself in yet another ill advised educational program/career choice/relationship....and that the cycle would begin again. Let me be clear. This would not be my parents' fault.
It would be MINE, for continuing to try to have the normal life that most people achieve without really thinking about it, and which is just not ever going to work for me. You know, working a regular job, getting married or otherwise coupled, breeding little humans, having a 401k, being able to keep my eyebrows nominally groomed. Those things, for whatever reason, are completely beyond me. I am glad other people have them, but I honestly never wanted any of the things that girls are supposed to want, such as babies, picket fences, being emaciated, a husband with a good job, plenty of closet space or ridiculously expensive shoes. I mean, I do like plenty of closet space. So I can put fabric and yarn into it. My choice of mate is mostly based on less practical things, like "Does this person pay attention to me?" and "Do they not vomit when I disrobe?" And the expensive shoes I like are mostly black, clunky, and located in what my sister calls "the lesbian section" at DSW. I do love babies, but not being able to litter train them is a deal-breaker.
Being a librarian worked for me only because it allowed me, up to a certain point, to be unconventional. There is nothing odd about librarians who knit, collect cats, are somewhat bitter spinsters, read obsessively, and wear comfortable clunky Doc Martens. It is not even odd to be all of these things at once. Some librarians even defy the old stereotypes and embrace the new geek chic, wearing lipstick and odd homemade dresses with their glasses while selling poorly made fruit cozies and journals made of used toilet paper on Etsy while taking time out to drink microbrewed beer and sing karaoke on the weekends.
What librarians are NOT supposed to do, apparently, is express opinions, demand a living wage, or draw attention to themselves either professionally or privately without express permission of their director. I probably could have managed to skin by on the first two. But ever since I can remember, whether I try to or not, I do attract attention. I don't really know why. I'm sure a lot of it is due to just being an ass. Which is fine. My father always exhorts me to stick with my strengths, and that is surely a big one.
So, at some point, hopefully long before the age of 40, even if you've spent most of your life on the Isle of Cluelessness, you have to accept certain things about yourself and adjust life to your strengths and not the other way around. So, I told the Olds that if I moved back in with them, of course they would have my undying gratitude and love and that when they become too feeble, I will open their wine bottles for them***......but that they also needed to understand that I am different, and not just because I am crazy. And that I would not be moving back to try and get a stupid job that I would then mess up, and then try to get another one and screw that up too, and that I was not going back to school, EVER. That I could do all of those things by myself, in Ohio, continuing on my merry, misguided way, trying to fit my square pegs into round holes**** and never succeeding. If I came home to Bloomington, it would be, simply to be MYSELF. And do things the only way I know how, which is by creating, and being an ass, and fitting in with all the other creative, underemployed but happy asses here.
By the end of this conversation [proclamation is probably a more accurate description], I was shaking and sobbing. And the poor Olds were just looking on in astonishment. I don't think they had any idea just what a mess I really was, or that I'd spent so much of my life trying to please my own ideas of what they wanted....because, of course, those were my ideas, not theirs. Apparently, when the Olds raised me to always consider other people's feelings, I misunderstood the part about figuring out what those feelings actually ARE. Of course, since I seem to have spent so much of my life busily attempting to fulfill the imagined expectations of others, it shouldn't suprise me that I haven't spent that much time figuring out what I really want.
Now, that I have, though, it is pretty simple. I want to live in Bloomington. Permanently. And I want to make things, and hopefully, figure out how to support myself from doing so. Whoah. That wasn't nearly as hard as it should have been. Imagine taking 40 years to figure that out.
*Except the short gorilla legs, tipped uterus, and the obsession with Criminal Minds. They are completely to blame for all of that.
**Therapy, you say? Well, I've done that. Several times. The problem is, my first therapist died, which was [and continues to be] inconvenient. My second therapist, who was awesome beyond belief, disappeared. And my third one mostly asked me questions about knitting since I was knitting in the waiting room. I realize that I am free to find yet another therapist, but why pay money for someone to tell me the same crap I can figure out if I sit still for ten minutes and write it all down? Why deprive all six of you the amusement value of peering into my cluttered mind?
***Because old age doesn't mean you should give up your hobbies.
****That sounds much dirtier than I meant it to.
Also, I was tired of living alone and just the word "Ohio" seemed to leave the bitter taste of failure in my mouth.
I didn't realize it then, but I was also more depressed than I have ever been. I knew I felt pretty damn bad, but it wasn't until I'd been back in Bloomington for 6 months and started feeling better, that I realized just how far down I really was. See, sometimes it pays not to Know Thyself too well.
Before I moved back, though, I had to have a talk with the Olds. Clearly, they had, have, and continue to do more for me than any parents should ever be expected to. Clearly, I am luckier than a bag of very big lucky things to have them. Clearly, they should have children who are successful, functional grownups, and luckily, they have two of those--my brother and sister. Two out of three is pretty good, I guess. And I am not one of those people who could [or would] ever blame them for any of my own problems*.....but during my exhausting 30 minutes of self realizations, I also could see that many of the decisions I had made to date in my life, I had made based on Not Wanting To Disappoint Other People, Especially But Not Limited to, My Parents.
Things like going to Vassar, although I am very glad I did go. Going to grad school in history [Why I thought THAT was a good idea, I still don't know]. Going to library school [I pretend that I decided this myself, but really, it was my mom's idea and it was also a good one at the time since the alternative was to simply continue to alternate between playing Super Nintendo and crying for another three months]. Buying a house. Staying in a bad relationship way longer than I should have because I didn't want to fail at that AGAIN and be a disappointment in yet another way. [Even though my parents had been tired of that relationship since the 80s]
All my parents have ever really wanted for their children is for us to be happy. You know, like Sally Field in Steel Magnolias minus the fake Southern accent. I honestly don't think that they would have cared much if I had gone exactly the opposite on most of the above. But apparently, my sense of duty and guilt is so overdeveloped that I will consistently do things that I THINK they want me to do, and continually judge myself against what I think that they might think, rather than, you know, just do what I really honestly want to. There are so many levels of dysfunction in my sick little monkey mind that it is hard to pry them all apart.**
But I know my parents, and I knew that if I lived with them, that unless I had a real plan for what to do, that life would eventually degenerate into them subtly reading aloud the help wanted ads, and asking me leading questions, and that pretty soon I would find myself in yet another ill advised educational program/career choice/relationship....and that the cycle would begin again. Let me be clear. This would not be my parents' fault.
It would be MINE, for continuing to try to have the normal life that most people achieve without really thinking about it, and which is just not ever going to work for me. You know, working a regular job, getting married or otherwise coupled, breeding little humans, having a 401k, being able to keep my eyebrows nominally groomed. Those things, for whatever reason, are completely beyond me. I am glad other people have them, but I honestly never wanted any of the things that girls are supposed to want, such as babies, picket fences, being emaciated, a husband with a good job, plenty of closet space or ridiculously expensive shoes. I mean, I do like plenty of closet space. So I can put fabric and yarn into it. My choice of mate is mostly based on less practical things, like "Does this person pay attention to me?" and "Do they not vomit when I disrobe?" And the expensive shoes I like are mostly black, clunky, and located in what my sister calls "the lesbian section" at DSW. I do love babies, but not being able to litter train them is a deal-breaker.
Being a librarian worked for me only because it allowed me, up to a certain point, to be unconventional. There is nothing odd about librarians who knit, collect cats, are somewhat bitter spinsters, read obsessively, and wear comfortable clunky Doc Martens. It is not even odd to be all of these things at once. Some librarians even defy the old stereotypes and embrace the new geek chic, wearing lipstick and odd homemade dresses with their glasses while selling poorly made fruit cozies and journals made of used toilet paper on Etsy while taking time out to drink microbrewed beer and sing karaoke on the weekends.
What librarians are NOT supposed to do, apparently, is express opinions, demand a living wage, or draw attention to themselves either professionally or privately without express permission of their director. I probably could have managed to skin by on the first two. But ever since I can remember, whether I try to or not, I do attract attention. I don't really know why. I'm sure a lot of it is due to just being an ass. Which is fine. My father always exhorts me to stick with my strengths, and that is surely a big one.
So, at some point, hopefully long before the age of 40, even if you've spent most of your life on the Isle of Cluelessness, you have to accept certain things about yourself and adjust life to your strengths and not the other way around. So, I told the Olds that if I moved back in with them, of course they would have my undying gratitude and love and that when they become too feeble, I will open their wine bottles for them***......but that they also needed to understand that I am different, and not just because I am crazy. And that I would not be moving back to try and get a stupid job that I would then mess up, and then try to get another one and screw that up too, and that I was not going back to school, EVER. That I could do all of those things by myself, in Ohio, continuing on my merry, misguided way, trying to fit my square pegs into round holes**** and never succeeding. If I came home to Bloomington, it would be, simply to be MYSELF. And do things the only way I know how, which is by creating, and being an ass, and fitting in with all the other creative, underemployed but happy asses here.
By the end of this conversation [proclamation is probably a more accurate description], I was shaking and sobbing. And the poor Olds were just looking on in astonishment. I don't think they had any idea just what a mess I really was, or that I'd spent so much of my life trying to please my own ideas of what they wanted....because, of course, those were my ideas, not theirs. Apparently, when the Olds raised me to always consider other people's feelings, I misunderstood the part about figuring out what those feelings actually ARE. Of course, since I seem to have spent so much of my life busily attempting to fulfill the imagined expectations of others, it shouldn't suprise me that I haven't spent that much time figuring out what I really want.
Now, that I have, though, it is pretty simple. I want to live in Bloomington. Permanently. And I want to make things, and hopefully, figure out how to support myself from doing so. Whoah. That wasn't nearly as hard as it should have been. Imagine taking 40 years to figure that out.
*Except the short gorilla legs, tipped uterus, and the obsession with Criminal Minds. They are completely to blame for all of that.
**Therapy, you say? Well, I've done that. Several times. The problem is, my first therapist died, which was [and continues to be] inconvenient. My second therapist, who was awesome beyond belief, disappeared. And my third one mostly asked me questions about knitting since I was knitting in the waiting room. I realize that I am free to find yet another therapist, but why pay money for someone to tell me the same crap I can figure out if I sit still for ten minutes and write it all down? Why deprive all six of you the amusement value of peering into my cluttered mind?
***Because old age doesn't mean you should give up your hobbies.
****That sounds much dirtier than I meant it to.
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