When my youngest brother was a wee ‘un, one of his favorite shows was Super Ted. What the hell is Super Ted, you ask? It was a surreal British kids’ cartoon. For some reason, our local grocery store chain stocked the series in its tiny video department. My mom rented one of the tapes for my brother, and it was an instant hit.
Tag: memory
Grandma’s Bath Mat(thew)
Since the beginning of time, whenever I’ve visited my grandma, she’s taken me into her bedroom, opened the closet, and proceeded to shop for me. And not just me, either. She does this with with pretty much anyone who will stand still for it. She shops like nobody’s business, and hoards away all sorts of cheap-but-ultimately-useful junk, so I suppose the “let’s shop in grandma’s closet” routine is her way of justifying her hobby.
The last time I visited–sadly, several years ago–I was awarded a gawd-awful rubber-backed acrylic bath mat(thew)* in a disturbing shade of hot pink. Now, I’m all for pretty colors, but pink is not in my decorating vocabulary. Nevertheless, I brought the bath mat(thew) home and packed it away. I figured that I could surely find some use for it, if I thought hard enough. And, I did. Grandma’s hot pink bath mat(thew) became Elliott’s chewy spot (the place where he was Allowed to have grotty bones and whatnot). Then, a few years ago, I realized it would be a perfect way to protect the car seat from dog hair and–as it is rubber-backed–potential spewages. The rubber backing would also keep the mat in place on the seat. It worked so beautifully that I recommend that anyone who transports dogs in their car, pick up a few cheap bath mat(thew)s to lay on the seats.
So, onna counta having taken a couple of days off earlier in the week, I had to work this morning. When I reached B-ton, I realized I’d left my ginormous iced tea at home (alas and alack!), so I stopped at Bigfoot and purchased a tasty beverage. I reached work, parked my car flawlessly (an unusual enough occurrence that it merits mentioning), got out, and while collecting my various accouterments, managed to deposit the entire contents of my pepsisodapopcoke on the driver’s seat. I stood there for a moment, stunned. One, I now had no tasty beverage and only a $10 bill, so I couldn’t purchase a replacement from the vending machine. Two, my seat was saturated with wet, red stickiness. O ick. Three, I had recently spilled a Mudslide down the console (no, I wasn’t drinking and driving, I was taking a drink next door with me to a party), and had used the dog towels I keep in my car to clean up that mess and hadn’t replaced them. So, I had nothing to drink and no way to clean up the mess. Hmmm. How to replace the lost beverage, without getting my behindermost parts saturated with red, sticky goo? I know! Grandma’s bath mat(thew)! I removed it from Harriet’s spot and laid it across the driver’s seat, hopped back in my car, and returned to Bigfoot, where I was treated to a consternated look from the clerk.
Thank you, grandma, for insisting I needed a hot pink bath mat(thew).
Oh, and I managed to park all sorts of cattywampus the second time around. Hrmph.
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* There is a story there, about dogs, the mats some of them develop in their coats, and a very nice Canadian man named Matt. The long and short of it is that bath mats shall forevermore be known as bath mat(thew)s in my world. Bonus: I dare you to try saying bath mat(thew) out loud ten times, fast. If it doesn’t make you laugh (assuming you can accomplish it), then I suspect that there is something wrong with you.
If you can’t see my hands…
Since I’m on the subject of drivers, I figured this was as good a time as any to discuss Mr. DeWitt. He taught drivers’ ed., health, and, I believe, phys. ed. I had him for drivers’ ed. and health.
Mr. DeWitt was deeply bizarre. He was infamous for telling stories about his family. And retelling them. And retelling them. I think I might have stuck an ice pick in my eardrums if I’d had to sit through one more quarter with his stories. If it wasn’t the story about how his daughter got a nose job and now she was just as cute as a button, it was the story about getting shot at for stealing watermelons when he was a teenager. There was also the one about his alcoholic brother, or maybe it was his cousin the speed freak? I suspect he was making most of them up, hoping that adding a personal touch to the cautionary tales would lend them importance. The condom and banana routine that Andy mentioned in comments was an oldie but a goodie. He also brought in life-size anatomical models of male and female genitalia and passed them around. Probably not a bad idea in itself, but lordy, was he ever creepy about it.
Drivers’ ed. was a whole ‘nother kettle of fishes. I was so sick of his stories that I skipped class more often than not. Funnily enough, it didn’t affect my grade. In class, he told the same old stories and spewed the same old one-liners (“If you can’t see my hands, you gotta wonder what I’m doing!” being the most repeated.) On driving days, he was fond of taking us out onto the bypass, waiting until we’d gotten somewhat comfortable with the speed and traffic, then yelling “SHAZAAM!” in our ears. That did not go over very well with me. I pulled off the road and told him that if he ever did that again, I’d walk home, and he’d have to explain why he came back minus one student.
The first day my group actually drove, he took us to a cul-de-sac to practice. My one and only driving lesson at that point had been in an ancient VW squareback that not only was temperamental as all hell, but also had a broken driver’s seat. I had to sit on a couple of phone books, my feet barely touched the pedals, and I had to sit upright, because the back of the seat was permanently reclined. So, when I first tried to drive the drivers’ ed. car, I naturally gave it too much gas and hit the brakes too suddenly. Power brakes? WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS? Mr. DeWitt’s response was that we should drive the car like we were having sex–nice and slow. Now, how the hell is that an appropriate thing to say to a car full of teenage girls?
He was also fond of grabbing the driver’s seat belt, ostensibly to make sure it was correctly adjusted. It was obvious, though, that he was just copping a feel. There is no reason on earth why he would need to put his hands between a girl’s breasts in order to determine whether or not the seat belt was adjusted properly. I’m just sayin’…
The best, though, was when we picked up our waivers. He made each of us come to his office to pick them up, instead handing them out in class. When I picked up mine, he told me all the girls had to give him a hug before he’d give them their waiver. I said, “Okaythenbye!” and turned around and left. No way in hell was I giving Mr. PervyPants a hug. He apparently thought better of it, and followed me down the hall and handed the waiver to me. Hrmph.
So, it’s no wonder I have an ambivalent attitude toward driving. I ended up spending all my drivers’ ed. time trying to think of ways to avoid the teacher, instead of actually learning how to, oh, I dunno, drive.
Mrs. P.
On a good day, and when I’m warmed up, I can type 90+ words per minute. I find that a little mind-boggling. Sometimes, when I’m tap-tap-tapping along, I think of Mrs. P., my high school typing teacher.
I didn’t want to take typing. It was considered a secretarial/business class, which I had absolutely zero interest in. I begged and pleaded and whined and complained, but my mom insisted that I take one quarter of typing. “Just one quarter. It won’t kill you.” Computers were going to be the wave of the future, dontchaknow, and typing would be a necessary skill. I disagreed, because after three disastrous quarters of computer programming classes (that’s a whole ‘nother story), I sure as hell wasn’t going to go into any field that had any connection to computers. But mom insisted, so I took typing.
Enter Mrs. P. Mrs. P. taught typing, keyboarding, accounting, and career planning. Basically, all the classes I’d tried my damnedest to avoid. Mrs. P. was kind of short and kind of dumpy. She had closely cropped fakety-fake orange hair, orange lipstick, stubby little beringed fingers, painted on eyebrows, and fluorescent green eye shadow. She always chewed green gum, cracking it loudly while she talked, so that you could see all her fillings and the hardware of her dental bridge. One of her favorite “words” was “simular.” Her wardrobe consisted of polyester double-knit pants and bright, flowered polyester tops. At some point, she’d had breast cancer, and had had a double mastectomy. Occasionally, her prosthetics would go walkabout, ending up somewhere along her waistline.
I used to sit in typing class, staring at Mrs. P., unable to look away. She held some sort of horrific fascination for me. It’s a wonder I ever learned to type. It’s even more amazing when you consider the machines we learned on. The school had a few electric typewriters, but the typing room was mostly filled with old manual machines. They were truly awful. I have really small hands, and had trouble trying to span the keys and apply enough pressure to them. When I was able to manage both, my fingers would slip between the depressed keys and their neighbors. On the up-stroke, my fingers would become trapped between the keys. I constantly had cuts on my knuckles where they’d been scraped.
So it’s no wonder that I sometimes think of Mrs. P. while I’m typing. She was actually a pretty nice sort. It’s funny, but when I think of the high school classes that had a significant impact on my adult life, only two come to mind, and one of those is Mrs. P.’s typing class.
Thank you, Mrs. P. And mom, for forcing me to take that horrid typing class.
On Cars and Driving
What started out as a stormy day (5″ of rain in 90 minutes!) has turned quite beautiful, if a little warmer than I’d prefer. I took the back way home, so that I could look at all the baby cowlets. Oh. My. Gawd. but the wee babies are some serious kind of cute. I nearly went off the road while driving past the cute little farm on Woodyard. They have bitty newborns that are so cute it hurts.
And, it must have been the day for moving hay. I passed two farmers hauling flatbeds piled high with round bales. I assume they’re rotating stock, as it’ll soon be time for the first cutting. Out with the old, in with the new.
The point, though, is that I had an ancient gold pick-up truck behind me. It reminded me of the truck we had when I was a kid. Oh my. For a long time, it was the only “running” vehicle we had. And, I use that term euphemistically. The steering column was literally (and I use that term literally) held together with baling wire. The gear shift was a flat-head screw driver. The best part, though, was that it would not stay in low gear without help. Whenever we needed to go uphill, my step-dad would have to get out of the truck, climb underneath it, and use a set of vice grips to clamp it in low gear. Now that is what I’d call manual transmission. At the top of the hill, the little ritual was repeated in reverse. Très amusant, non? I haven’t gotten to the good part, though. Those of you who are familiar with southern Indiana will see why this is especially problematic. For those who are not, have you seen Breaking Away? We have a few hills down here. Actually, our hills have a few hills. And those hills are on top of yet more hills. Basically, this is not the place for a vehicle with a b0rkened transmission. The mind wobbles.
However, the icing on the cake was that my step-dad was an auto mechanic. No, really. Can you believe that? I won’t bore you with tales of the VW Beetle that had no reverse gear. Or the VW Squareback that had a broken driver’s seat and no alternator. And then there was the VW Microbus that, like all VWs, had no heat. Instead, it had a kerosene space heater. Talk about a death wagon on wheels!
It is for to weep.
Anyway, this might explain why I have such deep and abiding love for my little Tracker. Unless you’ve grown up with junkyard rejects, you have no idea how nice it is to be able to decide, at 3:00 on a Saturday afternoon, to just drop everything and go on a road trip.
Instant Review: Pomegranate Juice
I mentioned that this was food co-op delivery day, right? I forgot that I’d ordered pomegranate juice. Oh my! It’s just about the yummiest thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s not sweetened, so it’s tart, like really, really good lemonade. Mmmm.
I haven’t had pomegranates in years. Every once in awhile I see them at the grocery store and am tempted, but they’re so much work to eat, that I decide against it. I remember, though, when I was five years old, eating a pomegranate while playing outside. My memory is that it was cold out. We lived in a little bungalow a few blocks from Lake Michigan. There were concrete lions flanking the front steps and concrete statues in the yard, which was entirely enclosed by hedges. It was a wonderful, private place to play make believe games. That day I wandered around outside, by myself, eating my pomegranate and making up stories in my head about the secret lives of the statues.
Pomegranates remind me of that day.
Dirt on the Slide
I finally replaced my dryer yesterday, after engaging in a game of musical appliances that involved moving three–count ’em, three–dryers. Not by myself, mind you. But still, it was w-o-r-k. It was well worth the effort, though, or it will be after I finally get to dry my jeans. You see, they are so loose they’re threatening to fall off me, onna count of they haven’t been properly dried in months. I very nearly rewashed them, so that I could dry them, but I decided it would be a silly waste of water and electricity to wash and dry clean clothes.
The Virgin and Child with Canon van der Paele, Oil on wood, 141 x 176.5 cm (including frame), 1434-36
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I’d like to commence with today’s Art History and Rules to Live By Lesson.
Once upon a time, when I was a wee lass, I took an art survey course which comprised, in part, the study, comparison, and contrasting of Medieval and Renaissance art. To wit, Medieval art is highly symbolic and not terribly concerned with the natural rendering of forms, while Renaissance art, though still highly symbolic, fetishizes the pursuit of naturalism. In other words, Medieval art appears–to our eyes–to be two-dimensional and stilted while Renaissance art appears to exhibit depth and shading and all those things we like to think make art look “realistic.”
The Virgin and Child with Canon van der Paele, detail
So, anyway, one day in class, Dr. StuffyPants was interrupted in the midst of mumbling about Jan van Eyck’s Madonna with Canon van der Paele by a student who asked, quite reasonably, I thought, if the apparent deformity in the Baby Jeebus’ right foot was due to the artist’s ignorance of anatomy or if it was a naturalistic rendering of the model’s malformed foot. Dr. StuffyPants blinked, and replied, “It’s dirt on the slide.” At which point, the entire class of about 200 students cracked up laughing. Which caused Dr. StuffyPants to become unglued. Which made my day.
The moral of this story, because you know there is one, is that it is generally good policy not to make up shit when you don’t know, or can’t think of, the answer. Not that I don’t believe he didn’t know the answer. The man was stuffy, certainly, and arrogant, for sure, but ignorant of the subject matter he was not. He was simply unable to think on the fly, and when a student asked him a question he was unprepared for, he couldn’t pull the answer out of his ass with a compass, a map, and two extra hands. No ma’am. Not if his life depended on it. If he’d just fessed up to his momentary mental lapse, all would have been well and he would have likely finished the lecture with his dignity intact. “I don’t know” is, after all, a perfectly acceptable answer. But, no, he told an obvious lie in order to save face, and it backfired, damaging whatever respect his students had for him. (And, lordy! I just looked him up, and he’s still teaching intro and survey classes.)
So, my secondary point is to share the source of my little giggle fest this afternoon. I overheard someone complaining that there was “dirt on the slide,” which in my world is code-speak for “someone is talking out of their ass.” Heh.
And Now For Something Completely Different…
Nick Cave, edition 4/10, 1987
Have I mentioned that I think Nick Cave is some sort of deity? Well, I do. And, apparently, I did.
In an effort to procrastinate and waste time, I spent Sunday evening going though the contents of a box of junk I’ve been carting around for years. I found a bunch of old sketchbooks, journals, and class notes from high school (that was a riot in itself). I also found evidence of my one and only foray into the world of linocuts.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my heart belonged to Mr. Cave even in those days. The print is undated, but I must have done it in 1986/7. Go ahead and laugh, I am! I was such a little Goth Girl, only back then, we called it Death Rock. Cuz, you know, rocks are, um, dead. Or something.
Anyway…
I know I took a quarter of “printmaking” in high school, but for the life of me, I can’t remember doing anything except this pitiful little linocut. We were supposed to do woodcut, linocut, and serigraphy. I still have the extremely cool (and worn full of holes) shirt that Jayne silkscreened for that class, but I didn’t get much accomplished that quarter. By golly, though, I’ve got Nick, and that’s what counts, right?
More Vessels
These are two new pages for the Vessels book.
Migration
collage
7 1/4 x 10 inches
I covered up the desert at the bottom of the giraffe picture with a carrot I found in a food magazine. The idea of the giraffes walking into the ocean seemed kinda funny. The carrot balances out the orange at the top, plus it adds the perfect surreal touch.
What Lily Saw
collage
7 1/4 x 10 inches
The label at the top right came from Catherine. She got me my first library job when I was in college. She also taught me how to weave and quilt. She passed away a few years ago and most of her crafting stash went to my mom. I ended up with a few things, though, including some spiffy fibers. This yarn label was in one of the boxes of supplies.
Ibarra Mexican style chocolate makes the best hot cocoa. It’s got a hint of cinnamon in it. I don’t usually like cinnamon, but it adds the perfect touch. It also has lecithin in it, which makes it extra creamy.
Goodbye, Nina B.
I found out this morning that my favorite painting instructor, Nina Marshall, passed away. She was she an amazing artist and a damned fine teacher. She also lead wonderful critiques. She knew how to get everyone in the class to really see the works. Her critiques weren’t just about her own response to the work; in Nina’s critiques, everyone participated. That didn’t happen in some of my other studio classes, which I think is unfortunate. If you don’t learn how to look at your own art critically, how can you expect to progress and grow?
And, since I’m on the subject of favorite art teachers, I went a-Googling for Dan Fruits. He aggravated me no end, and, before we came to an agreement on How Things Should Be, he had me fleeing the studio in tears on more than one occasion. I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything. Two of the many things I learned from him:
- Everything can become an excuse to draw.
- Do not get too attached to the preciousness of what you create.
Which brings me back to Nina B. Perhaps the most important thing I learned from her was that everything is underpaint. If you don’t like what you’ve created, then it’s obviously not done yet and needs another layer of paint. It’s easier to adopt this attitude if you’ve accepted Dan Fruits’ second tenet. And, really, it’s not a bad philosophy for life in general. The closet Buddhist in me likes that it allows for infinite do-overs.
So, Nina B., whatever you were painting, I hope you were able to finish it. And, if you weren’t, I hope you get a do-over.
red paper boat 