A Little Navel-Gazing for a Sunday

Want to know how your idea of morality stacks up against others’? Want to think about it in terms of whether, at core, you’re liberal or conservative? Want to spend way, way, too much time thinking about how you feel about things like touching a dead body and being loyal to your social group? 
Go here. Be warned:  it will suck you in. But what else you gotta do on a Sunday night, huh?
You might want to pour yourself a little glass of something-something first.

Exciting Day at the Voodoo Cafe~~Yowza.

There are few things I like better than a new project. Oh, sure:  a cool adventure or a fabulous trip are up right up there. But nothing beats the excitement of the very beginning of Something New.

Now imagine combining all of those things—a new project, a cool adventure, and a fabulous trip—a ROAD TRIP, no less—into one big honkin’ package, and you’ve got what my day was like today.

It started at 7:15 this morning when I called My Poor Beleaguered But Nevertheless Lovely Editor Tonia, bless her heart, because I needed to talk to her—actually talk, as opposed to e-mail, which is amazing in itself, since I hardly ever, ever talk to anyone on the phone—about an idea we’d been trying to work out. Like she has time to talk on the phone. Oy—talk about Busy. But I did it—and before I had a cup of coffee! Theoretically, I could have called her at 5 a.m. my time, since she would have been at her desk by then. But, nah. That’s just perverse, you know? Who calls someone at 5 a.m., unless it’s 1) love and 2) intercontinental?

And when I got on the phone, the idea was pretty much surely going one way, and when I hung up, it had taken a sharp turn and was going another way entirely.  Another fabulously exciting way.

Obviously, I’m talking about a book project, but since it’s in the very earliest stages, I’m not ready to really talk about it talk about it, you know? I can talk about it, but not talk about it talk about it. Since I don’t have, like, an actual contract or anything.

The thing is, I have ideas for dozens of books I want to do. Dozens. At the beginning, they all sound equally fabulous. As things narrow down, though, one of them starts to grab me, and by the time someone else likes it, I’m obsessed. But there are still all these other ones I want to do eventually, and My Job, As I See It, is to convince my editor, bless her heart! to let me get started on a new one just as soon as I finish the current one. Send good thoughts her way, as I’m sure she often thinks of sending me a fake e-mail address so all my nagging notes will go into a spam folder in some government office in Uzbekistan.

The fun part of this one is that it’s unlike anything I’ve done before, and I get to work with some fabulously creative people, and it involves travel and seeing a lot of other really cool people. So I’m totally jazzed. Can you tell?

The tough part, besides not having things pinned down—which we Anal Retentive Types reallyreallyreally kind of like a whole lot—is that I have to organize my ideas about the project, plus I have to plan the first of several trips, this one to take place in less than a month when we drive—yes, as in Drive on the Highways—to  Oregon. So I’ve got these two completely separate things going on in my brain:

--organizing the project

--planning a long, involved trip. ‘Coz, you know, if you’re going to drive all that way, you might as well drive home through some of the wine region in California, right? Of course! Plus those pesky mountains are in the way between here and there, necessitating much out-of-the-way highways and stuff. I wish they’d just get busy and make some straight roads from here to there. You know, like a huge overpass across the whole country. So if you want Scenic, you can do the whole Blue Highways thang, but if you just want to Get There, you could hope on that puppy and zip along, just like on the autobahn but faster.

And then take the Scenic Route on the way home. But no. Right now, it looks like we drive to Albuquerque and spend the night, drive to Gallup and turn right, drive up to Salt Lake City via some roads that take us through Farmington, NM (lived there) and Cortez, Colorado (lived there) and Moab, Utah (lived there) , and Price, Utah (lived there)–and that’s not a route I made up, just so we could go through those places. Nope—that’s the route mapquest.com spit out. And spend the night there and then drive to Boise, Idaho, only not really—to some suburb place nearby. I don’t know, but Idaho scares me. Did you know they have multiple La Quinta’s in Coeur D’Alene? I’m sure they have some very lovely, very wonderful people there, but I always think Home of the Racist Nazi Wackos. I’m sorry. Mark Fuhrman lives up there somewhere, doesn’t he? Just the name “Fuhrman” was always enough to do it to me.

Never mind that I thought OJ was a guilty rat bastard. In fact, was there anyone in that whole mess who didn’t come off looking like trash, one way or another? Remind me not to get murdered. Good grief. They start out feeling sorry for you, but it lasts about as long as it takes someone to ask, “Hey, wasn’t she the one who. . . ?”

Where was I?

Oh. I’d have gotten a lot more done today, but I’ve been unable to sit still. I sit down to do one thing and think of something else that has to be done Right This Second, and I get up and go do that, and then I think of something else that should have been done Already, and I go do that. I try to sit down and chill and stitch, but I keep making notes or grabbing the atlas or going to find The EGE, who’s now officially in charge of planning this whole route thang, as he’s the one who’ll be driving it. Once he decides on the exact route, I can start looking for La Quinta’s along the way. Racking up those points, baby: by the time we go to Houston for the quilt show in October, we can stay free. Which is always nice.

OK. Time for another walk. I’m the one out there every couple hours, muttering to herself and stopping to scribble things down in her little notebook.

The Ever-Gorgeous Earl Picks the Winners!

Whew. It’s so good having some help around here—I always worry about Being Fair, like someone’s going to come test me or something on how I give away my stuff. Sheesh.

Anyway:  Shelley, the Voodoo Cafe Phone Holster goes to you, and Tristan, the cowboy pendant goes to you. Send me your snail mail addresses, please—and I’ll see if I can wheedle that man into doing The Post Office Thang, too.

Man, summer vacation is some great shit!

More on Language by William Safire

In last Sunday’s New York Times Magazine, which I’m just this evening getting around to reading because, really, who has the time? Safire writes about youth, rebellion, and language, as illustrated by newly-abbreviated words, from “natch” to the current “abbreve.”

“No tradition is more time-honored than rebellion against linguistic tradition. Youth must not only be served, but its insecure communications must also have its own coded server.”

He goes on to write about linguistic templates, which give us the shorthand that results in “snowclones” such as “30 is the new 50,” and “turning point,” “talking point,” “tipping point” and “the mother of all _______”—all hip variations on some original widely-disseminated word or phrase.
It’s fascinating reading, and it makes you think about the ways language changes and what those changes mean. In many cases, what starts as a way to be obscure—to confound those not hip enough to be In the Know about whatever new template is being employed—ends up as standard usage. It takes a while, but it works its way in.
What do I think of this? Eh. I’m all for innovations in language if they serve the process of clear communication—I’m with Roz there. But if brand-new usages are so obscure and trendy that they serve only to exclude the larger audience? Then they’re not any more useful than my own coinages  to Bork (to somehow manage to screw up what appeared to be a sure thing, i.e., the failed nomination of Robert Bork to a seat on the Supreme Court); a Fuck-You Bob (a rampage coming out of the blue that has nothing to do with the person or thing being attacked but which is, instead, brought on by something else entirely—this from our Other Neighbors:  on Sunday afternoons she sometimes gets drunk and begins to rant about whatever, ending by shouting, “Fuck you, Bob!” and slamming into the house.) My little inventions amuse me endlessly, but they don’t help me communicate with anyone else. Well, maybe with my husband, if we can both manage to remember the meaning at the same time. Always tricky.

Art is Not a Verb: Why “Arting Around” Is Making Me Lose My Mind

Yeah, I gnashed my teeth when everyone began using “journal” as a verb, never mind that the OED  actually lists it as a transitive one. But I finally came around, more or less:  I mean, it makes sense to say, “I journalled,” instead of saying “I wrote/doodled/drew/collaged in my notebook/diary/journal/sketchbook/Book of Stuff.”
But “art” as a verb? I’ve got some real problems with that, and they have little to do with the word “art” itself. Because, really, that’s a whole nother thang I’m not even going to get into today.
No. What I want to grouse about today is the use of “art” in the sense of “I spent the evening arting around.” I’m hearing this a lot, and it drives me fucking nuts.
One reason is that I suspect—and I’m willing to bet I’m right on this one—it comes from “farting around,” as in, “I spent the evening farting around,” meaning I don’t think I did much of anything and am denigrating anything I DID do by pretending it was of little or no value. I was puttering, I was putzing, I was passing the time.
By using “art” in that context, it takes away any importance the word “art” might have for us—however we think of art in its many guises. We take art and make it less intimidating by turning it into a synonym for “fart”:  I art around. I fart around. I don’t take any of this seriously.
This is silliness in its ultimate form. And here’s a test for silliness:  if you can’t imagine any of the men in your life using the term except on the weekend when they’re at the club doing their Streisand impression, then there’s a pretty good chance it’s really silly. Not just a little silly, but really silly.
Here I do not mean “silly” in the good sense:  the sense of play and fun and nonsense. I mean “silly” in the sense of ridiculous and useless, like puffy hair bows on 40-year-old women.
[Now, I fully realize that a lot of women really LIKE anything that separates them from men and want to embrace all the things they can that help do that, including all manner of things that fit into that category of Things Men Don’t Use:  hair bows, stilettos, the word “precious” when not followed by the word “metal” or “mineral,”  lilac-scented personal deodorant spray, the term “panties” instead of the perfectly functional “underwear.” If you think using words and phrases that are so fluffy and silly that they make the rest of us grimace like we’ve just bitten into a piece of fruitcake and found a prune, well, then, go ahead. But we’re going to be over here using words we can all enjoy, like, well, read on.]
There are three perfectly good words we could use to describe what we do in our studios if we’re somehow loathe to call it “making art,” which is the logical choice. If, however, for whatever reason we don’t want to say, “I spent the evening making art,” we can say, instead:
~~”I spent the evening crafting.”
~~”I spent the evening playing.”
~~”I spent the evening working.”
(We could also say “experimenting,” “making stuff,” “doing stuff.”)
Crafting is a completely legitimate term, and it’s a completely legitimate activity. Think “fine craftsmanship.” Think the Arts and Crafts Movement.
{For discussions about art vs. craft, go here, here, here, or here, or any of a whole bunch of other places:  people talk (and argue) about this a LOT.]
Even better is using “play” to describe the imaginative experimentation many of us refer to when we talk about what we’re doing in our studios. We avoid the word “play,” though, because of its connotations of laziness, silliness, worthlessness—because we do not value play itself. Play is vital for everyone, from birth until death, but most of us ignore that. Lack of play is at the root of many of our problems, from boredom to poor health to loneliness. Someone reminded me the other day of a quote that was long taped to the mirror in my bathroom:
We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.
I know this from personal experience:  I felt myself age after Maxwell, my cat, was gone. At first I thought it was grief, and it was that. But it was also that I wasn’t playing:  Maxwell believed that he and I were some other species, neither feline nor human, and he expected me to enjoy the same things he did. We had a wide variety of games we adopted over our 18 years together, many of them involving me down on my hands and knees either crawling behind furniture or hiding around doors. We wrestled, we rolled around. We bit each other. We played a lot, every day, and when that ended (the other cats are much too dignified for the sorts of play we loved), I felt myself growing old.
I still don’t have anyone to play with in the same way, but I try to make do, because I know that play is vital. There is nothing childish about it. There is no reason to be ashamed of saying, “I’m playing,” whether you were playing with an animal or with paper or fabric or clay.
And saying, “I spent the evening working”—what’s wrong with that? We believe that the only things we can call work are 1) things for which we are paid and 2) odious tasks we don’t want to do, like scrubbing the toilets. Even that we modify by calling it “housework.”
Here’s the deal:  work is a good thing. When I was working on the last book, I wrote about work, about how making art is work—the artists in the book are full-time working artists—and my editor suggested that I might try not to talk about work quite so much, as it would put people off. She was right, of course, although I don’t understand why that is true. Work is not a bad thing. Work is good. Whether it’s work for money, or physical labor, or intense experimentation, or doing something over and over to learn a craft, work is as important as play. I will never understand people who hate to work. I love to work. I like assignments and deadlines. I like physical work that makes me sweat and leaves me sore the next day. I like doing something over and over and over, perfecting my skills, working out the bugs, learning the possibilities. Saying that making art can be—and should be—work is not saying it’s not wonderful fun. If, for you, work and fun are mutually exclusive terms, perhaps you have some thinking to do.
So whatever you call what you do in your studio, whether your studio is your kitchen table or a completely refitted two-car garage, make sure the term you choose reflects the value you put on what you’re doing with your time. If you want to say you’re “arting around,” go ahead, but first stop and think about what that says about you and your time and the materials you use. Does it reflect respect for your talent and materials, or does it reflect that, “Aw, shucks, don’t take me seriously” mentality that holds so many of us back from realizing the infinite possibilities within us? There’s nothing wrong with taking our talents seriously, just as there’s nothing wrong with working hard and playing every chance we get. If you do it right, you won’t be able to tell the difference.

Sheesh. And Here We All Thought California Was the Civilized State.

Since I don’t watch t.v, I forget that we’re still even talking about this stuff. I guess, in some silly part of my brain, I just assume we’ve moved into A More Enlightened Era.
And then I go stand in line at the post office and am jolted back to reality. Guess if I’d gone there today, this wouldn’t be such a surprise.  (The EGE, home for the summer, did post office errands for me today, bless him.)
The Supreme Court overturned the law against antimiscegenation in 1967, forcing Texas and 15 other hold-outs to give it up. Wonder when we’ll be able to say that about laws banning same-sex marriage? Check out these maps.

So Just What Is an Art Journal, Anyway? And Why I Think We Should Call Ours Something Else.

And don’t you know you can count on me to have an opinion? I remind myself periodically that I do NOT have to have an opinion about everything. For much of my life, I thought it was like my Job or something, having opinions. And voicing them. Oh, yeah. At some point, I realized I didn’t have to do that. I can just Not Have an Opinion, and that’s very liberating.
But lots of times I still have them, anyway. This idea about what an art journal is is a continuation of some conversations I’ve had recently, about the stuff I said in the interview from last week. I’m not an expert on journals or art or art journals, but that doesn’t stop me from having something to say about them, obviously.
Feel free to disagree, OK? Just don’t gripe at me about it.
First of all, we have to decide what a journal is. As you might expect from An English Person, I fall back on the actual definition, so let’s use that. First, of course, the etymology:
c.1355, "book of church services," from Anglo-Fr. journal "a day," from O.Fr. journal, originally "daily" (adj.), from L.L. diurnalis "daily" (see diurnal). Sense of "daily record of transactions" first recorded 1565; that of "personal diary" is 1610, from a sense found in French. Journalism is 1833 in Eng., likewise from Fr. (where it is attested from 1781).
OK. And the definition, from Webster’s:

jour·nal

Pronunciation:

\ˈjər-n^əl\

Function:

noun

Etymology:

Middle English, service book containing the day hours, from Anglo-French jurnal, from jurnal, adjective, daily, from Latin diurnalis, from diurnus of the day, from dies day — more at deity

Date:

15th century

1 a: a record of current transactions ; especially : a book of original entry in double-entry bookkeeping b: an account of day-to-day events c: a record of experiences, ideas, or reflections kept regularly for private use d: a record of transactions kept by a deliberative or legislative body e: log 3 f: log 42 a: a daily newspaper b: a periodical dealing especially with matters of current interest3: the part of a rotating shaft, axle, roll, or spindle that turns in a bearing
Now, you can argue that a journal is anything you say it is. Go ahead and argue that. For the purposes of trying to figure out what an art journal is, though, we’re going to use this and argue that anything else, anything that isn’t a daily (more or less) record of what happens in someone’s life is not, by definition, a journal and should, therefore, be called something else.
The first art journals I saw were those of Teesha Moore, and I would posit that she is the one who started the whole thang. Her work is fabulous, always has been. When I interviewed her for Rubberstampmadness, lo! these many years ago, she sent me a box full of her early handbound books. These were nothing like the journals of hers you’ll see on her website; they were mostly books of things she’d cut out and pasted in for various projects—books of ideas.  But they were still just about the coolest things I’d ever seen. In the years since, art journals have taken off, many of them modeled on what Teesha does now but diverging from hers: hers usually have actual journaling (writing about her daily life) on the pages. First the diverging art journals were mostly illustrated quotes—that’s still really popular. Now you see a lot that’s mostly just collage in a book form.
There’s nothing wrong with that. Those are fine. Fun to look at, if that’s what you like. But there’s really nothing about most of them that has anything to do with a journal:  no writing about daily life, no recording of events.
In short, there’s nothing personal in there at all. Nothing of the artist. No recording of anything that happened.
I think these should be called something else. Art books. Collage books. It doesn’t matter, but calling them art journals is claiming that they’re something they’re not. Those of us who love journals—you know, who read every published journal we can find and can still remember how pissed off we were to find that Anais Nin made up much of what she wrote in hers—are disappointed when we look at something that purports to be a journal but isn’t at all.
It reminds me of when I was teaching and got a set of journals from my classes. I read every single entry of every single one, no matter how boring and uninspired they were, no matter than many of my students resorted to copying song lyrics and notes in their effort to avoid anything like examining their life as a freshman in college. In this particular set, I came across a journal that seemed oddly familiar. Had I already read it? But there were no comments in the margins, no, “Good observation!” or “What was that like?” I became just the tiniest bit obsessed with this, as it seemed so familiar. I started going back and re-reading some of the other journals. What I discovered:  two students, in two different classes, had shared the assignment. Student A wrote entries 1-20, and Student B wrote 21-40 (or however many it was). But they switched them, so one had A-B, and the other had B-A—same entries, same order, but switched between them.
I was pissed, sure—I hate it when someone tries to trick me, for whatever reason in whatever situation. But I was also disappointed:  this was supposed to be a journal, an assignment suggested by the department that would encourage students to write but also be of some aid in helping fresh-out-of-high-school kids have somewhere to think on paper about all the things they were having to deal with, from homesickness to grades to romance to drinking way, way more than their bodies could tolerate. It was supposed to be a journal—a record of their days. Instead, it was just one more bit of tedium, one more chance to work a scam to get a grade.
It was like someone had spit on the whole concept of the journal, on what it means to those who love it as a concept:  the idea of recording our lives.
[In case this seems unfair, my requiring students to keep a journal that I would then read, I will note:  it was also a requirement for first-year instructors to keep a journal and turn it in to our instructor, so I was doing the same thing they were, only in much more detail and with much, much more enthusiasm—this was back when I was really involved with the journal, and I got permission to use my own personal journal and then xerox relevant pages to turn in, leaving out the other stuff. Even omitting pages, I turned in a LOT of stuff.]
Roz uses the term “visual journal” for what she does—at least I think that’s what she uses. It makes sense to me, and I think that’s what I’ll start calling the kind of journal I love most to look at:  it’s a journal, first and foremost. Those of us who love journals know that and recognize it right off. It’s not a collection of quotes (and I’d be happy if people would start calling those “commonplace books,” thank you very much), and it’s not a book of collages. There’s visual stuff. It’s not all frou-frou and polished, maybe; maybe it’s just stuff pasted in, or maybe doodles, or maybe photographs:  it’s visual. It doesn’t claim to be art, so it can be as raw as it is. All that is required of a visual journal is that it have some visual aspect to it.  I like this term for that reason:  it doesn’t demand anything. “Sketchbook” seems to guilt you out for not sketching, doesn’t it? Visual journal is so much more laidback:  all it asks is that you put something in there to look at. Even really nice handwriting or maybe some illuminated letters would do—it doesn’t ask that much.
Yes:  visual journal is what I like. It’s what I like to look at, and it’s what I might call mine, sometimes, to differentiate it from something that’s purely writing, that’s all journal.
Sometimes forcing words to mean what they’re supposed to mean solves all kinds of wiggly confusion.

The Other Give-Away: Calling from The Voodoo Cafe

So Jody Nix. His sister has this fabulous hand-tooled leather bag, and when I asked where she got it, she told me her husband made it. He does custom saddles, along with other wonderful stuff, most of which I  don’t need and couldn’t afford to have him make, anyway.

So I had him make me a cell phone case.

Isn’t it fabulous? I wanted the Texas star on the closure, and I wanted tooling. It’s lined with fleece.

This was several years—and several cell phones—ago. It was a terrific idea, but it never really worked for me:  it’s too bulky for the clothes I wear, and I kept hitting it with my arm.

It has a magnetic closure. And the metal thing on the back is really sturdy—hangs tightly on your belt.

Anyway—if you could use something like this and are a fan of the Voodoo Cafe, let me know. I’d like to find it a home where it will get a lot of use. You know.

This Week’s Give-Away

I bought this Saturday at our local farmers’ market, a tiny little thing I try to support, never mind that by the time we get there, all the vegetables have been sold. People line up and wait to snatch up the tomatoes—they sell out within minutes. I just can’t do that—it reminds me of the people who camp out in front of the big box stores on Thanksgiving night in order to be first in line the next morning.
Anyway. So I bought this
from Carol Anderson, with the plan to offer it here and provide a link to Carol’s website so you could go look at more. Alas, there is no website. Or, if there is, there’s nothing on it. Which reminds me that I probably need to do another of my posts about Why Artists Have to Have a Website.
She gave me her e-mail address, but I can’t read it. Maybe she’ll post it in the comments. Hey, Carol!
Sorry the images aren’t larger—I scanned it, rather than photographing it, and this is as large as they can be.
I love those photos of kids on horses or donkeys. This one’s really cool.
The front:

The back:

Or vice versa.
Post a comment if you’d like your own little bit of Texas. And come back in a minute—I’ve got another little give-away this week but don’t have photos yet--

Hancock Fabrics Sale

If you have a Hancock Fabrics store near you, go there Monday:  they’re having a sale, and at the check-out, you can pick up a flyer with coupons. There are various sales—tomorrow thread (and a bunch of other stuff) will be 50% off. All weekend—and tomorrow—you can get 50% off one fabric purchase. Yesterday I bought 5 yards of white, 200-count muslin. Today I went in and bought another 10 yards. I’ll wash it up, and it’ll be ready for dyeing or running through the printer. Woo-hoo! That’s a LOT of my favorite fabric~~

Bodhisattva in Metro

Susan in Seattle sent me this video, which I adore. And not just because it made me laugh out loud.
A “bodhisattva” is an enlightened being (bodhi = enlightened,” “sattva” = being) who acts out of compassion for others. Rather than doing good deeds to gain admiration or respect, the bodhisattva acts only out of “pure love and compassion.”
I think this would be most excellent fun, as well.

Thanks, Susan! You made my day~~

Technorati Tags: bodhisattva,laughing

Is It Just Me?

(click to embiggen/enlargify)

Basketball Dream

Y’all have probably all seen this—I’m guessing The EGE and I are the last two people on the planet to see it. You can find it all over--this one had over a million and a half views. But, hey:  it’s one of those things worth watching again. Makes you tear up every time.

What I’ve Done So Far Today. Huh.

That’s in addition to dealing with the New Credit Card, meaning I had to travel all over the world on-line and change the credit card information for the approximately 5 gazillion places that bill me. I’m sure I’ve forgotten someone important, but I’ll be danged it I know which one it could be.
This is the other thing I’ve done.

Mo has this perch he adores. The EGE got it on sale from The Rat Bastards at Wal-Mart, and we figured it wouldn’t last very long but would maybe provide a few hours of exercise for Moe. ‘Cause, see, exercise is what Moe needs most in the world, never mind that he would argue it’s tuna treats and ham baby food. He would be oh, so wrong. My boy is chubby.
Hell, my boy is Fat. His vet, whom we now avoid like the plague, says he’s “morbidly obese.” This is a lie, so we try not to think about it. But we do play at every opportunity! Yes! Well, one of us does. The other tends to lounge around and bat at things in a leisurely manner, refusing to strain or tire himself with too much unnecessary physical exertion.
That’s not the point, however. The point is that he loves this perch and spends many of his leisure hours ensconced on it. Sadly, it’s cheap. And sadly, he ensconces himself on it by throwing all 20 pounds onto the top tier. Combine that with his hind claws, the ones we don’t trim, and finally the nylon ripped,

and yesterday he was trying to balance himself on the little plastic rods. Think of an elephant on a jungle gym.
No, don’t. That was rude. I’m sorry. Do NOT think of an elephant on a jungle gym!
So I went out and dug around in the FE this morning, trying to find some fabric both sturdy and easy to stitch—I’d thought I could do it by machine, but it seems that, at some point, I used Super Glue on those connections at the top. Silly me.
This fabric


was some my mother made into a dress for me when I was, I think, a senior in high school. Maybe a junior. It was a form-fitting mini dress, right at the time everyone else was wearing long, flared, newly-fashionable midi-skirts. So you can imagine the ridicule—I think they called me “hooker,”  taking great offense at my tiny little dresses and refusal to embrace those hideously unflattering skirts.
Anyway, anyway, anyway:  this quilted fabric was as close to perfect as I was going to find:  it had red and blue and yellow, just like the perch (who thinks of these combinations, anyway? Do they have someone they go to and say, “Hey, Floyd, what are three colors that, put together, are guaranteed to give the consumer product enticement message of ‘Dirt Cheap & Tacky’?”)
Many yards of fuchsia embroidery floss later (it’s kind of laced in place, which I hope will prove to be really sturdy), it’s done.

Lennie approves, but Moe says it’s not technically time for him to have to move yet, so he’ll wait until later to check it out.
And don’t suggest to me that we should try a diet. We try a diet every single day:  their food is not left down for them during the day. And someone—someone who works at home and is here with them all day long—has to listen to their complaints and pleas and sorrowful misery about Impending Starvation. It’s pathetic. Truly.

Technorati Tags: cats,Moe

Interview

Trish interviewed me a while back, and she’s put it up on her blog this morning. It was great fun—she asked some really thought-provoking questions, as you can see from my way-too-long responses. Thanks, Trish!

Technorati Tags: interview

Hey, iHanna!

Congratulations—you win the little blue-and-white journal! Send me your address, and I’ll get it in the mail posthaste.

Fabulous Purple French Bulldog

My friend Roz is just an amazing artist, as you know, and her animal and bird paintings are amazing. She posted one this morning that’s just perfect:  she captured the dog, and then she painted him in purple, with an orange background. I love this! Go see.

Technorati Tags: Roz Stendahl,painting,French Bulldog

I’ve Given Up Even Pretending Not to Hate Them.

I’m out in the backyard fixing dye buckets, and I hear someone meowing. I see Monk, in the Cat Palace, sitting up on the perch, looking into the Cat Killer’s backyard. I go in and look through the fence into their yard, and there’s a white cat in the trap, lying, resigned, waiting. I don’t think it’s anyone I know. It wouldn’t matter—there’s nothing I can do about it. I call Animal Control—they already have it on their records to pick up. So at least she doesn’t plan on killing it herself. She’ll let them to it for her.
And here’s where I admit the pettiness of my hard, black little heart:  it made me happy yesterday when, sitting in The Voodoo Lounge with the window open, I could hear either her son or her husband/boyfriend yelling at her, “You fucking whore!”

Technorati Tags: cats,traps

If You Love Denim. . . .

StellaPearl sent me a note this morning to tell me she’d featured one of the blank Journal Skirts in her Treasury on Etsy. If you love funky denim, check it out, especially the Lady Largo Steampunk silk tie bustier and bustle skirt. That’s a mouthful. Plus it’s one of those creations that gets your brain going but also makes you go, “Whoa. Where would you even START?” The words “denim” and “bustle” together just make my fingers ache. But = cool!

Technorati Tags: denim,bustle,Steampunk,journal skirt

Aieeeee! I Hate This!

As you know, The Fabulous Canadians got me hooked on DaVinci’s Inquest, a terrific crime series. I got all the episodes available from Netflix, and tonight we watched the last one in season 3. And that’s all they have.
So I thought, well, maybe three seasons was it, for some unfathomable reason. I checked the website, and it turns out there are SEVEN seasons, but only the first three are available on DVD. I checked amazon.com, too.
I cannot STAND this. We love this show. We are so hooked. We are like junkies. We’re jonesin’ here. We know it’s out there, but we can’t get it.
There’s no telling how long it will be before the rest of the seasons are out on DVD. I’ve bought the first two entire seasons, just so we won’t go into major withdrawal.
It’s pathetic. Really. If any of y’all hear about new releases, please let me know. I’ll be over in the corner, crying and chewing on my foot.

Technorati Tags: DaVinci's Inquest

The Beads I Bought

Sadly, sadly, this little bit here:

is a couple hundred dollars worth of beads.
The glass seed beads, which are my staple:

The EGE spent a couple evenings last week going through the bead drawers and listing what I had so I wouldn’t duplicate. I did anyway. Some colors I just can’t resist in those little tubes.
Dyed pearls:

Smaller dyed pearls for sewing on fabric ($50 worth):

The dyed coral looks good with the glass beads I got in the antique store in Eastland:

Not a lot to show for a lot of shopping, is it?

Technorati Tags: beads,Grapevine,Texas

Vacuuming Cats. Almost Like Herding, But Noisier.

After several days of dyeing fabric, with all its attendant threads and fuzz, and then 5 hours today of going through all the files in the file cabinets and re-doing them, I’d made a big mess in the studio. So when I finally finished, I took out the rugs and shook them and then got out the vacuum cleaner.
The cats hate the vacuum cleaner. They loathe it. Cutie Pie was the only one who’d ever discovered the Joys of Being Vacuumed, and he used to put on a big show about how wonderful it was while the others watched warily from the other room.
I decided this was just silly and that these cats—Lennie Lulu and Moe—were going to learn to love being vacuumed. I figured it would be a long, drawn-out process, over many weeks, with ever-closer approximations of the actual Vacuuming of the Cat.
You know:  you start out by getting the brush attachment and using it to brush that cat when the vacuum isn’t even in the room. You talk to them, you pet them, you brush them vigorously.
Then, when they love the brush attachment, you put the vacuum cleaner as far away as the hose will reach and attach the brush to the hose. More brushing, more petting, more big fun.
Then the hairy part:  turning on the vacuum. You take the brush off and put the vacuum far across the room, turn it on, go to the cat and do the brushing thing.
Years later, they may actually let you brush them with the attachment while it’s on the hose and the vacuum is turned on. It’s worth a try, anyway, because nothing gets rid of shedding fur as neatly and quickly.
The vacuum cleaner was already in the room, and Lennie was lying in the corner, watching it. I said, “You’d better go; you’re afraid of this, remember?” I was going to get up and go get the brush and start Training the Cats, but before I could turn off the vacuum cleaner, she walked over to it, saluted it, and reached her paw out to touch it. She probably wondered if that’s where Cutie Pie is, deep in its little shiny blue bowels.
I went in, got the brush, put it on, turned on the vacuum, and sat down beside her. And she lay down and offered her side to me. I’ve spent the last 20 minutes vacuuming her and her brother, she on one side of me, he on the other. When he thought I’d spent too much time on her, he’d reach over and tap me on the leg.
Just when I think I Know Cats, they amaze me.

Technorati Tags: cats,vacuum cleaner

Road Trip to Grapevine, Texas

Oh, what a lot of fun this one was!
We left here about noon on Friday. Because y’all know we’re not doing The Early Thang. Nope. Not any more. For the first year I went back to school and drove every week to Lubbock, I left the house at 5:00 a.m. Yes:  five o’clock in the morning. Every Monday. Meaning I’d get up at some ungodly hour and be on the road in time to make a 7:30 class. Then for years after that, I got up every morning at 5:30. For years. So:  no. I get up about 7, but I’m not leaving the house for until a Decent Hour.
We stop at Starbucks and fill up our thermoses. Thermi?  It’s one of those comforting little rituals that signal “Road Trip! Woo-hoo!”
Now, theoretically, I’m supposed to be stitching the entire time The EGE is driving. I can get a TON of stitching done on the road. But, see, we’ve got this new Texas Travel Guide, and it’s amazing. We thought we Knew Texas, but, honeys, turns out we don’t know shit. We didn’t know about Turkey, remember? Or Bob Wills Day, or the Hometown of Waylon Jennings, or, oh, just tons of stuff. Tons.
There are all these little towns we’ve never heard of, let alone actually been to. So every time we get out on the road, I’m going through the book, checking out what’s along the route, going, “Hey! You ever been to Dumas?”
The Ever-Gorgeous Earl is not A Typical Driver Guy. You know, a Driver like our dads. Thank you, jesus. I grew up riding across the country in the back seat while my dad drove—I don’t think my mother ever drove—and he drove With a Purpose:  to get where we were going as quickly and safely as possible. This meant he didn’t speed, and it meant he also didn’t stop. You know guys:  they have bladders the size of the Goodyear Blimp, so they never, ever need to stop. If they had a big enough gas tank, they could drive from Chicago to LA without stopping once. Women? Hell, we need to pee as soon as we pull out of the driveway. Think I’m exaggerating? Ask my husband. We leave the house, drive to Starbucks? I have to go pee. Thank goodness Starbucks has Good Restrooms.
Generally. Not always.
The first time I went on a road trip with The EGE, before he was The EGE, I expected the worst. Irritability, grouchiness, silent concentration. He was amazingly cheerful and talkative, but when we had a flat tire on the highway right next to a very dead cat, I thought, “Uh-oh. The jig is up now.” I’m standing on the other side of the car, pretending the cat isn’t there and trying to be invisible, and I hear this funny noise. I peek around the fender, and there’s my boyfriend, changing a tire, singing to himself, happy as could be.
He loves to travel. He loves road trips. There’s hardly anything that can happen that irritates him. Plus he never minds stopping. For anything:  peeing, getting water, having a picnic, taking pictures. Seeing The Home of the World Famous Two-Headed Rattlesnake. We could be sailing down the interstate, and I could go, “Hey, that was The Home of the World Famous Two-Headed Rattlesnake,” and he’d go, “Want me to turn around?”
So he’s driving, and I’m checking out Famous Stuff in Abilene, Cisco, Ranger, Eastland.
And I go, “Hey! Eastland is the Home of Old Rip! How come you never told me about that?”
See, he went to Jr.. college in Cisco, which is like right next door to Eastland. He had a good friend who lived in Eastland, so they went there a lot. And if he went to Eastland a lot, surely he had to have known all about Old Rip. Right? I mean, this horny toad toured the US! He went to the White House and met Coolidge! Surely The EGE knew all about Old Rip.
No. Unbelievably, he had never even heard of Old Rip. Nor had I, but at least I had an excuse:  I had never been to Eastland.
So of course we had to go. First, of course, we stopped at the Russell Stover Outlet in Abilene, where we walk in the door, every time, and the women say, “Hey! Where’ve y’all been?”


They wonder, I’m sure, how people who buy such an incredible amount of chocolate whenever we’re there can possibly not be there all the time, loading up on tons and tons and tons of chocolate.We’re just glad it’s not any closer to home. We’d be the size of the Goodyear Blimp.
Then, The EGE armed with his Road-
Trip Ice Cream Cone, it’s on to Eastland.
It is a surprising little town:  lots of trees, big, old, well-tended houses, remarkably friendly people, some of whom were intent on trying to get us to drive back to Midland, sell our house, pack up everything we own, and move to Eastland to spend our sunset years. Apparently they’re trying to increase their pool of tax-paying citizens as quickly as possible.
We walked around the courthouse:

We admired the brick streets:

We found Old Rip in his velvet-lined, glass-topped casket:


We read the sign:

(I bitched a lot about any town that would have, as its claim to fame, the fact that they walled a horny toad (Texas Horned Lizard,  phrynosoma cornutum) ALIVE, inside a building. Do I believe the story? Honeys, I’m not an atheist to be contrary; I’m an atheist because I’m a skeptic, i.e., I don’t believe much of anything. I do believe that, if you live in a tiny little town and desperately need some kind of Claim to Fame, a 31-+-year-old Rip Van Winkle horny toad just might be your ticket.)


So the sign said to find out more about Old Rip at the Chamber of Commerce, only it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. We asked a young guy who got out of his pick-up and walked up to the courthouse, and he wasn’t sure. But he walked us all around, trying to see which building it might have moved to. He and The EGE talked football championships. Then he called out to another guy getting into a pick-up, “Hey, Judge W, do you know where the Chamber of Commerce moved to?” and the judge, in cowboy boots and jeans and snap-front shirt, pointed helpfully off down the block to the old Connollee Hotel, which at one time must have been fabulous. Now most of it is closed.


So we picked up some more info about Old Rip, and The EGE asked about his friend, Bob Mace. And one of the Chamber of Commerce women said, “Bob’s my brother-in-law,” and picked up her phone and tried to call him. No answer, but still.  This is what it’s like:  you go places, you talk to people, you find people who know people you know, people you used to know, people related to people you used to know. The world is a very small place, indeed. Fabulously so.
We go into a couple antique stores. In one, there’s a guy running around in his socks, trying to sort his mother’s things, including her coin collection. So of course I have to buy some things from him. A string of pink glass beads:

A slice of stalactite from a cave in Mexico (shhhhhh—he thinks he was probably not supposed to have that):

A brooch made out of braided human hair:

Some old coins for The EGE to carry in his pocket with his other Old Pocket Coins. No photos, as they’re In His Pocket already.
Back on the road. We drive to Ft. Worth, where we stop, as always, at the Central Market on Hulen. We love this store. We stock up on Pom Wonderful, The EGE’s Drink of Choice, and buy wine and some stuff from the deli and some fabulous Chilean roses (which we enjoy in our room and then leave with the front desk people when we check out)

and I ride the basket through the parking lot back to the truck—which is scary, as the parking lot slopes and the basket picks up speed and, although I don’t actually say it, my brain is going, “Wheeeeeee!” and “Whoa!”
I stand by and watch The EGE load everything into the cooler—I am so not good at packing that I don’t even try to help. I just stand and hand him things.
And a car pulls up behind us. The window goes down, and the woman driving leans over and says, “You don’t know me, but I know you. I read your blog almost every day.”
I squealed.
This is just the coolest thing in the world to me, and it made my whole day. I firmly believe we can find each other out there in the world, if we pay attention and make it easy for people to recognize us. Jane said she had seen us in the check-out line and knew immediately who we were. Who else could we be? This is My Mission. Or one of them: for us to Find Each Other Out There.
So with me all happy, we drove on to our to the La Quinta at the airport, where I was happy to find that the room was one that has two doors—one into the hallway, and one out onto the grassy landscaped area by the pool, with a window on either side = LIGHT. Most rooms are dark and dreary, but this one was great, and we had the door open most of the time, as they’ve done a really nice job on the plantings and it was all green and happy out there.
Saturday morning we went to the bead show and schmoozed with people we see every year here and in Houston at the quilt show. I love these people—lots of bead people are really, really cool. One young girl left her booth and came up to me. Her head was wrapped in a scarf, and she had on layers of funky clothes, with a leather bag around her waist and big, unlaced boots and a diamond in her nose, and she was gorgeous. She said, “You. Are. Stunning.”
I would have hugged her, but if she was from Somewhere Else, like Up North, it might have frightened her a lot. But, again:  we Found Each Other. I wanted to bring her home with me.
After the Bead-Buying Spree, we headed up Main Street in the cool drizzle. Usually this weekend is hot and dry, so we weren’t really prepared and had to scrounge a hoody and a flannel cape out of the back of the Wizard. On the way to the official Main Street Days festival, we stopped in at a new-to-us wine bar, The Tasting Room, which turned out to be really cool. It’s such a great idea:  they have a Wall o’ Wine—a wall with bottles of wine behind glass, with dispensers. You go in, get a credit card, have them put some amount of money on it. We started with $20. You go up and down the wall, checking out the wine, reading the labels. When you find one you want to try, you insert your card, hold your glass under the spigot of the appropriate bottle,and choose the button:  one ounce, two ounces, six ounces. Or maybe it was 2, 4, 6. All I know is that the smallest amount, which ran in price from $1.80 on up, was about two swallows. Six ounces cost from $9 on up, so it was really kind of expensive. But you’re paying for the technology and the novelty, and we were willing to do that. We put another $20 on the card and tasted lots of wines, and then we had some cheese, sitting out on the little patio on a comfy couch and visiting with some odd guy who was a little miffed when he started to light up and I asked him not to, seeing as how we were there, fully ensconced, when he wandered up. I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to handle this:  smokers think the outdoors belongs to them, and if you’re outside, tough for you. I believe that if we’re there first and settled in, unless it’s labeled as a Smoking Area, then they shouldn’t come up and sit down and light up. I do understand that they feel they should have a place to sit and smoke while they eat, but I disagree:  I don’t think they have the right to smoke in public, period. He complained, at one point, trying to equate my opposition to his smoking to being offended by odors, that he found the odor of our cheese plate offensive. I said, “Yeah, but our brie isn’t carcinogenic.” He left soon thereafter. Weird bastard, anyway.
We finally made our way down to the ticket booths, where we stood and schmoozed with the woman there, admiring each other’s hair (her hair was very short and very, very blond (she was black; we compared dyes)).
We wandered down to Su Vino, one of our favorite wineries. A couple was there selling their homemade cheesecakes, giving samples to try with the wine. So of course we did that, and of course—as always when we sample stuff—we ended up buying half a dozen little cheesecakes and half a dozen bottles of wine.
Then we went out and stumbled upon a good blues band playing on one of the stages, and we sat and listened to them for half an hour. It was fabulous. I bought a CD.
Back to the room to change clothes because my dear husband, the Light of My Life, Soul of My Soul, wanted to go, god help me, to Gilley’s Dallas.
Oh, I do adore him. Indeed. And I do love dancing with him more than just about anything I can think of. But honeys! In my quest to make him happy by going with him to various honky-tonks across the state of Texas, I have put up with some of the most god-awful horrible country western music you can possibly imagine.
A couple of weekends ago we went to a dance here in Midland at St. Stephen’s Catholic Church, where they’d just dedicated the brand-spanking-new Gloria Denham Ballroom. We missed the dedication, but a friend told us about it. Gloria Denham was there, and she told how it had come to be built.
Her accountants came to her and said, “Um, Ms. Denham? You need to spend some money.”
And she goes, “On what?” And they say, “Whatever you want.”
“Well, I’ve always wanted my own ballroom. Do I have enough to build me a ballroom?”
“Yes, indeed. But here’s what you need to do. . .”
She needed to build it and donate it to someone who would pay the taxes (if applicable) and utilities. So who else but the Catholic Church?
It’s a fabulous space, with an excellent dance floor and nice lighting, tables and chairs, a room for a buffet, fabulous restrooms. Just marvelous. And since it’s not on the property of, oh, the First Baptist Church, you can bring beer and wine and whiskey and pretty much anything your little heart desires. Which people do. Boy, howdy.
So we went to a dance there, just recently, and the band. Oh, the band. Now, the playing wasn’t that bad, in a three-guy-country-and-western-band sort of way. It was passable. But the singing! Oy, the singing, the singing. It was quite possibly the worst singing I’ve ever heard, ever, except maybe in the shower, when I’m all alone.
I thought it was the worst Country Western Music Experience of my little life.
Until Gilley’s Dallas. Help me.
I could go into excruciating detail about the horrors of 19-year-old rock guitarists getting a gig on the weekend at a country western bar and faking it, which is easy to do now that they’ve fucked country music unto the lord by doing that whole “cross-over” thing with rock. I could tell you all about that. But I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to rant again today. Instead, I will give you this:
We danced, at Gilley’s Dallas, to a country western version of Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.”
Yes. We did.
Well, we tried:  I was laughing so hard The EGE had to hold me up. It was one more instance of experiencing something so mind-numbingly awful you can scarcely believe you’ll live through it and then going, “Oh, wait:  it’ll be a GREAT story for the blog!” I swear that’s the only thing that saved me. If you think I’m exaggerating, go here. Listen. Now imagine it as a two-step played by a really, really bad band made up of boys who were not yet born when the song came out.
Try not to whimper. It will only scare your animals.
(Anyway, so that’s our road trip. Another stop at another Central Market on the way out of town, a wonderful picnic on the way home. And now back to work.)

Technorati Tags: Gilley's Dallas,Grapevine,road trip

In Which I Rant at the Sheriff. And He’s Someone I Actually Like.

I know I promised you Tales from the Road, but they’re going to have to wait. Because, my darlin’s, I’m convinced this little saga of mine is going to last until the day I die. Really.
For the backstory of My Sordid Past As It Impinges Upon Jury Service, go here. Then come back. I’ll wait.
Last week I got yet another jury summons, as I told y’all. And I circled the part where it says I’m ineligible to serve because I was once a Teenage Thief, and I scribble out the part that says “felon,” hoping that will help keep them from getting confused about the exact nature of My Grave Misdeeds. And I send it to the address on the summons.
And it comes back. It says it’s undeliverable. See?

I double and triple check the address and then heave the great sigh and bundle it up with the mail and the overdue books and the estimate for the roof that needs to be faxed, and I get my super-groovy rainbow umbrella to Thwart the Sun and hike downtown.
I go to the library and pay my fine and once again explain the whole Deal with The Umbrella to the Library Ladies, who think I’m carrying it in case it rains.
There is not a cloud in the whole entire sky.
Not one. They apparently think I am just the tiniest bit odd, kind of like those people who come into the library in a poncho and a bicycle helmet and shoes that do not match and then spend the day talking to themselves in the Oil & Gas section. Or the actual guy they told me about who would show up, day after day, and sit at a table and put Vaseline on himself. Don’t ask. No one knows.
I leave the library and go across the street to the bank to ask Lupe to fax the estimate for me. Since the bank is the lien-holder on the mortgage, this makes perfect sense. Lupe takes it to the fax machine and then comes back and asks, “What number does it go to?” And I take it and look at it and realize I did not type the phone number anywhere on the cover page I so carefully prepared with the “TO:” and the “FROM:”  and the “RE:” and the claim number, all printed so legibly in the big, bold font.
And I just put my elbows on her desk and put my head in my hands, because it’s 3:30, and I walked downtown, and I don’t have time to walk back home and find the phone number and get back to the bank before 4, even if I drive. And the guy at State Farm said he wanted it right away so they can re-figure the roof estimate at the same time they re-do the siding estimate.  Both of these estimates from the contractors were high. Hmmmm. Do you think there might be a little Price Adjusting going on here in good old Midland, Texas, where almost every roof is being replaced and the roofing companies are backed up for months and you see pick-ups with ladders in the back driving up and down the streets, trolling for business, doing estimates for “roofing companies” that, until last month, had been only about storm window installation or, say, garage door openers? You think?
These days? If you’ve got a ladder and a truck and someone who can go down to the border and round you up a crew of workers, you’re in business. Don’t know from roofs? Doesn’t matter:  who’s actually going to climb up on their roof to see if you did a good job? You’re safe until the first good rain, and hell:  that might be another 18 months. You’ll be in New Jersey by then. I actually had one of my neighbors come over and offer to do our roof, saying he had a crew with experience, blah, blah, blah. Never mind that he was The EGE’s student a couple years ago and, technically, works at another job that has nothing to do with roofing. Guess he took some Roofing Correspondence Course from The DeVry Institute or something in his spare time.
So I walk to the post office and mail stuff, and then I walk over to the courthouse.
Once upon a time, I was at the courthouse a lot for murder trials, some for Survivors of Homicide, some for The EGE’s brother’s murder. I liked going there because you always had hope. It was cool and quiet and orderly and everything seemed to be under control, and as long as you were there, things still might turn out OK. And sometimes they did, more or less. As much as something can be “OK” when someone’s still dead.
Then there was 9/11, and Homeland Security and all the big fear, and now there’s a metal detector at the door, manned by a deputy from the sheriff’s department, and going to the courthouse is a royal pain in the ass every single time.
I remember back in the days when there was no metal detector at all unless it was the kind of trial where the families knew each other and had publicly vowed retaliation and A Feud Unto Death, and then they’d set up a little arch detector outside the courtroom. Otherwise? They’d just ask you if you had a gun, and if you said you did, they’d cheerfully  lock it in their little safe until you left for the day.
Not any more. Now they have a permanent set up manned by some guy who’s stuck there all day long, checking briefcases and wishing he’d done well enough to go to Quantico.
Is there anyone more officious and more a snotty little pain in the ass than a sheriff’s deputy? Especially a very short, male, Hispanic sheriff’s deputy in a Republican town on a hot May afternoon? I’ll bet not.
I walk in, and the deputy looks at me like I’m wearing a jail jumpsuit and have “Old Skank” tattooed on my forehead.
Now, this is the point in social intercourse when we West Texans howdy each other, exchanging pleasantries and asking solicitously after each other’s current state of well-being. It is the point in many such encounters when the other person will look at me and ask, “Aren’t you Coach Zachery’s wife?” and we will go from there, often for many, many pleasant moments. So I’m always expecting friendliness.
Call me naive.
“Hi!” I say brightly, laying the umbrella on the conveyor belt.
“Empty your pockets.” No smile, no “Fine, thanks, and how’re you?” Just, “Empty your pockets.”
I’m thinking, “Ooooh, aren’t we testy today?”
I lie. I’m thinking, “My, my. You’re an officious little fuck, aren’t you?”
I empty my pockets.
“Take off those bracelets and your rings.”
Now I’m starting to feel prickly, but I’m staying nice, seeing as how I’m bigger than he is, and I don’t want to frighten him. Because I sometimes do frighten people. The tattoos say things to them that I cannot imagine. I lower my eyes, something that works well with nervous dogs.
“They don’t come off. You’ll have to wand me.” Usually at this point, at airport security or with nicer people at the courthouse, I’ll apologize for inconveniencing them. Not today.
“Cover up the bracelets with your hands and walk through.” This is absurd, as it’s impossible to cover up bracelets on both wrists at the same time.
Go ahead. Try it.
See? [You’ll have read, above, how the last deputy handled this.]
But I go through the motion of trying to cover them up and walk through, telling him that this never works, trying to be helpful and skip the useless parts. He snaps, “I’ll have to wand you.”
I’m thinking, “Wow. What a great idea. You’re brilliant.” I do not roll my eyes. Nor do I snort.
He barks, “Back up! Stand on the ‘X’! Cross your wrists and hold your hands in front of you!”
Now, this is moving into dangerous territory. I, The Jewelry Queen, have been wanded many times, by many people in many circumstances of Security Enforcement, and this whole cross-your-wrists-in-front-0f-you-so-you-feel-like-you’re-in-handcuffs thing is new. And unnecessary. Oh, sure:  I get it. It’s about power and intimidation. Only here’s the thing:  I don’t play that.
At an earlier point in my life, back when I was young and meek and quiet and, well, White, I could be intimidated, often quite easily. Then, over the years, things happened, mostly things having to do with my being with The EGE—you know, being held at gunpoint and having to take people to court and just, at some point, saying, “Screw this.” Because at some point you either cave and give in and keep to yourself and are careful where you go and what you do and try to be as invisible as possible, or you say, “Hey. Wait a minute. I don’t have to put up with this.”
I went with option #2.
Today I’m trying to accomplish a whole list of stuff on my to-do list. I’ve walked downtown juggling books and packages and papers and the umbrella, and it’s hot and I’ve begun to sweat, and some stoned-looking kid has made an illegal turn into the parking lot at the post office and would have run me over if I hadn’t stopped dead in the middle of a step and leaned back out of his way. And I can feel myself bristling, and everything is in slow motion:  I can feel myself becoming hyper-aware and watching to see exactly what this guy is going to do next. It’s like a movie where I’m watching the characters.
I cross my wrists and stand there, not saying anything at all. Normally I would be joking with the guy, but I’m waiting. He comes around behind me and asks, “Why don’t you ever take them off?” Not in a curious, conversational way. Not at all. He’s near my ear, and he says it in a way I don’t like at all.
I pause. I say, “Hmmm. Because I don’t want to. Also because I formed them to my wrist.”
He says, flatly, “They’ll come off.”  He says it as if he’d like to prove it to me. He says it in a way I take as a threat. Or a challenge. He tosses the little tray of my stuff down the conveyor belt toward me and says, “Go take care of your business.”
I lean over and look at his name tag. He sees me do this and snaps, “Gonzales. Ralph Gonzales.”
I look at him and say, “You really need to work on your people skills, sir.”
I go upstairs, deal with the women there, pretty much just like last time (you read about that, above, so we’ll skip that part).
I walk back downstairs, and as I come around the corner, the deputy says to another deputy who’s just joined him at his post, “Never mind. There she is.”
They look at me. The New Deputy says, “How’re you doing?”
“Just fine!” I’m as chipper as Mary Poppins. I get my umbrella and open the door and turn back to look at them. They’re both staring at me, and I give them a big smile and then shake my head, sadly. I already know what’s going to happen next, but I’m guessing they have no idea.
I walk home, get in the car, and within moments am at the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Painter comes out and says, “Hey, girl! Where’ve you been?”  Much Big Hugging—well, duh:  if you look up “West Texas Sheriff” in the Dictionary of Clichés, you’re going to find our 6’ 6” model as the Epitome. You can’t do much better than Gary Painter. Sure, he’s Republican and probably as conservative as they come; but he’s a good man. Survivors of Homicide long ago learned the most human side of law enforcement, and my liberal ass has voted in many, many a Republican primary just to make sure he stays in office. In other words:  my voter’s registration card is stamped “Republican” because of this one guy. That’s what I think of him.
I apologize for bothering him, as I’m well aware he has a lot of Really Important Stuff to do. Like catching The Bad Guys. But sometimes? Sometimes things have to be taken care of, and when I leave, 20 minutes later, Deputy Gonzales has made his way onto the Sheriff’s to-do list.
Let’s just say that it’s not a place I’d want to be.
Because here’s the deal:  I don’t have to put up with this. No one does. It’s like I told Sheriff Painter:  if the guy was rude to me, he’s being rude to other people, too. And nobody has to put up with being treated like this by anyone, especially not a government employee, a Law Enforcement Official, with a gun.
Now, you might argue that I was giving him a hard time by not removing all my jewelry, all the rings and bracelets and earrings and rings on my toes. I would argue that this is not necessary. They have a wand, and they use it on people who have metal that cannot be removed, which includes not just people like The EGE , with pins in his knee, but also people with piercings in places that don’t allow for quick public removal. Think Prince Albert, if you will. People who do this metal-detecting a lot are not fazed by this—when I tell them there’s too much jewelry to remove, they wand me. It’s quick, it’s easy—a lot easier than waiting while I remove several dozen pieces of jewelry. Some sigh and act put out, but they don’t make a big deal about it.
Here’s what I hear in my head, from those Voices We’ve Internalized:  you get what you ask for. If you want people to treat you well, you have to look like you deserve their respect. If you want to be treated like a normal person, you should have thought of that when you got the tattoos and did the hair and decided to walk downtown to the courthouse wearing jeans and a tank top.
This is crap. What I look like is nobody’s business but my own. You can like it, or you can hate it; but it makes no difference in your life:  how I look doesn’t change the amount you pay on your taxes or whether or not your roses have aphids. It won’t raise your health care costs or interfere with your ability to receive HDTV signals. I’m clean, I’m don’t reek, there are no vermin leaping off my body onto yours.
In my rant to The EGE, who listened avidly, as usual, as if curious to see how much I’ve learned, I said that I used to try to blend. Even after I got the tattoos, there were times I’d cover them up:  when I was subbing, for instance:  too disruptive. And when I went to court to settle my mother’s estate. In fact, that was the last time: I walked out of the judge’s office and took off my linen jacket and said, “That’s it. I’m never doing this again.” I’m not ashamed of how I look. My mother hated my tattoos, and she’s dead. My husband thinks they’re fabulous, but he also thinks it’s none of his business how I want to look.
Just one more reason he’s a saint.
On that day when I took off the nice jacket and said “never again,” I meant it. I meant that I’ll be myself, no matter what. It doesn’t matter what other people think about it; it’s not their business. What this means, though, is that I have to be firm in my insistence that people not be allowed to treat me any differently because of the way I look. They can think whatever they want, but how they treat me is another thing entirely. And if I’m going to live my life this way, it’s my responsibility to stand up for myself and—and you saw this coming, didn’t you?—everyone else who doesn’t look like, well, Everyone Else.
Sure, the roots of this lie in all the years of people thinking they knew everything about me, a White Woman with a Black Man, in thinking that that told them all they could possibly need to know about my morals and my intelligence and my values and my purpose on the planet.
It told them nothing, of course.
People suggested, sometimes openly, sometimes sideways, that I could get along if I were careful about where I went and what I did. That there were Certain Places off limits to us, Certain Places we shouldn’t really try to go. Certain jobs we could never have, certain neighborhoods where we could never live. You’ve read that story, about buying this house and one of the many times I refused to go along.
We chose not to live our lives that way then, and it’s still valid:  your life is what you make it by the way you act and the things you do and the way you treat the people around you. It’s not about how you look or whom you love. Society would like to keep us in line by dictating Appropriate Attire and Appropriate Relationships and Appropriate Lives, and it will, if we allow it. But there’s no need for that. “Society” is a skitzy thing, frightened of change, frightened of difference. It needs us all to go along and not rock the boat, to follow the rules so it can more easily find and weed out those who do rock the boat. People argue that all these things are necessary to keep us safe and prosperous and able to live freely.
They are wrong. What is necessary for all of these things is to get over our fear of difference, our fear of change, our fear of Other. What we need is not rules about lives and appearance and choices, but, instead, expectations about how we should  relate to each other. Instead of holding other people to rules about fitting in, we should hold everyone to kindness. To compassion. To doing our best, every day, to smooth the rough edges off our interactions with each other so that we leave each encounter feeling a little better about the space we share.
Am I there yet? No way. But today I took another step. It felt good.

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