Lessons in the real world

I had to go in for jury duty this week and I was really ticked off about it. Not because I don't feel a civic responsbility to participate in the process, but because I did, in fact, do my duty with our call in system in this state. The last summons I received (until this recent nasty-gram) was almost two years ago. As required, I registered by phone and dutifully called every evening as required to see if my group had to report. At the end of the week, I was informed by the nice bot voice that I was free as a bird, my duty complete. Six months later I receive a nasty postcard that suggested I was in big trouble for blowing off jury duty and I'd better call and fix this mess. I phoned, and explained that I had dutifully called every lousy day, then called my boss to her know I'd be in the next day, blah blah blah. I still had my old calendar with all of the details which sufficiently convinced the jury duty lady that I was telling the truth. She noted they had no record of my efforts, to which I asked what kind of record either one of us might have given that it's a phone-in system! When I asked how we could fix this, she said she'd just throw my name back in the pot and I may get summoned in as soon as six weeks. I was willing to do it again just to avoid even the appearance of not following the rules. This is what you do when you are the daughter of an Air Force drill seargent that beat the crap out of you for seventeen years...you follow rules come hell or high water in the hope of diverting attention or trouble. The next summons I received was a year later, last month, which basically read "You are in really, really big trouble and you no longer get to call in. You get to COME in to the scariest ghetto Superior Court on this particular day and time!"

On the day I reported, I got lost AND was late. I am never late. I was terrified, even at my age, that I was going to get my behind chewed by a judge, both for being late and for supposedly dodging jury service. Neither happened.

What did happen was that I was fortunate enough to meet a woman who lived, as she called it, "in the 'hood." We talked all day about her experiences with prejudice. I found our conversations enlightening beyond anything I expected. I marveled at her ability to relay these stories in such a calm manner. I personally would have been a sobbing heap of anger had I ever had to deal with the circumstances she relayed. There are so few miles between our homes, but our lives are so very different. While I have always appreciated the fact that I grew up so incredibly poor and had a really, seriously crappy get-beat-at-least-weekly childhood, I got out of that mess. This woman and her husband are raising two children in a neighborhood where gunshots are heard frequently. She told me it's much better, with gunfire heard only about once a month now as opposed to the previous daily experience.

That's the real world. I am grateful for my life. I am grateful for the experience. Thank you, Naisha.

Reasons for finishing the studio

Last week I discovered that my 62 year old aunt is dying of cancer. I can't keep up with the politically correct phrase du jour so, knowing that I'll offend someone, I'll just say that she is mentally handicapped or challenged. Sheila is like an upbeat six year old, having successfully completed public school, married a man with similar challenges (who has since passed away) and has held a job (albeit subsidized by the government) for her entire adult life, rightfully proud of her accomplishments. Her social worker, group home staff and Hospice worker told me that she was well aware of her illness and the expected outcome. But when I visited her, she told me that she was going to "fight this thing" because she had a lot more living to do. For her, living has been simple, but enough to be content. Other than her job, she has never had any hobbies or any friends outside of work. Life has been pretty much sitting and looking out a window, but that has been enough for her to be very, very happy. I wish life were that simple for me sometimes.

I started thinking about how happy she's always been, just sitting in a room and listening to people chat (chiming in every now and again, but that was rare). You could see her mind start to wander when she was no longer able to follow the conversation, just sort of tuning out and looking away. I thought of how much time I've spent tuning out and not really doing anything to make myself happy when I have the luxery of the time and the means to do something about it. I don't want to wait until the big tick-tock of life's clock is gonging louder and louder with the alarm about to go off, too late and wishing I had done more. I told Sheila about how I had quit work to pursue more time with art, which she thought was just great.

I felt like such a big phony and realized it was time to kick myself in the behind, stop talking about it and do something.

Today I picked the colour for my studio. I've made some lemonade, put on ugly clothes and am going into the room that had housed my youngest one for so many years and I'm scrubbing the walls so I can paint them this week. The internet provided a lot of motivation as I was able to see the studios of a number of other artists, and I'm ready to go. Yeehaw!

Then, I'll make something for Sheila.

No wings or stupid party hats!

If I make anything at all that incorporates wings and a stupid party hat, someone shove me in front of a bus.

Back to art, as scary as it is

I left my office job in July of this year with three goals in mind - be a more hands-on mother so my son could have a more normal and happier childhood than I did, have a home that is more organized and clean so we don't spend weekends trying to convince ourselves that our errands, if done together, are quality family time, and to get the ball rolling on my art. I've managed to do a better job of the first two, but continue to put my art on the back burner. I refuse to wait until New Years Day to declare my intention to stop that and will begin today.

Cruising around the internet for motivation for studio designs, I stumbled on the sites of other artists. I am starting to feel the wriggles of confidence in my work when I see that of others. Not that their work isn't good; I've always believed that art is created in part out of the compulsion to create, not for commercial success or the kudos of those who look at the work. But I start to feel just a hint more as if I may really have a skill for which I don't always have to apologize. Lord, I hope I'm not going to make an enormous ass of myself by showing others my stuff.

Two years ago I attended an art-for-sale show that I saw advertised in a popular magazine. There had been many articles over the years on some of the artists who would be showing/selling that day, so these were not casual home crafters. I found one artist whose work was absolutely fascinating. The pins, or brooches, were painted in magnificent detail on a thin material and then coated with what appeared to be a very thick layer of transparent acrylic...something like that. While I was absorbed in looking at every single piece, two older and very unkind women stopped, looked, and started sputtering about how they "would never pay these prices for this kind of stuff," along with other rude comments. I couldn't stand it and asked them if they were aware of the fact that the artist was sitting right there in front of us. They just stuck their snotty noses in the air and grumbled as they walked away. After I got over the shock, I looked at the artist and asked her how she keeps from bursting into tears when someone is so blatantly critical of her work, and she replied that she's just gotten used to it and realizes her taste in art isn't always going to be the same as that of those who are looking. Still, I can't get over how rude people are these days. Oh, and I bought three of her pieces. So there, old bats!

Time to work on thicker skin. That, and building a potato launcher for defense attacks when insulted so harshly. I suppose I could be arrested for assault. Maybe I could just stash really foul perfume to zap insulters with as they pass. That could be fun. Project of the day: select studio paint colour. Woohoo!

Politics and Kids (Republicans, move to next entry!)

The following article was sent to me via email from my sister-in-law. There seemed to be no point to applying mascara on election day or after reading this. I've cried it off more than once (happy crying):

The Next President
Morning-After Pride
Laurence H. Tribe 11.05.08, 12:30 PM ET

I am watching the sun rise over Lake Michigan in the land of Lincoln on this new day in America. This is the morning after a great divide in the biography of the United States. As a nation, we have come of age.

I flew to Chicago on Tuesday afternoon to witness history as the United States of America went to the polls on Election Day, 2008. Hours later, as President-Elect Barack Obama spoke in Grant Park to claim his victory before a great throng of supporters and an eagerly listening world--almost exactly 40 years after the chaos of 1968--I felt myself in the flow of time, a minor participant in a great saga punctuated by events that shaped my life, as it shaped the lives of so many others.
The year 1968 was, for me and most of my friends, a year of tragedy and disillusion. Through the years that followed, years punctuated by Watergate and Vietnam and by decades of political polarization and paralysis, politics was the game that disappointed. Yesterday it was the game that delivered. The work of governing lies ahead, but the sun is rising and the challenges we face--in reconstructing a broken economy, restoring a threatened constitution, ending a misguided war and waging a necessary one, starting to heal a wounded planet--look from here like opportunities to be seized, not obstacles to be feared.

How different this feels from the crazy election of 2000, brought to an abrupt and puzzling end by the Supreme Court's ill-starred decision to stop counting the ballots, when another new president was installed to preside over a nearly dysfunctional country. Having served as counsel before the court to the losing candidate during that sad chapter in our democratic trajectory, I returned to ordinary life but wondered when, if ever, I could fully believe in the process again.
As the decade progressed, the most impressive student I had ever taught was quietly pursuing his own political trajectory. In 1989, I had met Barack Obama and hired him as my research assistant while he was still just a first-year Harvard law student. His stunning combination of analytical brilliance and personal charisma, openness and maturity, vision and pragmatism, was unmistakable from my very first encounter with the future president.

I thought about that encounter as he and his wife Michelle each gave me a hug in one of the off-stage tents in Grant Park last night. I recalled it as I found myself unable to express in words my sense of gratitude and of possibility. The president-elect and the first lady-designate both thanked me for the part I had played in Barack Obama's education and his rise to power, but it was I, of course, who owed thanks to them, thanks for the journey on which they had embarked to reclaim America for all who dare to hope.

There will be countless efforts to dissect their improbable path from that cold winter morning in Springfield, Ill., nearly two years ago--when a still-new senator from Illinois announced his candidacy for the highest office in the land--to the unseasonably warm evening in Chicago when that quest reached its climax and when those who had led it confronted the daunting challenges of actually governing. This is not another attempt at such dissection. Nor is this another post-mortem on the failed efforts of president-elect Obama's more than formidable foes. It is simply a personal note to commemorate a milestone in a great nation's history.

As an immigrant to the United States, born in Shanghai to Russian Jewish parents who brought me with them when they settled in California in 1947, I have always felt great pride--both in that ancestry and in the gift of citizenship conferred on me by the nation that went on to provide me with such extraordinary opportunities--to thrive and to give something back for all that I have been given. My pride in that citizenship has never been greater than it is today. Truth to tell, I find myself unable to stop smiling, just as last night I found it difficult to stop crying.
Barack Obama's unique ability to explain and to motivate, coupled with his signature ability to listen and to learn, and linked with the calm that marked his nearly flawless campaign, will serve him--and all of us--well as we grapple with as daunting a set of problems as the nation has faced in three-quarters of a century. It is of course true that only time will tell just how successful this brave, brilliant and caring man will be in charting a new course for the country, something that will depend only partly on decisions that Obama will make as president.

But one thing is already certain: The very fact of Barack Obama's election at this defining moment--quite apart from the programs he pursues and the ways in which he pursues them--already speaks volumes to everyone on the planet. His election in and of itself displays how dramatically America has moved to transcend the divisions of its past and bids fair to give us a new lease on life in a world that had come, and not without reason, to see us in an awful light--a world that will now give this nation a fresh look and a second chance.

The sun is now high over Lake Michigan. It is a new day in America. We can do this. Yes, we can.

My teenage son was perplexed on election night, watching me cry until my napkin was soggy in joy and celebration of some hope for this country with the election of Obama. During the past several months, we pressed hard for him to watch the debates and listen with an open mind to both candidates, reinforcing our responsibility as citizens to participate in the election. I reminded him frequently that he was watching something that he would appreciate more years from now – the possibility of a black man or a woman in the White House for the first time in this nation’s history. When election material arrived in the mail with Democratic/Obama-related stickers, he asked if he could have them for his trumpet case. They prompted a lot of discussion at school. Imagine, 7th and 8th graders actually excited and involved (from both sides) in political debate. That’s new.

On election day, his school band and orchestra performed at Disneyland for the last time. I struggled with trying to figure out my schedule for the day - I wanted to see him and video the performance for Dad (he never got to see either of the kids play there), but also needed to get back in time to vote. I left the park midday, and made it to the polls by 2:30. I was worried because there was no line as predicted by the media, afraid that voters were daunted by the threat of waiting in long lines in the rain. Californians lose their minds in rain. When I got home and turned on the news, I grew misty eyed again, watching reports of massive numbers at the polls. My son called from the bus for news of the election, but it was too soon to tell. When the polls closed on the East coast and the electoral votes began being reported, I phoned my son and gave him the figures. He held the phone away from his ear and yelled to everyone on the bus, “Obama’s winning!” There were a lot of cheers on the bus. Thus the adults made the kids turn off their phones (party poops!) to keep the uproar to a minimum as they traveled home.

I cried during the speech at Grant Park. I cried in gratitude for the hope that things may improve, proud to have taken a tiny part in the move for change. My “I Voted” sticker is fuzzy and useless now, but the stickers on my son's trumpet case, for as long as they last, will be a reminder of this historical day.

"About Me" is never quite right.

I found a couple of old entries from my first sad attempt at a blog and imported them so that I didn't lose the memories. I'm getting older and this is becoming an increasing worry.

I'm never happy with the content of the "About Me" section. Reading it again got me thinking about everyone who puts so much of themselves on these sites. Who is really going to read this stuff? I started thinking about what I would put down in words, were there no limit to the number of words and no one I know reading them, to describe myself really honestly. Honesty blows sometimes, but I'm going to try.

What would friends or family say about me? I think all of my friends and family would say that I'm really funny (OK, not here, but in real life!), creative, really happy about helping other people just for the sake of helping, and a hard worker. I believe there is a huge difference between "I can't" and "I'm not willing to bother long or hard enough to figure it out." If I could teach myself how to install electrical outlets, hardwire light fixtures and replace damaged subfloor, underlayment and vinyl flooring, why could no one in the office figure out how to get paper unjammed in the copier? When my husband decided he wanted to go to Paris for his big birthday trip, I learned as much French as I could cram in my head in two months and did quite nicely (even complimented by the owner of the most shishi restaurant in Paris). I am the queen of common sense, problem solving and driving shortcuts. I'm religious about following road rules - I'll stop at a red light on a one way street in the Mojave Desert at 3 a.m. regardless of any witnesses. I go privately berzerk over bad drivers and people who break driving laws. I am polite and wish more people had good manners. I talk too much. Way too much. I'm amusing, but I still talk too much. And I'm much too verbose in my writing as well, but I'm doing this for me so I'm not going to care or hold back! My best friends and children would agree completely. I live for the holidays, decorating every square inch of my house. There are not enough of those jello-like window clings for my house!

If I'm going to be entirely honest about myself, I must admit that I have little patience for people who don't do things the way I believe is right. It's hard not to say "I told you so!" when I have the opportunity. Argh! I am annoyed with having to say the same thing four times because no one listened the first three times I said it in a normal volume. Why does the husband who complains about always hitting all the lights red insist on taking the route with the most traffic lights? I am listening to my son with his trumpet tutor, who still thinks it's funny to sound like an elephant in a Disney cartoon. I'm grumpy.

I've rambled. I think it's a ploy to avoid the grocery store. This is much easier, and there's no mess to clean up afterward. Alas, I must cook so that they don't die...

I hate cooties!

Not the kind from which we run on the playground when we're eight years old, but the kind that the grown man gets at this time of year. Wives and girlfriends, you know what I mean. I just get cranky. I don't mind bringing him tea or running to the store to get tomato soup and Kleenex. I start getting annoyed after the tenth sneeze that comes out like a lion's roar, causing windows to shake and neighbors' car alarms to start honking wildly. I believe the cat's whiskers were blown from their faces with the force of the sound waves alone. Good god! I suggested to him in a less-than-sensitive tone that I doubted very seriously that he would sneeze like that in a board meeting. He looked wounded, as if I questioned the degree to which he is suffering, at deaths door. With a cold. OK, he's diabetic and his numbers run higher which makes him more tired, but sheesh - that's why he has the harpoon. It's just a cold. Not the plague, and certainly not an excuse to holler/sneeze such that the neighbor's consider the need to call 911 for the banshee that is surely being brutalized in our house.

No artwork done today. Ah well.

What to blog...

Paranoid that I might be a snoozer of a blogger, I spent some time this morning (one day after creating my blog) with a cup of cooling coffee (yuckers) to cruise through other blogs. I've decided I'm much more entertaining and feel ever so much better! There are some very odd blogs out there. Not all of them. There was one I found intriguing in that the author leads an out of the ordinary life, involved in both domestic and foreign politics while living abroad. Alas, I can only be amused by photos of people I don't know and places I can't identify (language barriers, I fear) for so long before I zip along to the next blog. I read one about a very young teen mother and new wife and am glad it isn't me. There are a lot of "artists" online. I found another site - I believe it was in Italian - with a lot of photos of garbage lining the streets and a Socialist Party gathering.

I won't be posting photos of garbage, political gatherings or my cats. I have cats, but no one outside of our immediate family cares, so I'll spare blog surfers the pics.

Today's topic of thought is the wicked, evil bathroom scale. Not all of them are wicked, but mine is at the top of the list. I quit my office job a couple of months ago to pursue art. I'm not fabulous, but I do ok. Since leaving work, I'm eating better and working my butt off renovating rooms of the house so that I have a real studio again. I think I sweat off about two pounds a day. I have that and then some to spare. So I toss on a shirt that has been a little snug since I bought it (it's amazing what really tight underwear can do to make it fit just a little better) and was thrilled to find it a little flowy, not so snug around the hips. I race to the scale, sure I'm going to see that I've lost at least five pounds since I started having Lean Cuisine's for lunch every day instead of burgers, giant salads or chicken strips, and the freakin' piece of crap says I weigh two pounds more. Bull crap! So now I'm pissed. And I'm hungry, and my coffee is cold, and I feel like I can't go get my fewer-than-five-times-a-year Starbucks spiced pumpkin latte that is finally back in season. Argh! I think my scale will be joining the garbage stack.

Transitions

I got married right out of high school and just three months after I turned 18. I have been a working wife and eventually mother for most of these years. I put my husband through graduate school, the benefits of which we reap together and for which I have no regrets. I took a few chunks of time to step out of the suit world and played Betty Crocker - I was a Girl Scout leader and camped (camping is dirty and has bugs!) because my daughter wanted to be a Girl Scout, I followed trains (it took the engineer a couple of intersections before he realized he was being followed) because my son loves trains, decorated the house like crazy for the holidays and put an end to celebrating major holidays away from home so the kids could enjoy them more, and I have always tried to make the kids' (and husband's) friends feel welcome in our house. I'm not sure the kids see history through the same coloured glasses that I do. I think I've been a hard parent, always the disciplinarian while Dad got to be the friend. I view my job of teaching them to be fully functioning and independent adults as my primary job and my methods, having had such a glorious example of what NOT to do growing up, have not always been wise or helpful. How I wish I could turn back the clock and do it again, better...

So I'm starting off with a blog while I work through my demons. How many times will I backspace and edit before I'm bold enough to select "Publish Post?"

Step one.