Dog Stalker

I know the noun "stalker" has come to mean something, I dunno....negative? But really if you look at the dictionary definition of the root word, stalk (hey I sort of made a plant pun there with root and stalk), well it is a downright appealing word. I will not bore you with the word by word definition, but it includes the following: stealthily, haughty, deliberate, persistent, and stiff--stiff can be good, right? Anyways, "stalk" and "stalker" are even more appealing when you are able to ignore the other descriptives like: menacing, sinister, unlawful, and my personal favorite, derangement.

And speaking of "stalk" and "stalker," I think this would be a great name for a movie, kinda like Dumb and Dumber.

Stalking however it may come into ones life can be freaking cute as hell (http://www.blueq.com/shop/114-catId.117440644_114-productId.0.html) when the persistent and deranged perpetrator is a pug. Seriously. This is my favorite thing about my dog, Iris Iona Bond. I love this animal more than my own hair color. More than my kickass Adidas Bounce black and hot pink cross trainers. More than chocolate chips stuck on a spoonful of peanut butter. OK, maybe not, but you get the idea. I soon learned that after her first vet visit, when Dr. Cruzen explained that pugs are "Velcro dogs," that he was trying to warn me. "Velcro dog" is vetspeak for "psycho killer" (quest que cest.)

Dr Cruzen should have his own show, I swear to gawd. He is like the Mr. Rogers of vets. Sits on the floor and kisses the animals on the mouth and baby talks to them while interspersing copious verbal notes to his young teenage assistants who don't even know what shorthand is but can write in text language like "fixt anl glndz b4 cutg clwz," but I digress.

So for the first, maybe....year and a half I'd say, I thought it was cute when Iris would follow me around like a shadow but more like a shadow with lots of little teeth that are clamped to your pant leg and as you walk forcing you to slightly drag them around. I delighted in her little trick of climbing on my back to hold me down while scratching at the back of my head, growling slightly if I moved. Or breathed too deeply. Or had a thought that was too loud. I know...C-R-E-E-P-Y.

Then one day I was sitting, chillaxin, reading, and looked down to glance upon the warm, fat ball of canine at my feet only to find that she was gazing back up at me, transfixed on my face, glaring into my eyes, nostrils flaring slightly as she heaved quietly. I knew in that moment, that she was saying "I love you, but if I had opposable thumbs, I'd kill you. I'd kill you, cut you up and put you in the deep freeze." It was very puts-the-lotion-on-its-skin. It was only then that I could really see how one could come to enjoy having a stalker. I became aware in an instant that even though they pretend not to, celebrities kind of like it when strangers dig thru their garbage and masturbate in their bushes--I mean who wouldn't?

Oh, I need to make a clarification, or suffer the consequences, but when I referred to my pug as "fat" above, I really mean "large boned", "with winter coat", and "retaining water".

Trashy is as Trashy Does

Saturday is T-Day. Approximately 60 hours and counting. I am kind of ascared, but no way am I telling anyone cuz I am supposed to be so freakin tough. I enjoy very much being both tough and extremely girly. It is a skill you know? You look all sort of petite and like you can't run fast cuz you got on 4 inch wedges and your hair costs more than most people's house payment, but at the same time you know you can also kick a man's ass fair and square without ever stooping to coming near the bawlsaq.

So I decide that a tatt will be sort of tough and will represent me well. I am all about gettin the tatt, right? Then I start to waiver, start to doubt my decision. I decide I need to talk about it, hear myself think out loud--see if I am REALLY ready. Then I hear the words,

"You know, I am not at all interested in that, OK? I do not want to hear you talk about that. It is your body. You do what you want. I mean, if you want spinning hubcaps for your van, then so be it, it is your van go ahead, but I do not want to hear about it." (Imagine right here that sudden sound of music playing and then the record player needle zipping off to one side, a brief scratching noise then silence).

"What?" I say.

The response, "You know how I feel about that" (head turns away for dramatic effect).

Being not completely freaking stupid, I completely am cognizant of what the person really thinks about my potential tattoo but cannot stop myself from forming the words, "No, actually, I don't." Those words plod out of my mouth in slo-mo like it must seem for those unfortunate druggies who smoke mandrax out of bongs or something.

"Well," the person replies "it is trashy, don't ya think?"

Well butter my ass and call me a biscuit. Wow, that NEVER occurred to me (sarcasm) let me rethink my choice and THANX soooooooooooooo much for that incredible insight. Even thinking this I replied, "Hmmm...O.K."

Listen anything can be trashy. I hate to sound all Forest Gump (kick ass sound track BTW) but trashy is as trashy does. I could install a pole in my living room, stick cucumbers slices across the unspeakable parts of my upper womanliness, throw on a thong and 8 inch patent leather stilettos and spin endlessly while the neighbors tossed dollars at me, and still, I would not be trashy, mmmmmkkkkaaayyyy????? Let me tell you what "trashy" is. Trashy is throwing a person you are supposed to love under the bus. Trashy is abandoning a person in body and spirit when they need you most. Trashy is begrudging a person an enviable life that they have damned well earned because you have issues that you cannot keep contained.

I could go on, but I choose not to. I could forgo the tatt, but I choose not to. My tatt has a lot of symbolic meaning to me which I guess is why this is such a bailiwick. My idea was to get a lizard because they can shed their skin, rejuvenate a lost tail, change colors to adapt to their environment, are widely misunderstood and under appreciated, require a warm climate, but can survive the coldest winter only to reemerge victorious at the thaw. Although silent, they are expressive and in great numbers, can eradicate most garden pests. I think of the lizard as a symbol of metamorphosis, of my metamorphosis.

So if there was any glimmer of doubt that I was going to show up at Elektra Art in Ingleside this Saturday morning with 12 of my dearest friends to celebrate my inner and outer changes I can tell you that hesitancy peeled away when I heard "trashy."

Scavenger Hunt

Last night a friend was talking about the music she wanted at her funeral, so we got to chatting about funeral requests.

The first thing that came to mind for me was a scavenger hunt. I like to create elaborate scavenger hunts for every possible occasion. I have been doing it for years. Rhyming clues that are themed with the party. I like to arrange it all in various ways. My fave is to hide the clues in balloons, then hide the balloons too. The hunters have to pop the balloon to get the clue--good for lots of screaming and excitement.

Anyways, so I am thinking why I have such a penchant for scavenger hunts. I am thinking this may have to do with the fact that because I am lost and also that I am seeking. Maybe I am just expressing some need.

This is when it sux to be a counselor. To be overly analytical. Sux.

I am going to have to work on the theme and the prize a little. Maybe I can make a gourd in my likeness, put it in a little coffin and allow the funeral guests to search for it by uncovering little clues. I can see it now. People dressed in black, trotting around the cemetery looking for clues.

Oh, well that won't work. I am donating my body to science. Wow, well that gives me lots of new ideas....

My Moral Turpitude

I had a rather interesting and enlightening convo with my sis n law the other day. She made a good point regarding some of my blogs and accompanying pics. She stated, quite reasonably, that I put myself at risk when I ride the edge, or go over it through word choice, pics of gestures, messages that are harsh and can be taken the wrong way.

Solid advice and points all well taken.

But..and you knew there was one....I am tired of being repressed. I thought about this for hours and hours after our conversation, and here is the deal. I will have to step up and own things I say and do. I may be over the edge, my language when I am ticked is foul--ask anyone who knows me--I will make threats and warnings (but I make good on them--I will give myself that. If I threaten you, guess what? I am not joking). I am human and I would like to be genuine as well. I just cannot put on airs any longer, let people mistreat me and do nothing, express nothing. Nope, I just am not going to do it any more.

So if my words and ideas defy moral turpitude, then so be it. This stance is subjective at best and I have up until recently allowed this concept to imprison part of my spirit. I also have first amendment rights to say what ever the heck I want.

In short, if my blog offends you, then don't fucking read it.

"Well behaved women rarely make history." Laurel Thatcher Ullrich

Mischief

So I finished my first professional gourd sale and mailed it off today. It is a cat clown/Pierrot called Mischief.

So does one sale make me a professional artist or just a cool artsy chick? Well it is not the first one I have sold, just the fist one sold to a person who is not connected to me in any way, just thru the art.

Man, I am kind of a big deal now.

Small Minded People and Liars

Small minded people suck and people who lie to others whom they supposedly care about should burn in a special hell. I could stop here and have said what I came to say, but then what would be the fun in that really?

Let us start with small minded people. You know the pouty, foot-stomper people in the next cube or office over from you at work? Yes, that guy. The one who works their passive aggressive magic on all of the other small minded people in a sort of social war tactic against those of us who are a lot better than that. See, this "mean girl" network is the only weapon of those who are weak in both mind and spirit and often times body as well. Well, fair warning to all of you and you know who you are. I am going to kick your fat asses in more ways than one.

Now that I am sufficiently warmed up, let me take on liars. You know the kind that lie to you so that they can in turn lie to themselves. You end up just being a vehicle really for their battle against themselves and their own shortcomings. That is what hurts--the whole human toilet feeling. Like someone has taken your feelings and flushed them down the toilet, but this person is akin to someone who lives in the sticks not the city, so your emotions do not travel thru the city works, get purified and ultimately survive to go back thru the proverbial city plumbing system only to travel thru yet another person. No this asshole has a fuking septic tank and guess what? Yep, your emotions get to sit and stew in that aromatic quagmire. Gee, thanx so much for that.

Aesop Rock has a song called "No Regrets." It is a really killer song about a girl called Lucy who lives her life as an artist and cares little for much else because she is passionate about art and expression and positive things. When she is a girl, the other kids don't "get" her. They mess with her, say mean things and she responds to their inane requests to get her to do things with "I'm busy, thank you much" and continues to draw her cityscape in chalk on the sidewalk for a whole city block. When she stops they say tauntingly "You're just giving in" and she says "I'm not giving in, I'm finished" and she walks away.

As a young woman, other young women invite her to lunch more because they are gossipy and nosey and not so much cuz they like her. They think she is weird--a novelty. Lucy tells them "I'm busy, thank you much" and then the song states, "While they spread their rumors thru the streets, she made another masterpiece."

As an old woman in a nursing home, she tells the nurse "Look, I never had a dream in my life because a dream is what you want to do but still never pursue. I knew what I wanted and did it until it was done so I've been the dream that I wanted to be since day one." She then blows a kiss to each of her pictures, then she dies.

So to all you complete and utter bitches who in all honesty I do not think are good enough to be breathing my air "I'm busy, thank you much."

Vixen

I made a new gourd for the annual Chula X-mas extravaganza where we smoke, drink, say "bawlsaq" a lot and generally act very unladylike. So anywayz, I make one of my sculptures as my gift for the fuk-u-beeyotch-I-am-stealin-ur present gift exchange we do. You know where you can pick from under the tree or steal someone else's gift?? The deal is that once one has been stolen 3 times, it is frozen and not even the number 1 person can steal it back in the end.

I get a bottle of wine that Allison has had labeled special so that it says "Chula Ballsaq" with a caption that reads "Here's to getting really drunk." DeLaine gets some x-mas thongs from Conn, Conn gets the baby Jeezus, Mary and Joseph lantern sculpture and guess what? She's Jewish, and Gerlich gets the 25 days of x-mas shot glass/candle holders--yeah right you can put a tea light into anything and call it a "candle holder." The list goes on, but you get the picture.

So my gourd gets stolen 3 times and frozen and I was so flattered by that. At the end of the party, I took a pic of my gourd reindeer in her box before Emma took her home. I was really sad. I was thinking how attached I get to the sculptures sometimes. How there is a piece of me in each one of them and that they are really actually quite personal. Then I realize that the sadness is also in part because the party is over. This is the end of another year and the party that we all wait all year for is now at a close. It is bittersweet really because every year, we get closer in this group of friends that we call chulas. Our own ya-ya sista hood. You start to wonder with every passing year if we will be 65 years old sitting in Diane's living room laughing and cussing and eating chimichurri and sushi.

I hope so.