Lost — in Plain Sight

Posted on June 15, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Hidden Lake, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I am on a Most Wanted list.

Actually, it’s more like the Lost and Found of my high school alumnae committee, which for the last 30 years has experienced monumental difficulties in tracking me down and verifying my existence. It’s kind of exciting — as if I’m Sydney Bristow of Alias, with this amazing ability to change my hairstyle and persona as I jet set from one fabulous nightclub to another.

The members of the committee, in their cute cheerleader skirts or rumpled football jerseys, follow my antics on high powered computer software but are simply incapable of keeping up with my constant, surging movement, and they lost me somewhere in Tunisia or Morocco when I slipped out the back way, foiling their nefarious attempts — again — to send me information about the upcoming reunion festivities.

Oh, Reality Check.

I’ve never been in a nightclub. Or a pink wig. And I don’t know where Tunisia is.

I live 30 miles away from the high school in question, but to give the committee some credit, people do move away and change their names and alter their make up brands and renovate their wardrobe and stuff. I myself have changed my glasses frames several times since high school.

It’s just that, I’m not that difficult to find.

Chief Joseph Mountain, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

In a spirit of helpfulness and generosity, however, I feel moved to offer these hapless and overworked volunteers a few pointers in my direction, and in the hopes that at least one or two graduates from a class of 500 might have gone on to successful careers in the FBI or CIA, I herewith assemble a series of subtle clues:

Subtle Clue #1: I have an odd maiden name. In a town of 50,000, we were the only family with that name. (By the way, you might check the spelling on it — I am incontrovertibly sure that it was spelled correctly on my diploma and in the official records; it does not, however, appear to be so on your records. Perhaps this has something to do with our little problem?)

Subtle Clue #2:  I write a column every two weeks in the local newspaper, using my married name — which, amazingly, (Clue #3) the committee has. (Not so amazingly, it turns out: ten years ago, when they couldn’t find me for my 20th reunion, I wrote a committee member with my maiden name, married name, present address which is still my address since I haven’t moved in that ten-year period, and phone number. Dang. I knew I should have included more complete information.)

Tropical Medley, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Subtle Clue #4: My mother — with that odd last name — lives in the same house that I lived in all during not only my high school years, but junior high, elementary school, and kindergarten. She gives out great treats at Halloween.

#5: My brother — with that odd last name again — is a member of the school board.  He might remember me. Given the stories that he has to tell about his high school days, I’m pretty sure that his own alumnae committee remembers him.

I think that’s it.

I know it’s not much. It is interesting to note, however, that should I ever decide to do something truly appalling, such as use an incandescent light bulb instead of a compact fluorescent, thereby compelling me to purchase a ticket to Argentina and live out my life in exile,  I should do just fine remaining where I am, in plain sight, since I am apparently invisible, a condition that aptly encapsulates and describes my overall high school experience.

Mercifully, those were not the best years of my life.

Last Light in Zion, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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She Was a Good Doggy

Posted on June 9, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Tropical Medley, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

You’d think that a brand new baby and two squabbling older children would be enough to keep a person busy, but for some reason, after the Son and Heir was born, I had this driving desire to get a dog.

A puppy, of course, to match the baby theme — an 11-month old Golden Lab hybrid, starved and neglected by an owner whose only beneficent act was to dump her off, pregnant and sick, at the animal shelter.

(We suspected this reprobate human was an electrical meter reader, since these were the only people toward which Brandy, a dog who loved all of God’s creatures excepting cats, showed any hostility. I’ll never forget the sight of the meter reader leaping over our backyard chain link fence, Brandy’s bared teeth inches from the seat his pants.

Should have called first.)

Brandy chewed the baby’s toys, noshed the heads of the older siblings’ Barbies, stole butter softening in the bowl for cookies, grabbed leftovers off of the counter, inhaled anything and everything other than my mother-in-law’s sweet potato casserole.

The first day we got her, I left the kids with the Norwegian Artist, dutifully snapped on the leash, and went for the inaugural walk to the park, where somehow, when I blinked for a fraction too long, our newest family member clamped her mouth shut around a dead duck.

Geese on the Snake, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Great.

Do you know how town people react when a dog trots by with a duck dangling from its jaws?

“Drop it,” I commanded.

Brandy clamped down harder.

So I pulled on the thing, Brandy pulled the other way, and I found myself with the foot of a dead duck in my hand.

And so we were inaugurated, incorporating Brandy into daily walks that involved Son and Heir and Flaxen Girl in the double stroller, Eldest Supreme on the princess bicycle, and a studious avoidance of the duck pond. No matter how subtle we thought we were, Brandy always picked up on the signs that we were ready for the daily stroll, to the point that she not only recognized the word “Walk,” but also W-A-L-K.

When we moved to the country, Brandy added chickens, goats, gophers and deer to her repertoire of acquaintances — any ideas that we had that Brandy would chase the deer  from our garden were banished the first day when she resolutely refused to look in their direction, pretending, instead, that they were 180 degrees opposite.

Deer Above Dixie, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

“This is not a guard dog,” the Norwegian Artist sighed.

Not remotely. While Brandy — like most Labs — was exemplary in her slavish, groveling desire to please Master, she never actually did anything — other than the daily walk — that Master needed done.

She did not chase neighbor dogs off the property because she didn’t “see” them. Ditto the aforementioned deer. All strangers were friends, unless they looked scary, in which case Master was in charge.

What Brandy lacked in bravery she made up for in sheer gluttony and greed, raiding the garden compost for anything edible and chasing the chickens from their scattered feed. Every year during hunting season, Brandy found and dragged back some discarded deer body part — generally an entire leg.

While this may have seemed like a windfall to her doggy brain, it was actually a curse, since she was obliged to stand 24-hour guard over the remains of the remains. Encircled by cats and chickens, she lunged and growled and looked as fierce as a droopy brown-eyed adult puppy could muster.

But Brandy was a gentle, lovable creature — a family pet that not only put up with the exuberance of children, but actually exhibited a protective aura around them — whose only major fault was an unfortunate taste for all things that were not dog food. In her later years, Brandy stumbled upon a horse tarp with animal feed bread that we were drying for the goats — I think that dog thought she’d died and gone to doggy heaven.

Eventually, she did. Fifteen years old, deaf, blind, and too tired to do more than snort when we headed off for the daily walk, she curled up one summer day under the arborvitae bush where she had dug herself a deep hole and went to sleep.

The Norwegian Artist prepared her grave, scooped her up in his arms, and set her down for her final rest. There is no headstone, but if there were, it would read:

“Brandy: She was a Good Doggy.”

Mill Creek Farm, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Mouth of the Grand Canyon — Mine

Posted on June 6, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Joseph Canyon, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I really do need to learn to manage my mouth one of these days.

Actually, since my social faux pas was on an e-mail, I suppose it’s my fingers that need the blocking, but truth be told, I don’t feel particularly bad about speaking my little mind.

It all started with an invitation to a virtual female bonding event featuring my least favorite Perky Blonde, 11 DVD-fests in all and only $15 for Blondie’s retirement account, er, book.

For some reason, I lack the genetic DNA to sit in a circle and listen to one or two members of a group drone on and on about how they feel about what we have all just endured. It’s bad enough languishing through 90-minutes of gently breathed platitudes on my attitude of gratitude, and I figure that, if I’m decent enough to not let the others in the circle in on my thoughts about our recent ordeal, then maybe they could do the same for me.

This goes a long way toward explaining why I do not participate in these group activities.

It does not, however, explain why I keep getting invited to them.

“Are you venting?” the Norwegian Artist asked when I read aloud the initial few paragraphs of this piece.

“Not at all.”

Actually, I already vented, shooting off my digital mouth to the person who sent me — and 232 others, according to the recipient line (I couldn’t even find myself) — the invitation to, on a weekly basis, sit in a carpeted chair in front of a flat screen TV and listen to Ms. Sparkle twitter and twinkle about my life, and her life, and how the things she has to say will make my life look more like hers, with the exception of the royalty payments.

Bainbridge Island Sail-by, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Most of the time I am reasonably circumspect with these requests, hitting the delete button or at most replying “No thank you,” but this time I felt compelled to elucidate.

“I can’t stand this woman,” I wrote, plus a bit more. “I’m not sure how you found me, but please take me off your list.”

This, my hostess did, explaining who she was (Oh, God — we know one another) and why I was on the list (in a moment of insanity I told her she could put me there; maybe I should work on my listening skills as well) and that she didn’t mean to offend me (I feel like dirt), and that our kids know one another (what do I  say the next time we meet?).

It reminded me of the family story when an anonymous female relative was attending some posh canape and shrimp salad event and snatched at some unattached elegantly coiffed society grande dame to chit chat with.

“Look at that young man’s hair!” Anonymous Relative exclaimed. “It’s long and greasy and dirty and matted. What kind of parents raised a child like that?”

“I did,” Society Dame replied.

Well how do you follow up on a comment like that?

“Like”?

You know, if people would have the courtesy to identify themselves clearly in their e-mail addresses in the first place, then issues like this wouldn’t develop into volumes of trouble. My e-mail correspondent  identified herself as GwendolynAlistair@yahoo.com, and since I don’t know any Gwendolyns or Alistairs, I was secure in bleating out my opinion to a total stranger.

Except that she was not a total stranger. She is also not named Gwendolyn and she is not married to Alistair.

How uncompromisingly rude.

If people would simply think about these things in the first place, then people like me would not have to think at all.

Really, my little world is so simple, even someone like me can understand it.

Wading, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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An Exercise in Patience

Posted on May 24, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Working Trigger, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

It’s important to me that the Norwegian Artist stay in good shape.

That’s why, when I head to the studio to exercise with a DVD in the upstairs TV room, I kick the man out.

So he can garden. Or chop wood. Or muck out the goat pen. Or bring the garbage can in from the curb.

I really don’t care, as long as he is out of the building, unable to

A) Hear me flailing about upstairs

B) Comment about the sounds I make flailing about upstairs

C) Hear the dialogue from the musclebound Australian encouraging me to flail about gracefully

or

D) Imitate the Australian.

Option D is why he is barred from the premises in the first place. I think it started with Denise Austin, breathlessly murmuring,

“Your spine is your lifeline. Keep it healthy. Keep it supple. Keep it strong.”

“Healthy. Supple. Strong,” the voice downstairs was deeper, intrusive, six vertical feet away.

A Hawaiian Hula Aerobics DVD, filmed on location with three dangerously buff hip-rotating Island Chicks, drew echoes as the wind wailing through the treetops attracted the Norwegian’s attention along with a moaning spirit of the islands’ past:

“Woo-oooooooh ah wah-ahhhhhh — Lunge once, ooooooh, twice, ahhhhhh  — Stretch — Reach — woo-ah-oh-ooh-ah.”

Bay Glow, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

That’s it. He’s out.

“But I’m not making fun of you,” the Norwegian Artist protested. “Just the DVD.”

Out.

My latest flailing exercise features the buff Australian — the cover shows a perky brunette sweetheart in a skimpy halter top and bouncey doo, but the DVD itself features a male Adonis of gigantic proportions, barely contained in a ripped and rippled muscle shirt.

He is surrounded by a series of the most bored exercisers that I have ever seen — sedentary office workers, tired moms of numerous progeny, a silver-haired female fox who DOES NOT SMILE, and a token chubby little male.

“This is fun!” the Australian squeaks.

HOW

does a man of those impressive dimensions

squeak?

“Aren’t we having fun guys?”

Nobody answers; nobody smiles; I think the Australian went to the paper supply office next door and rounded up a temporary crew with promises of baked pita chips and green tea soda after the ordeal.

And I don’t think all those girls like being called guys.

While the Australian’s exercise environment is an airy, open gym, my own space, the upstairs of the studio, directly above the absent Norwegian’s easel, is not a true second floor, as the roof line angles down toward the ground the closer one gets to the TV screen.

For me, this means that, when the Australian encourages me to “Walk forward four steps and hop hop hop!” I whack my head, three times, against the ceiling.

Just so you know, I don’t do this every time I use the DVD, having learned after the first two whacks, but it does mean that I adjust how I follow directions, forcing myself to fit around the ceiling thing. It’s absolutely impossible to wave my hands over my head, much less jump as a do it, regardless of how much the Australian coaxes.

Behind me is a sofa, beneath my feet are chip remnants and dried orange rinds flung indiscriminately about the floor and painful to bare feet. Interestingly, no human being threw this garbage down there, at least, no human being in the household admits to doing so. Why does this continue to surprise me?

“Mom?”

It’s the Son and Heir.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“There’s no reason to get all huffy,” the disembodied voice moans.

“OUT!”

Slam.

You know, it’s a lot of work getting exercise.

Serenity, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Bruce Willis Knitting

Posted on May 12, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Out of Africa, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I confess:  I engage in reckless behavior.

Sometimes I salt my food before I taste it.

I set the cruise control for two miles over the speed limit.

If the headache’s bad enough, I’ll take two aspirin instead of one.

But perhaps my most dangerous side, my Die Hard Bruce Willis persona, comes out in my knitting:

After 28 years of being married to a reasonably observant man, I can’t resist trying to surprise him for his birthday or Christmas with a knitted gift.

We’re not talking hats here, something I can knock off in an evening, having made some plausible excuse to close myself off in the bedroom and not let anyone — well, namely my Norwegian Artist — in for a fresh pair of underwear to hang up outside the shower.

No, I do sweaters — long projects that inevitably, over the months that they take to complete — will wind up in the same room, on the man’s chair, incontrovertibly in his face to the point that he has to think,

“Olive green and black. Those aren’t her colors.”

If that sounds too refined for the average male thought process, allow me to remind you that my Best Friend Forever is a Norwegian Artist.

You know — artist, as in painter, as in someone who works with color.

Opalescent Sea, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

That being said, he’s still male, which means that many times, while I’m doing astonishing things with pointed sticks, he’s thinking about re-graveling the driveway or fixing the door on the chicken coop or calculating the number of light bulbs around the house that have burned out, but that isn’t to say that he doesn’t have flashes of observatory moments in which he sees piles of yarn around my concentrated form and asks, like an exemplary husband should,

“So what project are you working on now?”

And that’s the alarming thing, because on this most recent task, a multi-colored knitted vest for his birthday, he hasn’t said a thing, not one word, about what it is that causes me to perch my glasses atop my head, bring the fiber project inches from my myopic eyes, (by the way, do you know that Bruce wears glasses – okay, sunglasses – too?) and undo stitch upon stitch upon stitch because naturally, since I’m working under the wire here, I’m making more mistakes in the last week before the big day than I did in the five months leading up to it.

Three days before deadline, I start a complicated (for me) buttonhole band at the same time the Toddler arrives for a visit. Commonsense dictates that intense concentration and two-year-olds do not inhabit the same space well together, but this doesn’t stop me from surging forward.

“SIT! Nonna — SIT!”

No matter that I am sitting already. I am apparently in the wrong place.

So, also, are my buttonholes, which aren’t — precisely — evenly spaced. Grounded firmly in denial, I continue knitting — faster — as if this will enable me to leave the mistakes behind. It works for Bruce on the freeway: granted, there are a few explosions here and there, a smashed bridge or two, but he always comes out okay in the end.

Port Townsend Bay, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

“It’s not that bad. Not really. Really.” It’s always a bad sign when I mutter. When Bruce does it, it’s cool. When I do it, it’s pre-dementia.

“SIT! Nonna — SIT!”

Darned if the child didn’t follow me into the sewing room.

In more ways than one, I admit defeat, and SIT, allowing the Toddler to slap me around for awhile until she gets bored and moves on to other destructive things.  At that point, I can focus my 55 percent concentration rate on doing my own ripping and tearing, modified car explosions.

Eventually, in the last two weeks, I had to move the project out into the open, to the point that, on a three-hour car trip to an oil painting seminar the Norwegian Artist was conducting, I knit while he drove, hoping that the scenery would keep him occupied. Fortunately, the road was winding and narrow.

At the workshop, I knit, fielding questions from curious participants:

“What are you working on?” one by one I was asked.

“It’s the Norwegian Artist’s birthday gift,” I murmured, pulling out the pattern.

“Ahhhhh. Your secret is safe with me.” And it was, all 13 of them.

Only after the workshop did I discover that I had overlooked a big chunk of the directions, and the right front of the sweater was no more a mirror of the left side than I am the twin of, well, Bruce Willis.

More car explosions.

You know, just like Bruce’s movies, this story ties up neatly in the end, as did, incidentally, the Norwegian Artist’s birthday present.

When the man opened his gift, he acted so surprised, that I honestly couldn’t tell if he was acting.

He was good. Real Bruce-like. Sexy. Norwegian. Only he has lots of hair.

Live Free. Knit Hard.

Ascension, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Card Me — Please!

Posted on May 11, 2011 by This Woman Writes

C'est Moi -- by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson -- private collection

I just bought a bottle of beer so that I can make more shampoo.

Yeah, that’s right. I pour beer on my head, mixed with a liquid soap that has pronounceable and recognizable words in the ingredient list (Olive Oil, Citric Acid, Vitamin E) in my tiny, tinny little efforts to decrease the amount of artificial chemicals coursing through my veins.

So, much to the chagrin of Tired of Being Youngest, who embraces Methylchloroisothiazolinone and all its friends for the shiny, voluminous body and bounce that ultimately leads to a better sex life (not at your age, kid) and overall increased level of happiness, I set up my chemistry lab in the kitchen and experiment with alternative ways to make shampoo and bath salts and lotions and stuff.

It’s like bringing out my inner 1960s Flower Child, only that, in the 1960s, I was an actual child wrapping dandelion chains in my hair, not being quite as old as you think I am.

Speaking of which, back to this purchase of the beer:

I have never been carded in my life.

Granted, a woman in her 40s doesn’t expect this, but have you ever read the LED screens that flash at the checkout counters when an alcohol product is scanned?

“Customer obviously over 40?” one of them read.

The clerk looked at her screen, glanced at me, bagged the bottle without a word.

Really? Seriously?

I’m obviously over 40?

Another store had a cardboard sign within the checker’s (and customer’s) sight:

“Unless they’re a grey-haired granny or gramps, ask to see their ID.”

Marie, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson -- private collection

While I may be a (very young) grandmother, I am not grey-haired, except for the top half-inch of roots, and I strenuously object to not being asked for my ID.

Actually, the exact opposite has happened, as one time I was in the bread store with College Girl and Tired of Being Youngest when the clerk chirpily offered me the over-55 senior discount.

Great. Not only am I not “obviously under 40,” I also look 55. Or more.

It’s not worth 5 per cent off a bag of bagels.

The two female progeny froze in fright, wondering if I would undergo nuclear meltdown over the clerk’s obvious need for a new pair of glasses (SHE was over 55), while I achieved a cool smile and responded that no, I was actually still in my 40s.

A month later, I noticed a new sign at the offensive place:

“If you are over 55, please ask for the senior discount. We will not ask you.”

Well, so upper management does have brain activity after all.

Now, my suggestion, one that will engender positive feelings in the 35-55-year old demographic, resulting in smiling, admittedly non-uncreased faces and possible increase in sales:

Card us.

Otter Rock Beach, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I know we’re busy. I know we’re fumbling with our overstuffed, too small purses (thought I was going to say “bodies,” didn’t you?). I know that you know you’re not fooling us. We know that you know this, but we don’t care, because by carding us, you’re saying,

“Okay. You’re obviously not under 21. Don’t live in a fairy tale.

“But in the right light — say, a subterranean cave with a couple sputtering candles — you could conceivably look under 30, and some 20-year-olds, after consuming too many underage cocktails — could look around 30.

“So we’ll card you.

“Happy now?”

Yes. Oh yes.

When College Girl was Flaxen-Haired-Princess, she used to shamelessly flatter me by announcing,

“Mom — You look 16!”

Even I didn’t believe that, but I wasn’t adverse to 26, 27, 28 — it’s important that we stay within a 10-20 year framework of our actual age.

But while she needed coaching in realistic compliments, the Norwegian Artist required serious introduction to Complimentary Compliments 101, as evidenced when, in my mid-30s (not that long ago), I was heading out to buy a bottle of wine and playfully asked,

“I wonder if they’ll card me?”

He didn’t miss a beat:

“Why would they do that?”

If art sales go down, he can always get a job at the bread store.

Polish Pottery, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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An Alarming Faceoff in the Bedroom

Posted on May 4, 2011 by This Woman Writes

October, by The Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

When you think about all the ways that two different people — say, a Norwegian Artist and a Polish Writer — do things, it’s amazing that relationships last at all.

Take alarm clocks, for instance.

For years, the whinnying diminutive exploding box resided on the Norwegian Artist’s side, and, because he didn’t like red numbers shouting at him all night, he turned the face of the clock away so that he — with his 20/20 vision — and I especially — with my Makes-A-Bat-Seem-Like-An-Eagle eyesight, could not tell what time it was.

Deep beyond the gloaming hour, the Norwegian Artist’s grunt was anything but sensual when I pulled myself up over his shoulders to reach for the box, bring it to my face, and set it back down. Admittedly, I wasn’t feeling so vixenish myself as I did this, night after night after night.

So after several years, it occurred to me to broach the subject of moving the clock to my side of the bed. The Norwegian Artist, can, after all, read 0ne-inch numbers from six feet away.

Consultation, discussion, consideration, analysis, mutual agreement: the clock was moved to my side. A relationship counselor would have been proud, and out of a fee.

Several years after that, tired of straining at itty bitty one-inch numerals one foot from my lustrous blues, I brought up the concept of 4-inch figures.

(By the way, this appalling lack of vision isn’t age-related; it’s a genetic gift from my father.)

“I could read these with a minimum of squinting,” I said.

Becalmed, by The Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

“But the light — that irritating luminescent scarlet aurora visually resonating off of the ceiling!”

He didn’t put it precisely like that, but the meaning was there.

More consultation, discussion, consideration, analysis — a bit more lively this time — and then the issue was resolved when College Girl, in her impulsive way, gave me a digital clock with giant letters for Mother’s Day.

Backed in a corner, the Norwegian Artist was.

Ah, but Norwegian Artists are a determined race, and the offending item was banished to the far Netherlands of my nightstand, and that only with my avowed promise to use my body as a shield against the Aurora Borealis in numerical form.

A tenuous truce prevailed.

And then I started waking up at night — why, it’s really no one’s business, but it had to do with being hot in a non-Marilyn Monroe sort of way — and I found that the red light — unfocused though it may be — bothered me, and kept me from getting what little sleep I was rapidly accustoming myself to getting in this new, hopefully short, phase of my life.

“Studies show that the glowing red and green LED lights of today’s alarm clocks keep people — especially women going through a frustrating, hopefully short, phase of their life — from getting the sleep that they need,” a friend of mine told me.

Little Barn, by The Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

And you can believe her — I mean, she’s a nurse, and a friend of a doctor read about this in a magazine at the gynecologist’s office. This stuff is real science.

I passed on the information to the Norwegian Artist, who mentioned mildly that for years he had been bothered by the nightlong sunset on the ceiling, and together we came up with the solution:

Every night, before I head off to sleep, I set the clock face down onto the surface of the nightstand, and there is no longer any glow, — red, green, blue, healthy, or otherwise — assaulting the sight and senses of the Norwegian or the Pole.

The room is dark. Oscuro. Obfuscated. Totally without light.

And when I wake up — because I do, still — I don’t stare at the numbers advancing one by one in the minute section.

I also, unfortunately, don’t know what time it is, at all.

Neither does the Norwegian Artist, but at this point, we’re both so exhausted from the battle that we’re giving the matter of the clock — and the size of its numbers, and which way it faces, and even what room it, or either one of us, should be in — a much needed rest, so that somehow, between the two of us, we can get one.

Now, there’s just the issue of the fan, which one of us runs because he likes the white noise, and one of us wishes would just permanently QUIT.

Valley Stream, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Material Possessions Don’t Possess Us

Posted on April 28, 2011 by This Woman Writes
Provincial Afternoon, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Tired of Being Youngest and I just returned from a mini-vacation at College Girl’s apartment.

For four days, the three of us slept late, wandered around in our jammies, watched movies, played card games, ate cake, noshed on Thai food, ate more cake, and took a daily walk to justify our calorie consumption.

And while I missed the males in my life, I was acutely aware that our vacation schedule would have looked strikingly different with the T-shirted Testosterone Pack in attendance.

You just can’t have a Girls’ Night with boys around.

Now College Girl’s apartment is just that — small, dark, old, messy despite the lack of furniture, not replete with a lot of material wealth unless you count the Polish bubble drinking mug (because, clearly, anything Polish is valuable) and the tea set initially from Pier One Imports and snatched up at the Goodwill. Trickle down economics.

“Mentally enter the Third World dimension,” College Girl advised me when I tried to use three of the four inoperable  burners on her stove. “It’s like camping; you just cook one thing at a time.”

The Quiet Place, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

And yet, despite her lack of material goods, College Girl is happy, because she’s young, healthy and energetic, likes what she’s studying, is grateful for being able to do so, enjoys her own roommate-less space, knows how to cook, has access to an ugly car, and knows that, despite the distance temporarily separating us, she is part of a quirky Norwegian/Polish family that understands one another, and that we will always be together, even when we are apart.

It was rainy when we departed, a day to match our mood, and on the long drive home — punctuated by sad, reflective songs to accentuate the water dripping down the windshield — I contemplated the bounty in my life, most of which cannot be charged to a credit card:

I have three daughters — three sympathetic females who understand PMS, mood swings, the frustrating tendency of males to look like they’re listening when they’re mentally building a gate for the goat pen, feeling fat days, and the importance of cake. Even if one of the daughters  is mad at me for some reason (and with adolescent and 20-something females, this is inevitable), one or two of them are not. I’ve always got a girlfriend.

The Son and Heir balances out all of this estrogen and progesterone. He climbs trees, carves animals and soldiers from wood that he picks up around the property, asks absurd questions, and argues with me, in a gentle fashion, about EVERYTHING. I think he considers me too opinionated.

It’s genetic, Son.

Cottonwood Grove, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

And then there’s my BFF, the Norwegian Artist. What can I say? I love this man.

Bonus track — the Toddler. When I sing nursery rhymes to her, it’s as if 20 years never happened. I’m back in Tiny Tinkie Dinkie World.

None of these “possessions” cost money.

Okay, okay — teenagers cost because they are Voracious Vultures that eat ALL THE TIME, but you know what I mean.

A minimal amount of stuff is nice — comfy bed, cute dishes, desks without missing drawers, a breathing car, YARN — but when all is stripped to its undies, it’s the people we love who give depth, dimension, and meaning to our life, and as far as material things go, it’s the items we use when we’re with these people that are the ones we toss in the car when we’re evacuating the premises, say, for a fire.

This we did, five years ago, when a line of flames crested the hill behind our house, and the progeny and I stuffed vehicles with the hand-painted Polish tea pot that holds each meal’s hot beverage, the family portraits skillfully captured by the Norwegian Artist, the tattered stuffed doggie that I clutched as a three-year-old and passed on to Tired of Being Youngest (that went over really well with College Girl and Eldest Supreme).

Yes, my computer’s important because that’s how I make my living. Ditto the paint and brushes and canvases at the Norwegian Artist’s studio. But those things are replaceable, and insurable.

But the things that matter — the things that generally aren’t insurable because they’re “not worth anything” — are the things that make life worth living.

“Priceless,” as the charge card ad says.

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And You Think Naming a Baby Is Difficult?

Posted on April 21, 2011 by This Woman Writes
 
Bay Sunset, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson. This painting is mine, and it hangs on the white walls of the bathroom, providing inspiration for the deep orange that is yet to be.

You know, if the economy gets REALLY bad, and, say, art sales are affected nationwide, then the Norwegian Artist and I will pick up second jobs with the interior/exterior paint companies naming paint colors.

I found a dark orange the other day that’s perfect for the bathroom wall — assuming that it becomes exclusively my bathroom — called burnt pumpkin.

Accessorizing the seared gourd is a deep, warm cream dubbed cheerful cheesecake, which makes me wonder what a depressed cheesecake looks like.

Now I recognize that painting bathroom walls is not sufficient experience for getting a job naming paint chips, but the Norwegian Artist and I have an impressive resume in our regular practice of entitling the man’s fine art paintings.

I say impressive because, so far, every painting has a name, and the Norwegian Artist and I are still on speaking terms, as long as we’re not discussing the color of the bathroom walls.

When we first started, we were specific, along the lines of Southeast Burgundy Hollow Road Just Off Highway 16. Real catchy, that.

I’ve seen similar nomenclature coming out of studios other than our own: The 1832 Franz Liszt Schooner on Its Maiden Voyage from Liverpool to the East Indies — a great title if you’re looking for the model ship or reading your way through a bout of insomnia.

Prosaically boring, however, is better than metaphysical mystique: Cerebral Ululations Reflecting upon the Symbiotic Correlation of Life and Expired Life, which, I assure you, is an example that we have never done. Sometimes it seems that the less there is in the painting, the longer and more convoluted the title, as if to make up for the paucity of visual substance.

Shorter is nicer, and sometimes obvious is best: Coastline, Polish Pottery, Mountain Lake — a technique that translates awkwardly to abstract work since the viewer’s first response is “Lake? What Lake?” although I suppose that it would get people to look more closely at the painting, in a sort of Where’s Waldo? fashion.

When all else fails, one can rely upon the actual location name — Palouse Falls, Chief Joseph Mountain, Hurricane River. As most people would not want Cape Deception on their walls, or Starvation Creek (I had difficulty picnicking there, much less naming a painting after the place), other short, concise words must suffice: Saturday or Cascadia, single palabra expressions that convey a mood through the way they sound.

One of our favorite techniques, when we no longer feel like tossing adjectives and nouns back and forth over a glass of wine, is to type the word into Microsoft Word, right click it, and look up the synonyms. Prior to our stumbling, so to speak, upon Stonework, we reviewed and rejected Granite, Quarry, Brick Work, and Building Material. Masonry made the mental leap into Stonework, resulting thereby in one of our favorite titles.

Passage is another favorite. In a moment of mirth, Through the Crack was tossed in the arena, along with the lamentably punned Starfish Gazing, as well as Sunlight Piercing Through the Clouds and Reflecting Off the Turbulent Waters and Onto the Jagged Rocks Below — #15. Obviously, to get to the ultimate destination, it takes a lot of trudging about.

We allow the occasional pun (Clearwater Revival, Moonlight Sail), but have placed strict limitations on ourselves with these, especially if we come up with them after the second glass of wine. Too much alliteration (Winterwood Westering Walk, Sensuous Sunset Sail) provide a laugh or two, but no serious pursuit.

Giving titles to works is one of those many afterward things that we never realized existed until the Norwegian Artist seriously pursued professional painting (see what I mean about the alliteration? It’s evilly easy to ease into), and because the Norwegian is a prolific artist, we find ourselves grabbing the thesaurus and blurting out random words on a regular basis — hegemony? ersatz? efflorescence? — an exercise that does little but confirm that we have never actually said any of these words aloud before.

So we go back to the beginnings, and the essence of who we are — two ordinary people who aspire to do extraordinary things, and we settle on one to three descriptive words that roll pleasantly off the tongue: Daydreaming, Valley of Gold, Zephyr, Al Fresco, Harbor Faire — they’re easy to say but distinctive, everyday words that distinguish themselves without pushing forward.

It’s an art, you know — naming art.

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The Little Things Don’t Tweet and Ring

Posted on April 13, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Tea by the Sea, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

It is possible to fit 10 diners around a table meant for four.

We did it last weekend with the Norwegian Artist, his Girl Friday through Thursday (that’s me), the four progeny, and the grand progeny.

Oh, and the female progeny’s’ individual cell phones.

I must say, although these latter three don’t eat much they make up for it in dominating the conversation.

One of the phones buzzes; another one shrieks; the third one retches. When they all go off at once it sounds as if the dog is getting sick.

Generally, however, the devices sound off one at a time, with one to five minute intervals between messages that range between “Wusup” and “I am so freakin bored.” Regardless of the inanity of the missive, the owner of the phone drops whatever she is doing (eating) and spends several minutes texting back, no doubt something profound like “Yeah im eating dinner w my famly.”

Apparently this sparks a lively discussion since, if the Norwegian Artist and I don’t put our death glares to work in tandem with the nostril sighs of doom, a “conversation” ensues that involves a succession of buzzing, shrieking, and retching that makes me wish that the dog would actually get sick and draw everyone’s attention elsewhere.

Ruby, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Eventually, however, we get the point across, namely by announcing that the next person who takes time out to text will forgo dessert. It is amazing how the threat of losing dessert works long past childhood, and as a mother whose dominating philosophy has always been, “Whatever works,” I have no problem serving myself an extra slice of cheesecake.

Interestingly, this digital gene is totally missing in the Son and Heir, his portion of this particular DNA strand having been apportioned out to his sisters, in favor of a genetic code that focuses on medieval warfare, tree climbing, and the ever-changing geographical borders of places like Uzbekistan.

I guess one could say that he has no textosterone.

Thank God.

Now lest I sound like a digital drama diva, I clarify that I do own a cell phone for occasional use — generally when I’m traveling — and that, given five minutes or so, I can manage to send a little text, along the lines of,

“I’m waiting outside your front door. Where are you?”

(Notice the punctuation, correct spelling, and capitalization? That’s what takes me so long, not to mention lack of practice.)

Al Fresco, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Other than that, if I am in the mood to indulge in inane conversation, I chat with the dog (“Do you need to go outside? Whoops. Guess so.”) or one of our superfluous cats (“Bad kitty! Out of the plant pot!”).

I had an English professor once who claimed that, without inane conversation, most relationships would fall apart.

“We can’t always be looking into one another’s eyes, murmuring ‘I love you,’ he said. “Once we run out of the monolithic statements, we are reduced to silence.”

For this reason, he went on, we need observations like “It’s really raining outside!” or “I smell the dog. It must be that new food,” simply to fill up space, and that conversation, like life, is largely composed of the little things.

This statement, however, was made back when portable phones looked like bricks with antennae sprouting from the top, and the professor’s only acquaintanceship with the word “texting” was as a typo (remember that word?) for the synonym of “examinations.”

I don’t think he could have imagined just how superficial shallow conversation could be.

We are recklessly close to the point where the monolithic statements — “I love you,” “I’m pregnant,” “The car’s not totaled, not really,” and “The dog died,” (that poor animal — retching, illness, gas, bad food) — will no longer be spoken, difficult as that may be, but texted — and in doing so, will be reduced to inane statements, no more important than “Im freakin bored.”

Oh please, let’s not do that.

Let’s grab onto the sweet things in life, and I’m not talking about dessert here. I mean the touch and feel of real skin, the fleeting emotions across a face, the low pitched murmur of a missive meant for our ears alone.

Let us not belittle the little things.

Little One, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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