artist sandwich

OMG, somebody just found my blog by typing “Sarah Palin’s shoes”. I feel so…so… dern tootin’ naughty.

Anyways, have I ever mentioned that I write much better than I talk. Yes, its true. And I’ve really been noticing that a lot in the last couple of weeks. Being out of the work force, I really don’t have to talk much anymore, I mean other than in my car, where I talk incessantly about all the wrongs people have done to me (and YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!). I guess that has been replacing my shrink appointments, since I haven’t seen “A” since July. Plus my Subaru doesn’t tell me to date losers from sMatch.com.

But this small talk thing has always been confusing to me. Where have I been experiencing this? At four art shows in the last eleven days.

Now the Goth art show wasn’t too bad. You just sort of dressed a certain way, rocked your head enthusiastically to “Black Sabbath” and things were cool.

My next show was at my old work place the following Tuesday. I had talked to my old boss the day before and told her I was bringing some paintings and needed some wall space. So where did she put me? In front of a window, with no place to hang my artwork. So I had to transfer everything upstairs to the much less desireable forth floor…in a corner. All the other arts and crafts people were facing away from me. I kinda felt like a Democrat at a Bingo for Jesus Rally.  I also had to practically trip people to  tell them about my fabulous solo art show over at the community center, because shall we discuss that for a moment?

Its been there for a month now, and yet they are still advertising the previous art show on their website, which closed in mid-August. Yes. I am truly thrilled about that. I did see my name in the Sunday paper. I guess I was supposed to have another reception Thursday night….NOT.

Anyways, back to my spectacular corner location. So I was sitting there with maybe one customer an hour, when suddenly I see this vaguely familiar woman coming towards me yelling “Witty McGiver!!! Witty McGiver!!!!!!!” Now I always get nervous when anyone says my entire name  in the middle of a public place. So she arrives breathlessly at my table and says, “You’re Witty McGiver aren’t you????????”

I was going to say: “Naw, its that Eye-talian looking guy over there”, pointing to my friend “J”. But then she said the most incredible thing. “My friend bought your Zombie painting Saturday night. Wait, let me call him and let you talk to him!!!!!!”

Me: “huh?!?!?!” (now truly wanting to dive under my table).

So she dials someone up and excitedly tells them: ‘WITTY MCGIVER WHO YOU BOUGHT YOUR ZOMBIE PAINTING FROM IS STANDING RIGHT HERE. HERE. TALK TO HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Me: (nervously taking the phone) “erk. Ehhh.  gahhhhh” Like what the hell was I supposed to say? “Sucka! So, how did that awwwwesome Dollar Store frame work out?” I really don’t remember much of the conversation except that the guy’s name was John and he said not to tell the woman how much he had paid for the painting.  Its NOT a painting, people, its a photo! Sheesh! That was a little too freaky for me. 

My next show was at the Factory, courtesy of Charlemagne. Since I had 18 paintings at another place, I really didn’t have much to put up but since Charlemagne is Charlemagne and kept calling and writing, I finally dug out 2-3 of the naughtier paintings I couldn’t hang at the community center, like the George Bush and the devil one and the “Nuns arouse me” one, which Charlemagne is convinced is him. 

The Factory is a big, old smelly (mold) former airplane engine factory converted into a pseudo Soho art place. Anybody can bring their stuff. People from my art group sort of hung out in Charlemagne’s corner. I did have a lot of people stop at my paintings to snicker. Yes. They’re supposed to. They’re funny paintings. In fact earlier in the week, at my drawing class, some young kid about twenty had looked over and told me I should work for a newspaper. I looked at him perplexed and asked why. He said, “Well, your drawings look like cartoons.”

To be honest, I still don’t know how to take that.

Anyways, I was there with a girl from my former work place. I don’t know her that well and she’s new to art but I thought I’d be her art mentor and give her a taste of schmoozing with the artsy crowd. Soon though, she was trying to fix me up with all the guys looking at my art. Unfortunately I don’t think she realizes that I’m 50, since she kept wildly gesticulating at guys in their mid-late 20’s behind their backs and mouthing, “Go…talk…to…them….witttteeee!!”

Oy, another Yente! Interestingly, 99% of my friends on the East Coast are Jewish and they all want me to have a boyfriend for some god-forsaken reason. So “A”….your life’s quest continues without you.

There was one interesting guy named Dash though. He was a little closer to my age, by like 3 decades. He wasn’t much taller than me, maybe 5’5” but he wdressed very nicely and had a thick European accent. In fact he introduced himself as “European”. Ha! Anyways, he stood and looked at my apparently cartoonish paintings and went into this extravagantly long spiel about how passionate and fluid my work was and how it was reminiscent of Suerrat (what-t-t-t???) and how he hoped I could understand his accent….and maybe if I leaned in closer I could undertant heez accent mon’chereee. Ok. He didn’t say that last part. I did tell him about my other show, as I did everybody. I even gave out business cards, although not to him. Yeah, I know. He was probably my future European husband who owns Exxon or something.

My last show was Wednesday night. It was my own art group’s show. I had helped set it up Monday night. I am so out of frames right now, plus I had broken the glass in two of my nicer frames this last week. I was really getting frustrated, but I did manage to bring in two drawings for our show, including this one…. 

 

I decided to get really dressed up for the show. No more low rent black sweater and tight jeans artist thang. I wore what I wore to my job interview (which I didn’t get Azweepay. Thanks though).  Had on the Donald J. Pliner designer shoes, which pinched like hell.  Left my orange paisley shirt unbuttoned down below my black lacy bra.  Mrow! I’m sure absolutely no one everyone was checking out the witty chestal area. Even brushed my hair…OMG, call CNN. I think I looked pretty decent.

Naturally I got there early and JS said I looked “Pretty”. Wow! How often do I ever hear that. Like the fifth of never. It took about an hour for our venue (a fru-fru hair salon downtown) to fill up, but it finally did. The show looked really nice. I had invited “J” from my old job, but AGAIN he neglected to show up. I guess last year’s cornucopia of pastelly naughty bits must have just been too traumatic for him. Right “J”?

Also again I was attempted to schmooze. I talked to the owner of the salon and I think I might be moving my solo show there after our show ends November 29th. Yay me! At least there I won’t have to worry about young thugs ripping off artwork from what basically amounts to an unlocked, unsecured building where anyone can walk off with stuff.

Soon we were all taking photos of each other. Me. Zue. Professional Art Guy. I’ve been talking to him more lately. I had visited his studio when I had my job interview. I think I scared the hell out of him when I just walked in that day. I do like to tease him though. And he apparently likes to be teased. Like when we were putting up the show there was some Spanish music playing and I told him he had to translate all the lyrics as the singer was singing them otherwise he’d have to leave the building immediately (!!!) He was all grinning. witty’s teasing me. Hee hee.

Afterwards when about 7-8 of us were out of the sidewalk saying goodbye, Sci-Fi Guy went to kiss me goodbye. We have a little social kissing thing going on. Nothing serious. I’m an adult. I can kiss men. And then Professional Art Guy decided to hone in on the action. We DON’T have a kissing thing going on, but he kind of told Sci Fi Guy that they were going to tag team me, so suddenly I’m in the middle of an Artist Sandwich, squished between Professional Artist Guy and Sci Fi and the only thing I could think to do was sing the lyrics from Cabaret’s “Two Ladies” (about a menage a troi). “Onesies beats twosies, but nothing beats three!”

I think THAT went over way better than I imagined. 😉

the little human mural who laughed.

I am so proud. So incredibly proud. As a writer for over 30 years…a published writer yet, I love to look at how people have found my blog on this certain WordPress screen….how they have maneuvered through the millions, if not billions of written words on the World Wide Internet, only to be stunned…if not blinded by the effervescent beauty of the written wittykitty word by typing: “flailing retard orgasm”.

Thank you….thank you very much (bowing graciously and then possibly doing a raucous fart song under my armpit).

Have I ever mentioned that I have the attention span of dyslexic 2 year old who’s been hit in the head with a Chevrolet? Its really been getting bad in the last year week or so and I can’t figure out if its:

• pharmaceuticals
• menopause
• alzheimers lite
• Or just sitting in front of a computer day after day,  clicking on every damn story I see pop up even though I have absolutely no interest in them whatsoever. I mean they’re short (matching my short attention span obviously) and they usually involve a movie star falling down in front of their apartment building, somebody from “American Idol” turning gay, a mug shot of Nick Nolte or the fact that the guy who invented Pringles just got buried in a can. Just something! Its just all so totally fascinating to me, even though I don’t really care about 99.99% of it. Its just sort of a case of computer apathy….I’m here so why not click.

But I was just wondering….is this why I have such a short attention span? Is it because everything on the computer and TV is all based on stuff that is so incredibly stupid that even a 50 year old white woman on drugs, who just crash landed in menopause can “get it”? Because for a long while, I actually thought it was because I was huffing pastel dust from my drawings.

Anyways, I was really excited this last week, because I read my first book in ten years. Can you believe that? A real book. Ten years. Not the internet. Yes, its true. It was like exercising a muscle I hadn’t exercised in a really long time….NO, not that one….and it didn’t even hurt!! Can you imagine?

It sort of reminded me of this one profile I’ve been looking at in sMatch.com. (Yes, I’m still looking, but only because my shrink totally brow beat me this week). Anyways, the guy looked pretty intelligent and he wrote really well. How do I know? Because he evidently he’s a REAL writer according to his profile:  “I have written three books. Real books. Ones you actually find in the library.” Oh dear,  those kind are so much better than the ones you find amidst mushrooms or hovering in dark scary rooms like in an M. Night Shamayalam movie. Yes. We get it. You didn’t self publish them on your Guttenburg press down in the basement. How totally admirable of you. I just hope I can keep up my end of our conversation and you don’t use really large words like: “comprehensive” and “Lithuanian”, if we  ever meet. What? We won’t be meeting. You mean since I’m totally frightened, I won’t be your mental equal.  Dang!

I did manage to actually leave my house Saturday, tearing myself away from both my computer and the book that I just read. I went to a support meeting down at my old place of employment. I had called my old boss Friday because I was feeling so utterly depressed. She said to come to the meeting and she’d check on the status of my reinstatement with a case manager. I just don’t think that is going to happen. Why? Because I have a big ol’ invisible Scarlet Letter on me. The letter “B” for Blog.

The support group went ok. The people were a little scarier looking than I remembered, but then again, I live in the Village where everything is so pristine, that Martha Stewart would have an orgasm if she drove through here.  I was glad I was sitting next to “J”. He made me feel pretty safe.

Afterwards I went to an outdoor art event put on by an arts organization that Charlemagne is involved with. It had been postponed by rain two weeks ago but then Saturday, the weather was even worse…blustery and extremely windy. There wasn’t as much stuff going on as I thought, but I did have a little fun. I saw Charlemagne briefly. And then went to this tent where I got to paint some pottery with a bunch of little kids. The whole tent was billowing and snapping with the high winds. Nothing like abject fear of being sucked into a tornadic vortex to make you paint a little better.

I later went over to where they were painting a “mural”.  And since I’m all about painting, I decided to claim the top left corner and paint a lizard. The only annoying thing was, it was on two 15 foot long, 6 foot high pieces of plywood and it was mostly being worked on by little thug kids (boys-age 11, I’d say) who started throwing fully loaded paint brushes at the mural, splattering everything and everyone and then smearing everything and then kicking paint cans around and just being generally disruptive and assholely.

And this one little bastard kept coming over to where I was painting and trying to inexplicably destroy what I was doing by stepping directly in front of me and trying to paint and scribble over my lizard.   

Like WTF??? I have menopause and I will kill you.

Of course, I don’t generally yell at anyone, except maybe Guardcat, but I did yell at this kid three separate times. By the third time I snarled “We have 30 feet of wood, why don’t you go down there and play (you little fucking bastard)!”

Inbetween that, however, whilst he and his hoodlum friends were probably off painting kittens with lead paint or something, there was a Dad there with his little daughter who was about 7. She had been pretty hyperactive at the pottery painting part, just grabbing stuff from in front of me. And poking me in the head with her elbow. I just let it go, since she was just being a little kid.

Anyways, some guy had drawn a really nice replica of The Factory who was sponsoring the event, on the mural. He had been standing next to me for about 15 minutes drawing it with markers, while I was painting my lizard. (Oh great, now I’m going to be Googled for “painting my lizard”…probably some random euphemism for masturbation in Chile or something).

Anyways, he even talked to me. Again, I forgot to look at him. He probably was my future husband and I didn’t even know it. So suddenly this little girl started painting over his lovely drawing right after he left. I was standing there, getting a little steamed, not saying anything like I always do. Grrr! Do something, Dad! And her father was even the type who kept saying, “Sarah, don’t do that. Sarah, you should be careful. Sarah, stop. Sarah, wait. I’ll help you.” He just basically never let the kid do anything by herself without explicit directions, which I think I saw a parent do on Dr. Phil’s “Brat Camp” show last week.

Anyways, suddenly this huge gust of wind came and knocked both pieces of plywood (a.k.a. mural) over, trapping the little girl underneath. She started screaming and crying, of course, because all you could see was her  frightened little face sticking out. Naturally I ran and lifted the wood off of her since her Dad was just standing there flailing his arms like he was having a seizure. And I was thinking  “Dude, rescue your kid. This wood is kinda heavy!” He finally pulled her out and she was totally covered in paint. She looked like a little human mural. It was kinda cute, actually.  And fortunately she wasn’t injured in any way. Because within a minute, she was laughing and giggling, playing with the paint globbies all over her clothing. But did the guy say anything to me? Like thanks for pulling the giant mural off my daughter while I stood here acting like Kathy Lee Gifford throwing a hissy fit?  Nope. He just yanked her away, yelling at her for ruining her good outfit.  

I wish I could have been a human mural.  That would have been cool!  

boob squish and cemetaries

Who knew that the Pope’s visit to the United States would absolutely set my blog on fire!! I mean all my usual Googles for “ghetto crackhead whores”, “Creamsex” and “Nude woman bending over a car” are now mixed in with a bazillion hits for the “Pope’s Seven Commandments”. Woo hoo! I should really run for President. I mean look at the vast cross section of people I appeal to!!! Pervs and Catholics!! 

Oh wait….I know there an obvious joke in there somewhere.

Anyways, I went for my yearly mammogram yesterday. I had to sorta press for it because it seems that our lovely government just arbitrarily decided I could no longer get a yearly physical like I have for the last 12 years. Oh no. Why would we want to do preventative health care when we could just let people get sick and accrue millions of dollars worth of medical bills.

 I do enjoy my yearly school pictures of “the girls“…not. But since breast cancer runs in the family and killed my grandmother in her early 40’s and even had me under the knife about 10 years ago for a lump, I am vigilant about going every year. So I got to the place at 10 a.m. and what do you think? There was yet another bratty little boy in the small room where you take off your clothes on the top half. The kid was talking a mile a minute and running around near the dressing rooms and knocking magazines off the table. WTF? Why are they bringing little boys in there? And then  suddenly I hear him ask his mother “What’s a MAN-ogram?” I had to laugh to myself a bit. I had just been looking for a birthday card for “A” and saw this one that said: “If women ran the world…” with a nurse leading a quivering guy to a mammogram machine, only a little lower, if you get my drift. I knew it was wildly inappropriate, but I still considered it for about 3 seconds.

Finally mom and ritalinkid disappeared and it was time for my mammogram. Naturally on the paperwork I had indicated that I had been operated on and for some strange reason the nurse wanted to actually see the scar….on my boob. HUH? Nobody has ever asked me that before. Its been 10 frickin’ years. I barely even remembered where it was. Besides the fact that its weird anyways that you have to unsheath your mammory to a total stranger (is it warm in here?) and literally put it into their hand (What sign are you again? A Leo? Oh, I’m an Aquarian) and let them handle it like a piece of chicken they’re marinating (Do you want to meet at Barnes and Nobles for a latte?). I mean, why should I have to get it out to just show it to her?

So I opened my little generic nightie and nervously looked down at my left breast and kind of examined it like Agent Mulder might examine a piece of  glowing alien cranium. Hell, I couldn’t find a 10 year old scar, in a darkened x-ray room, with some woman looking at me.  Eeeesh! So I finally just said, Oh, I think this is it. And then she proceeded to say, “I think I see it” (yeah, right, should we smoke a cigarette now?) and then we finally went onto the squishing of innocent breasts into heavy machinery part. Yay!

Amazingly, she called me within an hour and said the results were “negative” and have a nice day. I guess that’s good. Is it? So I turned to Guardcat and said “She said the results were negative, just like me!!” Sometimes only Guardcat “gets” my humor.

It was art class day that day, and I had to call “L”s answering machine. She had a message with a Cockney accent, so I left a message for Eliza Doolittle. Why? Because I actually had a minor freelance job Wednesday afternoon. I haven’t had any kind of job for over a year, over or under the table, so I jumped at the offer. The job? Put together a newsletter about cemetaries. First thing on the agenda? Meet the person and drive up to the cemetary and take pictures of masoleums.

Did I mention I’ll do almost anything for money?

So we met up where I have my art class a little after 5 p.m. and fortunately it was a beautifully warm and sunny day. And I’m an avid photographer, so I had my little digital camera all set in my purse.  I had never been to this particular cemetary before and little did I know it had something in common with the freakin’ Swiss Alps…as in large steep hills. Oh. my.god.

Now even though I’m a little chubby and suffer from fibro, I’m in pretty good shape from lots of walking. But as we drove around this huge cemetary,  the person would stop their SUV and say “I’d like a picture of that” and it would be this tiny, little speck up on top of a muddy steep hill, I’d say “Oh, no problem”. But I really was afraid that I’d either fall on my ass or twist my ankle or something. And as I was traversing this one particularly big hill, I even momentarily felt like I was doing a “Biggest Loser” competition. Run up the steep muddy hill. Grunt. Make lots of faces. Cry a lot. Burn 3000 calories. Get yelled at by the skinny chick. Win a million dollars. But no, I was just taking pictures of dead people places.  Whee!

They did hand me a twenty dollar bill when they brought me back to my car 45 minutes later. I guess I’ll be doing the graphics part this weekend.

I was totally exhausted for my art class with lots of sharp pain in my calves, but I really wanted to go because one of our usual artist guys was going to be posing nekkid and being the red blooded female that I am, I wanted to check out the goods. This guy is very full of himself and the one time he deemed me good enough to talk to, we realized that we both knew Married Guy’s wifie. Afterwards he said he had fruit flies flying around his head during the one hour pose. I guess when you’re totally awesome, stuff like that happens.

meet my boyfriend google

• eros creamsex
• weird people show
• 66 triple m boobs
• penis cakes in Newfoundland
• phone numbers of whores
• Michigan whores
• gangsta whores
• cop blow jobs
• coworkers naked
• I took off my clothes at Walmart
• crackhead whores
• penis cake template
• crackhead whore phone numbers

Yup, just another day at wittykitty’s Google list.  That’s basically all I get. Penis, crackhead whores and creamsex. I mean it kinda sounds like I’m running a sex toys company doesn’t it?  If only I were having so much fun. Because the only penis I get is at my art class and the only cream has sugar and cholesterol. So Whee! What an exciting life. Sign me up for my own Reality Show.

“Blog Island”: A woman petrified of participating in real life sits at her computer 27 hours a day and reads about how others are living their lives and wonders what it would be like if she had a real relationship and not pretend ones, like the ones she exaggerates so people on the Internet won’t think she’s a total loser.  And then for the season finale she votes herself off the island (i.e., “The computer”) and is forced to walk out to the kitchen and feed the cat. It’ll be a ratings BLOCKBUSTER…A RATINGS BLOCKBUSTER, I tell you!!

Okay, I might have to be naked for that part. You can turn away if you want. Funny people generally aren’t that attractive naked. You think I kid? Okay, lets go down the list.

• Phyllis Diller
• Roseanne Barr
• Drew Carey
• Jimmy Durante
• Jamie Farr
• Rosie O’Donnell
• Jim Belushi

See what I mean? Okay maybe Jon Stewart, but that’s it!

Why do I talk about all this nudity and penis stuff all the time? Well, first of all, probably because I’m not getting any. And secondly…my mother. I get it from my Mother.  My mother who will gladly share her favorite joke about the guy with the 18″ penis with anyone who will listen. Granted she’s almost 80. My mother, who this morning at breakfast was talking about Hugh Hefner’s reality show and about all his bimbos and how they look. And how big their boobs are. And how Hef switches off with different girls on different nights. And how one girl even flashes the gardener by pulling up her top with my mom attempting to demonstrate. All over our egg McMuffins.

I actually feel like sort of a nerd. What do I talk about? Oh, my cat barfing. Ummm? My back hurts. My neighbor’s toilet keeps running every 5 minutes, so that’s like 240 times a day and its driving me insane and even though I’ve already talked to her about it and mentioned, like ow, it also scalds me at least twice during an average shower and is slowly burning away the flesh on my naughty bits, she doesn’t seem to care and looks at me like I’m talking Swahili, so I may have to just go over there and take a nearby end table and smash the hell out of her toilet  and then the landlord will HAVE to come fix it.

Oh goodie…another Google…toilet. Now everyone who wants to know about toilets will come visit my blog. SCORE!!!

Anyways, I did have one noteworthy thing happen to today. After the breakfast my mother, I took a quick trip to the gym to burn off that square of lard (i.e., better known as McDonald’s hash browns). I had also taken a dip in the whirlpool. It felt good, but I felt very lackadaisical. 

There was a very famous Broadway hoofer in town today and I really wanted to go see him, but….but….I just couldn’t quite see spending the $20 for the ticket. Damn. So afterwards I was just sitting in my car doing nothing. Okay, correction: I was just sitting in my car feeling terribly terribly sorry for myself. No Broadway hoofer for witty. Wah! I finally decided to just go fill up my car. After that, more lackadaisical wandering around a local shopping area. La, la, la. Man, there’s a lot of single guys walking around Bed and Bath. Who knew?

Anyways, so I get back to my car. Did I notice anything unusual? Oh, you mean besides the $25 worth of gas I just bought absolutely flooding out of my gas tank onto the parking lot ground?

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’ve had holes in my gas tank before….just not so dramatic. So I got in, said, “Oh well, my life isn’t that exciting anyways.” and started the car and fortunately didn’t blow up. I immediately called my mom when I got home since she just had her gas tank replaced. And since we’re both really poor we have to talk to guys who know guys named Vinnie who will meet you on a dark corner who will fix your car for under $100 if its not too bad. Although in this case the guy is named Cookie and he’s a friend of Gay Elvis who is Eye-Talian and there’s already been a lot of secretive phone tag going on. Cookie weighs 350 pounds and lives with his mother.  He’s already asked my mother for $20 for “his services”.

Cookie “da Car Guy” Diamondetti.

(sigh)