Archive for the ‘my heart’ Category

fifty two chances to be awesome

February 21, 2010

365.4/21 AlohaThursday

I turned fifty two last week. Its such a dull number. I mean there’s no movies named after it like -“Ten” or musicals  like “Nine” or even TV shows like ’24’.  And its not even like 50, which was one big fucking deal. I had three birthday parties that year and I’m not even popular.

Nope, it was just boring little 52. Yawn. What? You want us to notice you? You better at least lift your shirt or something.  Okay, I was pretty damn popular on Facebook. I think I had close to 40 birthday greetings. They didn’t know about the boring number part though. I just pretended it was something fabulous like 46, which is what my neighbor guessed I was. Of course I do live at the Crazy Hilton and she might have just needed a medication adjustment. I also had some nice gifties from my awesome diaryland buddies (yes, diaryland still exists…I think)…the sexy cast of “Nine” all rolled into one… Ms. HissandTell, my secret penpal AnnaNotBob, the hilarious Poolagirl, who shares my birthday and the lovely Bluey from Canada.

Life has been crazy if not stressful lately though. The birthday thing included my yearly birthday party at my aunt’s house. She makes pretty little cakes and my mom sits and talks about herself endlessly.  Hey! Sorta like the last 52 years. She forgets that I’m the guest of honor. I usually eventually wander into my aunt’s living room and play Broadway musicals on the piano, you know, briefly living out that fantasy I had of being in show business many years ago. My first few jobs were actually  in the theatre field…playing the piano for musical productions. The last one was playing the piano in a whorehouse…for a show of course (heh!)  and getting fired. Can you imagine? Me getting fired from a whorehouse! It was a travesty!

But I got my revenge, dearies! I became a theatre critic for newspapers. Ha ha ha! Off with their heads. Slash, slash, slash! If there was one thing I learned from my mother was how to criticize people!  🙂

After cake and some Broadway musicals, it was off to see “A”. I haven’t seen him as my therapist for a really long time. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, you see. Cancer. School. Mothers. Did I mention Cancer? Oh, and 300 days in a row of snow and gray skies which tend to cause depression. We had a good session though. I didn’t make “A” guess my age or anything. He wasn’t overtly medicated like the lady at my apartment complex. And I didn’t want him guessing 57 or something.

Anyways, last Friday was my actual birthday. It was pretty low-key. I had freaked out “A” when I told him I had a massage scheduled the next day. He immediately thought I had hired Married Guy. Would I do that? Well, almost. I’m not perfect, ya know. I’m wittykitty. I had written Married Guy a lengthy emotional e-mail the weekend before and nearly hit “send”. What can I say? When I was sitting here feeling lonely, thinking about how good his hands used to feel on my ass, I guess you can say, I experienced a 45 minute lapse of nearly regrettable behavior.

Fortunately there were no blizzards the next day (sending love and kisses  down to Washington DC for taking all our BIG blizzards this year. Thanks, guys!!!), so I drove over to my cute little Eye-talian masseuse. This was our second session. He talked a little more this time and he’s definitely from Jersey. It was so nice getting a no strings attached massage from an Eye-talian.

 The rest of my birthday was pretty uneventful. Didn’t I just mention how boring 52 is? Are you listening?

School has been limping along. Evidently I have something called Chemotherapy-Brain, which is making it difficult for me to remember much of anything, which is like totally perfect for going back to school. Yay!  I’ve yet to do any of my homework correctly yet. Every week I either forget some sketchpad with my homework in it or I can’t comprehend what I’m reading  in one of my textbooks or I paint something completely wrong.

Our first assignment was to paint a “virus”. I might have mentioned this. Anyways, the day we were supposed to pin them all up on the wall to critique them I almost fainted. Everyone’s work was in black, white and gray. Mine? Mine looked like some freaking multi-colored Mardi Gras cat vomit. After the first week’s comment from the teacher about how my work was not something  anyone wanted to copy,  I really didn’t want to put it up. I mean really. But there it was…looking like Liberace in the middle of a bunch of nuns. Eeep!

Homework #2

The teacher just looked at it and said, “You’ll have to do it over, but don’t destroy it.”  Which I think in Teacher Talk, at least this Teacher, might have possibly been a vague compliment. And like duh! Like I would destroy any of my artwork. I like my Mardi Gras cat vomit virus. Wouldn’t you want that on a birthday card? Maybe by my 53rd birthday, it will be.

why do most of my doctors look like michael j fox?

October 3, 2009

In the last three weeks I’ve been to so many doctor appointments in so many places, with so many nurses and so many waiting rooms with so many crappy magazines (except for the last two which had the New Yorker) with so many people asking me for blood and to stand on scales and to lay quietly and  giving me bad news (yes, I do have cancer again) and making me feeling all tired and handing me large folders full of information about cyber knives and them wanting to send me to a cancer center in Buffalo even though my car looked at me and sarcastically said, “Buffalo….you’re kidding, right?”

The fact that my car talks should be scary enough.

And then there was that huge fight with “L” the Hippy Chick two days before my lung cancer biopsy. I was a wreck waiting to go to the hospital, so I had been trying to fill my days with fun, relaxing activities so I wouldn’t think about the upcoming medical “event”.

For instance, I went to my favorite artsy/hippie festival the weekend before.  My art group had a tent set up and I mostly hung out there since  I had been feeling really tired lately. But I did walk around a little to see all the lovely whack-a-doos  in my town. Artists. Belly dancers. Musicians. Hippies. Flower Children…

And even Republicans trying to shake our hands, like they liked us.

For me, the argument had actually  briefly started the day before. I had parked quite a ways from the center of activity mainly because, well shit, there were no parking places any closer. Do you think I would park a half mile away if I could park 20 feet away?  So I offered “L” and her grandson a ride home like I always do. I have no problem giving people rides. None. I do it all the time.  If I’m lucky enough to have a working car, why not help people out….right?

 So “L” was spouting off angrily about something. I had sort of tuned it out for the first time ever. Why? Because I was still  grooving off the good vibes of the happy hippy day. Then she says, “Well, if I had known your car was this far, I would have just walked home!”

I bit my tongue on that one, but decided to take the high road. So I offered to go get the car and pick her up, but no, no, no, she said,  I’ll make it…somehow (groan).

Anyways, the next day I went to an art event up at the university in their lovely  art gallery. It was very relaxing and pleasant and quiet. We didn’t have a huge turn out, but we were sitting amongst a very famous painter’s artwork  drawing a model and I was incredibly relaxed. Which was good. And also the reason I went.

And then “L” shows up with her grandson who’s 7. And suddenly she was chatting loudly. Joking with the model. Her grandson was running amuck around the galleries. “D”, who was running the session, tried to give him some paper to draw on, but after about 5 minutes, he was running around once again. “L” wasn’t doing anything about it, as usual.

At the time, instead of drawing the model, I was actually attempting to draw one of the famous paintings. Silly me. Anyways, suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I see the grandson walking around with what looked like a pencil. He looked at me coyly and then turned around and started making a stabbing motion at the painting. I totally freaked out. This painting is probably worth about $80,000. So I leaned over and whispered, “Please don’t do that!” So he runs back over to “L” and I could hear some loud whispering and then some whimpering. Great. I made the kid cry.

We finally finished up around 3 and went outside. I offer her and her grandson a ride home but warned that it was about 5 blocks to my car since I couldn’t park on campus. “L” suddenly got absolutely  livid and started doing this loud mock talking to “D”, as if I wasn’t there and then stalked off. WTF? Ok, fine. Whatever. 

So “D” and I started walking to our cars and I’m blowing off a little steam about how weird she was acting and and then suddenly at the first red light she jumps in front of us and sarcastically wishes “D” a “Good Day” and just glares at me. I told her I hope she had a good day too. It was just getting too weird. Then she disappeared again. “D” and I walked together another 2 blocks and he went up that street to his car and then suddenly there was “L” again…yelling at me at the top of her lungs in the middle of a busy thoroughfare.  I just kept walking.

I’m really pretty innocuous in real life. Very quiet. Not someone to pick fights. And here is this woman, who I’ve been friends with for 5 years screaming all this crap at me. I finally yelled, “I’m going in for a cancer biopsy tomorrow. I went today so I could relax. Can you please stop yelling at me?” And then there was a brief silence and then she yelled something to the effect that “We all have to go sometime. That’s just how life is.” By then I started crying. How could anyone say that to someone going in for a cancer biopsy?

She then yelled after me 3 times…”What time?” I yelled back 7 a.m.” but evidently she couldn’t hear me because by time I got to the street where my car was,  she screamed at me that I was just like her last friend she just lost. That was I abandoning her. Needless to say, I cried all the way home.

Fortunately, not ALL my art friends are lunatics because on Tuesday, my dear friend Charlemagne did pick me up (I think Guardcat told you that) for my hospital visit.  And he does give good hug. You know you do, you cute little Frenchman!

And then in some weird stroke of fate or synchronicity, I was shopping at Target the next week and who do I run into AGAIN? Married Guy. Yup. Right there in the pet food aisle. Something keeps throwing us together. When he saw me the first words out of his mouth were, “You look really pale.” Oh wait, no, he first said, “How come everytime I see you, you’re shopping?” and I said, “Because I’m a rich housewife in *********” Ha, ha, ha. Irony. Love it. Both the rich part and the wife part. So anyways once we both bought our stuff we went outside and I told him about my lung cancer and he looked pretty stricken.  And then he offered help. And then I stupidly went to his wifie’s art show that Friday night. Do I want to see him again? Yes. Absolutely. I’m going through some really rough times  right now and I really need some people to lean on.  He gave me his cell phone and said to call him anytime. Whether I’ll actually be able to, remains to be seen.

Anyways, back to the doctor part,  evidently doctors don’t necessarily talk to each other. I now have about 4 or 5 of them. And except for the hottie oncologist, they all look like Michael J. Fox, especially the one I saw today who told me I’ll be getting something called Cyberknife, which is some kind of high intensity radiation in 3 or 4  lengthy sessions.  I’ve been worried because October is my busiest art month, but it looks like I’ll be able to get most of my events in, before I collapse into a pile of glowing radioactive wittykitty goo towards the end of the month. That is way better than the original suggestion of a serious, big ass surgery though, and I’m happy about that. Of course, ask me about that when I’m sleeping 23 hours a day around October 23rd.

Oh, by the way, “L” the Hippie Chick didn’t talk to me last week in my art group, but she did this week. Pretty much everyone in my art group now knows I have cancer. And for some reason as Sci-Fi Guy and “L” were walking me out Wednesday, she started asking me if the doctors had given me a length of time I was expected to live. She just kept asking me that over and over.  It was really starting to upset me.  When you’re dealing with this kind of stuff  you really don’t want to think about that, you’re supposed to think about your survival. I finally practically yelled I didn’t know and just asked her to pray for me. And then she mentioned she knew of a prayerline- on the phone with the numbers 666 in it.

WTF? Am I really that bad? I know one thing, I’m never correcting anyone’s kids ever again!

This is me right before my biopsy on September 15th. I’m so 666, dont’cha think?

the british guy in the park

August 2, 2009

It all started with this tree to be honest….

British Men Like Trees by you.

I had just spent the last couple of hours with my mother.  I had dreaded the day. She was bringing back a cat, aka the Scourge from Hell, she had adopted from the humane society back in June. I had had to listen to the daily horror stories of broken dishes and lamps and bites to the head and how she was jumping on top of the refrigerator knocking things over as well as constantly running between her feet as she walked. Now my mom is 81 and not very stable as it is and I was literally waiting for the “witty (sob, sob), I just fell and broke my hip” call. As it was, she had already wrenched her back trying to avoid stepping on the cat in her bedroom a couple of weeks ago. So this last week, she finally wisely decided to take the cat back. Oh the guilt! But I told her, perhaps a little too snappishly, that this one was just too active for someone of her age.

So I brought Guardcat’s cat cage over to her house since the cardboard one they had given her back in June had only contained “Psycho”  for only about 1 minute and then she had escaped, as in she had jumped up on the dash board and was running around the vehicle at about 250 mph  in traffic. Its truly amazing my mom didn’t crash her car.

So the day was rough. My mom was crying…that is until we went to the humane society and she was able to play with about 45 cats in two large rooms for about an hour and a half. She kept saying she wanted “pretty cats” instead of  the “compatible” cats. Isn’t that what dudes say, Mom? Anyways, she eventually went home empty handed, but hopefully she’ll come to her senses and get one of the older cats who will sit and watch “American Idol” with her.

Anyways, after all the emotional turmoil in the afternoon with my mom and jumping over cats of every size and shape at the humane society (and yes, of course I totally love cats and played with lots of them), I really needed to take some time to regroup.

I’ve been very very very stressed out about losing my disability recently. “A”, after one appointment after a year on Tuesday, said I’m all better mentally evidently and said if asked by the government, he will tell them accordingly. If I lose my disability, I will also lose my health insurance and when you have cancer, or  at least the possibility of it and have to go get $3300 x-rays every 3 months (along with a myriad of other appointments), the thought of losing your insurance is pretty fucking  scary. So I’ve been crying ever since he sent me an e-mail to that effect Wednesday afternoon. Thanks “A”.  

So I went to our nearby lake for a walk. It was really busy because it was a beautiful summer day. Naturally I had my camera with me. Its like permanently attached to my hand, kinda like you yuppies and your cell phones.

Anyways, I saw this tree (see above). Recently when I was in my nekkid drawing class I had been bored drawing this certain model who was standing there with her arms raised above her head. Sometimes witty is naughty. She’ll do things like draw horns or spikes on models or write something like “I wonder if I have a spine” down the back of a male model. Anyways, with this particular model I had drawn her arms raised upwards and then started adding branches growing out of her body, kinda like a naked model tree!

And I wasn’t even stoned!

I actually liked the idea so much I’ve been thinking of doing a painting. Anyways this tree looked a lot like that particular drawing. The shape was almost identical. So I was standing there shooting the photo when suddenly I hear this male voice with an English accent say, “Why are you photographing a tree?” It startled me 1) because, as you know if you’ve read me for a while, I think that I’m invisible, so when somebody acknowledges that I’m there, I’m usually pretty startled 2) He was way closer than I realized, as in standing right next to me.  3) What a strange question to ask. I’m just photographing a tree.

And before I knew it, this tall British guy, who I had actually seen sitting on a bench when I sat down just five minutes earlier,  was standing RIGHT THERE and he was incredibly verbose, telling me he was a writer, and then breaking out into this  lengthy hilarious “Roses are read, violets are green…” poem about a shopkeeper breaking dishes and cats jumping over taxis. Who knows. He even managed to interject the word “genitalia” in there, although I can’t remember in what context. I was just standing there with my camera nervously clutched in my hand, looking at him, wondering what part I was playing in  all this. He then  wanted to guess what astrology sign I was and actually nailed it. Aquarius. WTF! I said I thought he was probably a Gemini because he talked so much. He said I was close He was on the cusp of Gemini and Cancer. He asked what I did. My stock answer now is “artist”. I don’t actually make my living at it, but its my vocation. And he asked about that. How can you make a living at art?

Pretty cheeky there, Brit Boy! How do you know I’m not like some famous woman tree photographer or Picasso’s great step-grand niece.

He was talking so fast and fluidly and leaping from subject to subject, I was having a bit of a problem keeping up. There was a brief jaunt into psychotherapy. My quote: “Therapists are paid friends”. He didn’t agree. He wondered how hard it would be to find an illustrator for his children’s book.  Are you trying to pick me up, dude? I mean, professionally? And then we were talking about biorhythms. I wondered aloud why mine were always below the line instead of  above the line. He didn’t know.  And then he asked me what I was doing with my life.

Yikes? Do I even know? True I just got a letter which has given me a full grant for 2 classes a semester through Spring of 2010 towards my long awaited Bachelor’s degree in art. But instead I chose to remain mysterious. I told him I was walking. Just walking. I think he was perplexed. Or maybe that I was really deep or something. Or was possibly that I was just avoiding the real question since I didn’t know who the hell this British Guy was or why  he was asking me all these probing questions.

He then asked me to sit down. The blissful, we-just-met-and-this-is-going-well did slow down noticeably when we sat. In fact, there was like a full moment of silence. I could feel the breeze blowing off the lake through my hair. Fortunately he finally started chatting again about the boats out in the lake. I told him I liked kayaking. He said his kids “liked to fucking jet ski since it was better than talking to each other. ”

I then noticed he started patting the pocket in his shirt intermittently. I knew what that meant. Pat, pat, pat. We chatted a little more. Pat, pat, pat. And then he said, “Do you smoke?” and I said, “No.” and he said, “I better go.”

Just.like.that. A whole relationship played out in a matter of 15 minutes. The blush of first love. Intense interest in what each other has to say. Sitting down, as familiarity takes hold, talking like an old married couple. And then the one thing we always knew we never had in common, suddenly hits our “relationship” like a meteor and it was over!

He never even asked me my name.

In other news, I had some guy with a blue painted face come up to me at an art’s festival last weekend. He asked if I wanted to come paint a man in this certain art gallery. I know the gallery. The woman who runs it had actually expressed some interest in my work last November and was going to come to my house to look at my work but then I got the cancer and we never connected. Naturally I said yes. I always want to paint men. 🙂

So I went up to the gallery. Little did I know that I was going to…well you’ll see…

365.3/125 Man-paint Bokah 

actually paint a man.  See, if the damn British Guy had played his cards right….

Our Lady of the Boo-Boo Knee

June 27, 2009

Its been a busy couple of weeks. This new “having a lot of people in your life” thing is truly a mixed bag. I’ve been trying to act all cool about it and letting people talk TO ME, rather than me acting all needy and pleading for attention. Nope! That wittykitty is gone. You make one mistake, like calling me on the phone and acting nasty. Let’s just say, this goddess ain’t for kicking anymore.

But with all this talking to people has come the rather unwieldy responsibility of having to actually listen to them. And grit your teeth when they’re acting weird (and when you’re friends with a bunch of artists, that’ll probably happen pretty quickly). And then there are even times when you have to nod your head in wide eyed wonder like when “L” the hippie chick’s friend told me  she wanted to hook me up with a “37 year old 4th level manic depressive professional bowler”.  Now I’m manic depressive too but I’ve never heard of a fourth level one. I didn’t even know we had levels.  “Hi, I’m Bob a Professional Bowler.  I’m a Fourth Level Manic Depressive. I can levitate, write poetry and throw strikes. Oh, and I’m Pisces.”

Heh, that’s me running in the opposite direction, by the way.

Last week was Charlemagne’s big bi-yearly art show in The Factory. This time instead of lugging a bunch of heavy paintings down to the ‘Hood, I decided to just bring nine of my self portraits. I’ve been doing these Selfies for about 2 1/2 years now and this was the first time I ever really  had then printed out professionally and took them somewhere. There was some interest, although most people didn’t realize 1) they were all me or 2) that they all were the same people.  One of my friends was even stunned to learn that I had…BLUE EYES! OMG! Really??? You’re fucking kidding!  Jesus, people, do you even look at me when we’re talking?

(stop looking at my boobs, BTW!)

Anyways this was the photo that also startled my old date mate  from a couple summers ago, Handyman.  Remember him? He came over all smiley, with a kind of  “I bet she’s gonna date me again” look.  I was indifferent. Meh. The last time I saw him was when he went on a date with another woman WHILE we were on our actual date. Yeah, THAT guy.  So he was looking at all the photos and he was particularly taken with the one above and I said, “I bet you didn’t realize I was so hot, did you?” He grinned all goofy like men do when they suddenly  realize you have boobs.  And then for the rest of the evening  he kept returning to my booth, chatting with me, telling me really pertinent stuff  like that he was still single and his daughter was going to camp, so he had a lot of free time.

And you’re telling me this why?

Anyways, this last Tuesday I had my yearly physical. I’ve had some not so great  news in recent weeks. And my Tuesday appointment wasn’t much better,  turning up various infections and needing antibiotics. I guess my body just can’t fight things anymore.

Once I was sprung from the doctor’s at around 1:00, I went up to my Spanish friend’s house for some more kayaking. I really shouldn’t have since I was feeling really tired, but when haven’t I  felt tired. 

Once “E” dropped off her teen-aged sons in town, we went over to her cabin. The lake looked a little rough. You could see white caps across the top of the water.  I was a little apprehensive, but I’ve been trying to be a hard-ass lately and do absolutely everything I can each day, so off we went. Naturally we were paddling against the waves, which were smacking against the front of the boat.  “E”s a little bossy so she was yelling out directions in Spanish I think. Or maybe I was just not hearing anything since the wind was blowing so hard.

Or maybe I was just starting to feel a little fearful.  I mean I wasn’t totally afraid since we were fairly close to the shore, but I was starting to feel a little anxiety as each subsequent wave slammed the front of the boat and sloshed up over the top.  

I finally started asking “E” if we could possibly turn around and go back. By then I had stopped paddling because I felt so tired. She didn’t want to at first. She kept telling me it would be calmer around this certain  jut of land. I then told her I wanted to row back to shore to get off the boat. She said no but finally agreed to get the kayak to a nearby pier. I said I wanted to go to the shore. She said no again and rowed us to this large pier.  Naturally the boat started slamming into the pier. She then started yelling at me to stand up and just step up onto the pier. But how could I….the boat was unstable, as in one moment we’d be flush with the pier and then the  next I could only see a wide chasm of water.

But then suddenly, perhaps as part of my new fangled Bad-Ass persona  (and perhaps just a smattering of fear too), I decided to do  step thing. What happened next was not pretty.

I don’t know if you have ever seen that reality television show “Wipe Out”, where contestants have to go through elaborate obstacle courses designed to inflict horrific bodily harm, but when I jumped stepped onto the pier, I landed on my left knee  really hard.  The pain was excruciating.  “E” immediately started yelling at me, telling me I should have stepped up on the pier faster. I really can’t do anything fast with my fibro, especially with the waves affecting the stability of the damn boat. I  immediately looked down, since my knee was stinging really bad, and there was a huge bloody gash on it.  She yelled up to me to walk back to her cabin and she would just paddle back.  I secretly wondered if I could even walk since blood was starting to well up. 

Back at her cabin she again started yelling at me once again for not getting out of the kayak fast enough. So I guess that’ll always be my main memory for the month of June 2009: Kayak Exit Failure. Grade: F. My bad.

We continued to sit on some lawn furniture for about another 45 minutes chatting. My knee was stinging like hell. I really should have been more assertive like OWWWW, I’M BLEEDING, I NEED A BAND-AIDE. But I’m still new in this new friend phase and was unable to say “WTF!”, like I could have said to Charlemagne. We finally went into  her cabin and she casually got out a first aide kit from like 1972 and I found a tiny package that said: antibiotic, so I gooped it on my knee.

She drove us back to her main house, telling me about every 7 minutes how I had incorrectly jumped from the boat to the pier. Okie dokie, I think I got that now. We then sat and chatted for about another 45 minutes or so but I was starting to feel a little queasy and light headed, so I finally told her I had to head home.

About ten minutes from her house I started to feel really dizzy and I could feel and subsequently see blood dripping down my knee. I live about 30 miles from “E and I wasn’t sure if I could make it all the way home in this condition so I decided to stop at my favorite aunt’s house. She’s a major caretaker person and within minutes of arriving I was like 6 years old again as she  cleaned up the wound in the bathroom and put Bactine and a large bandage on it. She even gave me some home baked cookies.

We chatted for a while. I was feeling less dizzy, but I looked down and it was bleeding once again from under the bandage. Plus the skin was starting to turn a bright red around the edges and traveling. I thought it was probably getting an infection…you know, since I had just been at the doctor’s that morning and told I was suffering from several simultaneos infections and put on antibiotics and yet stupidly went out kayaking in choppy waters with a highly excitable Spanish woman.

So I decided to go to the ER. Not at a big hospital…just one of those little ones in the suburbs. What a revelation they are! I was in and out in about 20 minutes! Booyah!  Of course the doctor was older than Larry King and he made a joke about giving me a tetanus shot in my knee which I didn’t think was particularly funny.

So I’ve been trying to rest the last couple of days. The pain has been pretty significant in both my left knee and my right calf which now has a huge yellow and purple bruise and I have a fever.  I even missed my beloved drawing class on Wednesday night. But I have been working on my various paintings. Starting new ones. And finishing up ones that I started in the last month or so.  Even though the pain hasn’t been much fun, the time I’ve been spending on my paintings has been invaluable.

Here’s my latest…

Our Lady of the Boo-Boo Knee.

whirlwinds eventually make you need a nap

May 31, 2009

Usually if I go for a long time without a blog entry its because, well, my life totally sucks and there is absolutely nothing to write about except  me sitting catatonic in front of the TV watching “The View” getting pissed off when everybody in the audience gets a free ticket to a Broadway show or a $50 giftcard to Amazon.com or even a goodie bag of green cleaning products from some guy named Sven whose company is called I Love Mother Earth and So Should You.com. I mean, where’s my goodie bag, bitches??

But I don’t have any excuse for not writing other than I’ve been the busiest I’ve been possibly since the days when I used to get up and actually go to work everyday. What’s up with that? Well, I think its something called “Having a life”. All the cool kids are doing it. Naturally there’s no pay involved. Oh no. That would be too freakin’ weird. The universe simply wouldn’t allow that.

So lets briefly review the uber busy wittykitty social calendar.

First: I was asked to be in a women’s writing group by someone I met at the Goth art show. I can’t say much because I’m fairly certain she is probably scouring the internet, as we speak,  looking for my blog since I’ve been bringing in doctored up entries (deleting my “wittykitty” moniker obviously) since I’m too damn lazy to write anything new.

I did feel pretty anxious at the first group meeting since everyone there actually reads REAL BOOKS and throws around famous author names like Carlos Castaneda, who, of course, I thought was the guy who won “Dancing with the Stars” last year. I admit, I’m not real intellectual.  But by our second meeting there was a little less literary muscle flexing so I felt a little less like Paris Hilton at a Think Tank with Stephen Hawkings.

And then my art group had our big once a year art conference at the local university. I absolutely loved it because I felt like I was going to an expensive college for two days, having access to lots of talented and sometimes famous artists who spoke at our event. Usually Charlemagne and I go up and pilfer recycle old canvases and art supplies left over from the school year up in the lockers but unfortunately everything had already been totally cleaned out. Bah!

I think my biggest thrill though was getting to meet world famous artist Jer0me Witkin). He is 69 years old and has had an incredible art career and is well thought of in the art world. Here is a sample of his work.

Anyways, he did a presentation of his work with us 2 years ago. Back then in my incredible angst, I had gone up to him with my art friend “J”, intending to ask to get my photo taken with him, because he’s like a rock star to me, and suddenly I chickened out and told “J” to go stand next to him while I took his picture. I had been kicking myself ever since.

Well, not this time baby. I was still nervous as hell. He said so many things in his presentation that really resonated with me about being an artist. So much so I was practically weeping. But I didn’t want to go up and start babbling like a teenager meeting the actor from “Twilight”.  “J” was with me once again and he took my camera and fortunately did all the talking. I just stood there like a geek thinking, “Can I touch your painting hand so I can be like you?”

SODWitkinandBarb2

But what was really cool, was not me meeting him (his hands were really cold by the way!), but the fact that “L” the Hippy Chick met him and with her warm yet raucous personality managed to get a modeling gig with him. I am so happy for her. She was absolutely over the moon. And for the rest of the day, everytime we’d see each other we’d literally jump up and down like two teenagers who just got free Jonas Brothers tickets.  And since then I’ve been getting to hear stories about how he works and about his studio and what music he plays. Evidently, she is going to be part of a huge three part mural. All she really wants is to be on a work of art hung in a museum somewhere as a legacy for her kids and grandkids.  Go “L”!

The Monday after the art conference I went to the Spanish Lady artist house and we went kayaking. That was certainly a first. When we were driving back from the lake she abruptly stopped the car when she saw a dead badger in the road and ran over and took a photo of it. Back at the house she later showed me her series of photos of road kill. I pretty much excused myself from that. Urp! I actually got invited up there again today, but I’m pretty tired from another art gallery thing last night and besides she may be busy looking for squashed ferrets or something.

My art show came down last Friday. Nothing sold, although the art gallery owner told me several people were interested in my koi fish painting. People are always interested in that. They just never buy it, right “A”?

I’ve been very manic in the last week or so, finishing up paintings that have been laying around my apartment half done. I’m going to be doing another art show with Charlemagne on June 13th with a bunch of my self portrait photos. I’ve had photos in shows and even museums before, but it was in the days before digital cameras, so I had to get 10 prints printed at Target and buy a bunch of frames and put them together yesterday.  I think Charlemagne is gonna freak when he sees a couple of them. No more asexual witty. A lot of times when I do my “selfies” (self portraits) I definitely glam it up. I realize I don’t exactly ooze girly girl in my every day life. I guess I’m just afraid of attracting the wrong sort if I’m too fabulous, so I just settle on attracting absolutely nobody, although….

Well, I had a rather large shock two days ago coming out of the yuppie grocery store. I had just stopped in for a couple of things. And as I was exiting the store who do I see in living color? Married Guy! Fucking hell! I mean I have seen him a couple times from a distance or from my car where I could either duck behind a counter or speed off in a cloud of dust, but there he was…less then five feet away from me. My heart nearly ripped out of my chest, pounding 1000 MPH. I haven’t talked to him in nearly 5 years.

So there he was and there was no denying we were going to have to say at least SOMETHING. Naturally I was gripping the handle of my shopping cart like I was hanging off a twig over Niagara Falls and he was just casually approaching me smiling, saying something snarky like “Wow, its been like 10 years hasn’t it?” I corrected him, of course.

So we started catching up a little but it was really noisy in the main thoroughfare so I suggested we step inside the store. And then he said he was just going in for a bite to eat. And stupid me, yes, I did invite myself and there was no, “Well, you really shouldn’t you crazy bitch” from him. So we had dinner together and talked about the last five years. And about my anger. heh. There was no admonishing though. Just an interest in what happened. And then he did the most astonishing thing. He invited me to Kidlet’s high school graduation party. Last time I saw Kidlet, who I always adored, he was only in 8th grade.

Whether this all transpires is truly up in the air.

artists, strippers, manic depressives, all in all a fun evening

April 26, 2009

Oh dear, some people get so confused when they’re talking.  I’ve been going out to lunch and walks with my former co-worker “J” for quite a while now. He’s a very nice and thoughtful guy, albeit married, but you know witty. The more married they are, the more likely I am to be going out to lunch and walks with them. Anyways, he’s been a little lost lately, so I’ve been trying to be a friend to him.   Unfortunately when I invited him to Sci-Fi Guy’s bi-yearly wacky Goth art show this last Saturday, he offered to come and pick me up, and officially deemed our trek a “date”.

Not intended, I assure you.

Ya see, I had already driven down to town once earlier that day, picking up “L” the Hippy Chick, to bring our artwork to the dive bar to hang the show. That’s always kind of fun. Okay, the first eight minutes weren’t so fun. Why? Because the Sci-Fi Guy usually has a bunch of the male artists hanging the art work while “L” and I stand around cracking jokes and looking totally glamorous. But on Saturday he said, “Hey witty, here’s some wire and a ladder. You  just need to throw the wire up over the pipe near the ceiling and try not to touch the wiring…otherwise you might get electrocuted.”

Whhaattt-t-t-?

I’m not a real big fan of being 1) electrocuted and 2) being more than about….maybe….1/16″ of  an inch off the floor. But I thought, well I’ve been being really brave these last couple of weeks, having English people sleeping at my house and skulking around in Garden Hacker’s serial killer apartment for stray plants…I can most certainly climb a silly old ladder!

WRONG!

OMG! The moment I climbed to the uppermost  step and nervously tossed the 24 gauge wire over the water pipe, I suddenly realized my stomach was all knotted up, my hands were shaking and when I looked down it looked like what James Stewart saw from the church tower in “Vertigo”.

Fortunately, I still have the capacity to act like a Defenseless Female (help squeak, help)and let men take their rightful place as the Manful Men They Are Meant To Be. because there was the guy “M”, the guy who paints massive canvases of vaginas in various configurations. I mean, everytime I meet him at these shows I always wonder if he’s somehow sizing me up. Wondering if, hmmmm, I bet she would be a good one to paint…even though he is the most incredibly quiet and thoughtful person in person. Its just his paintings that are, well, pretty explicit shall we say.

Fortunately, since I’m still fairly hot from the waist up too apparently, he stepped in…quite literally and took over the  task of hanging my artwork  which included a self portrait of me as the Malcolm McDowell character in “Clockwork Orange”. This so begs to be put on sMatch.com, don’t you think?

365/315 kubrickesque by you.

 

“SWF, 51,  enjoys walking and bashing fucking sods in dark tunnels, watching “Dancing with the St@r“….”

Professional Artist Guy soon appeared and I helped him with what they called “The Babe Wall”.  Needless to say, there is no “politically correct” classifications in our art show. Oh how proud the nuns at St. Raphael’s would be of me now. Like when we were all talking and someone said the word “Banging” and we all burst out laughing like a bunch of 12 year old adolescent boys.  I did chat  with a few people after the Babe Wall was done including this old woman with white hair who was a friend of “L”. She was like one of those Intuitive people who shakes your hand and knows your whole life just by doing so. I gave her and “L” a ride home afterwards. I was really tired. Turns out I was coming down with my absolute favorite illness. Sinusitis.

I don’t know if it was the massive canvases of vaginas or the huge painting of a naked Dick Cheney and Elvis with a halo made of pizza peeing on his head from the show…

Promisebreaker's art

 ….but when I got home I was so horny. Me horny? I know, I haven’t been horny in like 27 dog years. But I’m sure if you go back, you might find an entry or 277 of me having a date with B.O.B. (battery operated boyfriend) a few years ago. But my goodness, I got home and even though I was getting sick, I couldn’t get my clothes off fast enough. Poor Guardcat had to hide her eyes. I didn’t even bother to close the windows. Its Spring, people!!!!!!!!!!!! Even Old People get frisky!!!!!

I did finally manage to pull myself from the boudoir long enough to cook a brief dinner before “J” came to pick me up. Since our show are all about sex, monsters from outer space and general debauchery, I decided to wear a slightly naughty shirt my sister had sent me. You know the one I had vowed to never wear because it showed my cleavage. Yes. I do have cleavage…apparently slightly more than I thought. Because when I went out front to wait for “J” to pick me up, my neighbor was throwing bread crusts off her porch for the birds and yelled down, “I hope I don’t get any in your cleavage.” WTF? Ouch!  Passive aggressiveness, be thy Mistress, sistah!

Anyways, “J” finally pulled up and yes, it did feel like a date. More than any of my sMatch.com dates have felt in the last year. My bad, I know. I did let him wander around the event by himself most of the night though and rather strangely a woman he’s told me about in recent conversations, did appear rather abruptly mid-evening, making me think, that was pre-arranged. I asked him later and he said no. But I think different.

Men! Can’t hit them in the head with Buicks, can’t send them to Dick Cheney’s house for a little, well, you get the picture.

The art show was its usual naughty self. It was a smoking event which was hard on my virgin lungs. I managed to hold out until the first act which was a burlesque show with girls gyrating in bejeweled evening gowns, feather boas and then less and less clothing, ending with two girls exploring each other with a riding crop. Hiss, you would have loved that one. It was during that, that I was standing at the edge of the stage, that the Intuitive Woman I had met earlier came walking towards me. It was loud and dark and she literally fell right into my arms with her lips slowly sliding across my face.  eeep! She whispered, “I’m three sheets to the wind, honey”. So I just picked her up and sent her towards the bathroom where all the strippers were congregating. Maybe she could get lucky with one of them.

Really the strangest thing that happened this last week was at my drawing class. We have this certain male model who is also an artist. He started out as an artist with our group, but then one night modeled and has been doing both since. And lets just say he also has an ego the size of Donald Trump times 47 trillion. Sure sweetie, ITS kinda big, but not enough so that you can talk to girls who are still in high school during the break. (A no-no in our rules of models fraternizing with artists, as in “Hi! I’m blah, blah. Would you like to get kissed by a naked man”).

Anyways, so we’ll called him “Buddy-Boy” gets up on the modeling stage with his robe. Usually they just drop the robe and we start drawing. But no….Buddy Boy had a rather earth shattering announcement for all of us lonely, shuttered-up artists who might not obviously aren’t  “getting any”. He stood there rather boyishly, yet rather proudly and asked for forgiveness in advance. It seems his (cough) lower regions “were going to be rather reddish tonight”. It was a dermatological condition, and YES, DEAR GOD (okay, I just put that part in, so its not a direct quote), the condition was being dealt with by his dermatologist. None of the artists asked what it was naturally….BECAUSE WE REALLY DIDN’T FUCKING CARE. But Buddy Boy went on, grinning rather sheepishly and said, “I’ve been having a helluva lot of sex the last 7-10 days, so the constant friction has made it a little red. I didn’t want to alarm anyone.”

God….I think we just located The Very Definition of TMI.

But since he did already have our attention, now, like we were just seconds away from seeing some massive blood red beet shaped penis, about the freakin’ size of Alaska protruding from his hip or something, the tension in the room was palpable. So he dropped him robe and yes, his wee-wee was slightly pinkish on one side. OMG, call CNN! Call “Dateline”!!! Call Geraldo Rivera!!!!!! This is like a bigger story than when Lindsey Lohen walked on…on… a sidewalk yesterday!

Incidentally, this guy used to date Married Guy’s wifie in high school. ‘Nuf said!

(s)he’s just not that into you

March 4, 2009

I’ve now been 51 years old for a little over 3 weeks and its been…

fabulous

better than sex with Johnny Depp

…so fucking boring that I haven’t had neither the strength nor inclination to write a blog entry about it, so shut the fuck up….

Oh sure, I have left Casa de wittykittyon a few occasions, like taking my mom to the ER on Sunday night thus missing “Celebrity Apprentice”, a show I was going to review for my first column at the newspaper. But our E.R. has this little problem, ya see. You go in at 6:30 p.m. and you tend to not leave until 3 a.m., you know, since the  staff is out in the hallway laughing and talking to each other and there wasn’t  exactly anything ER-worthy wrong with the patient.  So I missed the TV show, the time to write the brief 150 word newspaper article and the deadline. I figure they probably think I don’t want to write for them since I was MIA on the very first week of publication. Yay me!

The previous week had been far more exciting. I actually went on a date. You know, I always am required to go on at least 1 to 2 dates a year or  my Vagina License is revoked. And you know how hard it is to renew the damn thing. The long throbbing masses slamming against the single window at the DMV. Its hideous. I basically just have a photo ID, so I don’t have to act like I’m interested when the guy at the window asks me questions like “Where do you live” (wink, wink) and “Is this your correct address?” (wink, wink).

Dude, you’re bald and you’re wearing polyester. Back off!

Oh! My date! So like the day after my surgery I had gotten a note from a guy on sMatch.com. I think we already went over this. He said he’d  wait until I healed up from my surgery. I thought that was pretty decent of him. We wrote back and forth about every 3-4 days. He called me on my birthday on February 12th. I think we talked about 35 minutes. He was going to be picking up his daughter at the airport in my city and said, “Oh, I should have taken you out to dinner for your birthday.”

Indeed! So many missed opportunities! Free meals are always heartily accepted by starving artists, but it was already like 6:45 and he lived about 45 minutes south of here. So he asked me out the following Friday, the 20th. I said fine. He said fine. I think we even possibly saluted the Beatles somehow, since that was something we had in common, because we were both really old and remember seeing the Beatles on something besides YouTube.

The Wednesday before my date I started feeling a little angsty about it.

WHAT????? WITTYKITTY ANGSTY?????? omg…CALL CNN!!!!!!!

Yeah, I know, its hard to believe. So when I went to my art class I was hoping to see “L” the Hippy Chick because she’s my only real female friend I can talk to. Unfortunately she wasn’t there and instead I made a really huge mistake. I talked to Zue….the biggest expert in the history of the universe on absolutely nothing everything, but especially on sMatch.com things. Why? Because before she found her current boyfriend she probably dated every dude in a 800 mile radius. For a while she was even attempting to toss me her leftovers (criminals, child molesters, banks robbers, Bernie Maddoff). I, of course, never took any of them.  I mean, I don’t want to ruin my 1-2 dates a year thing and I especially am not going to date Zue rejects.  That would be like eating what raccoons won’t eat out of  garbage cans.

So I told her about my impending date and she asked who he was and I stupidly said three words: his first name, the fact that he was Jewish and his city and she’s like “I dated him!” And I cringed inside. Ugh! Zue cooties! And then she did a true disservice to both me and him. She said some things that weren’t very becoming about him. They weren’t terrible, but just discouraging to someone who only dates minimally and always hopes for the best (I bet you didn’t know that about me, huh!!! Neener!!!).

The next day I just decided to make the best of it. It was sunny and nice all day and then blam, around 5 p.m.,  a really  severe snowstorm blew in. I was worried about “M” driving 45 miles, up through the hills because there were traveler’s advisory in effect. But he arrived exactly on time. 7 p.m. He got out of his car and walked up and kissed me on the cheek.

Really? That was sure a first for a sMatch.com date. Must have been because we were in the middle of a blinding snowstorm and he thought I was Angelina Jolie or something.   

Dinner was good. Conversation was better in person than on the phone. He was not exactly my usual “type”…..dark hair, dark eyes…but he was pleasant enough. I was very well behaved. No ribald jokes about sausages or anything.

But when we walked out of the restaurant it looked like the final scene in “The Shining”. The snow was horrific. I felt somewhat stricken. What do I do? I would feel bad if he drove over 80 mile round trip for a 45 minute date in a blizzard. He asked me about the art opening I had mentioned to him earlier. But I felt stressed….what if Zue was at the art opening. She had told me she was going to see her boyfriend in a nearby city….but….here we were in the middle of a massive blizzard. And I just knew she’d be there and I didn’t want to subject him to her or me to her or anyone to her without our rabies shots.

So here we are driving around in circles in a mall parking lot and I was like, “ummm, ummm. I….ummm….well….” Can we see why I don’t date much? I finally told him to turn right at the mall exit and we finally headed out towards the art gallery. It was a pretty treacherous ride and the route I took him was really dark and twisty. Fortunately he was a good driver. So we pulled into the place and we were running pretty late, as in the opening was actually officially over. 8:30 p.m. But there were still people there of course. And who is the first person I see? Zue.

Damn! 

I don’t know how I managed it, but I introduced “M” to about 7-8 of my art friends, looked at the art and somehow got him out of there without Zue ever seeing us. And it was a small place too. I was astounded. She had her back to the door and I just worked around her.

When we finally got back to my apartment, “M” ran around to get the car door for me. I figured he was just going to say goodnight or “Hey scarface, I didn’t feel any spark, so why don’t we just save a little computer time and end it here”, but instead, suddenly he had his arms around me and was kissing me and then his tongue was darting around in my mouth.

Who are you, The Bachelor?

 Of course I almost didn’t realize it since my chin and lip are still completely numb from my surgery and you could probably hit me with an anvil and I wouldn’t feel it, but mini-ick. Our date wasn’t going THAT well.  I guess he finally realized I wasn’t returning “T-T” (The Tongue) and walked back to his car. I did tell him to call me when he got home so I knew that he was safe in the storm, which he did.

Geeze, I’m such a nice date. Slurp. Slurp.

The next morning Zue called me to see if I was “okay”. Or something. (“Hey “M” its Zue, she wanted to see if I got laid!”) I told her I was fine.  What I wanted to tell her was to “Butt the hell out”, because her pre-date “warning” had put me on alert in such a way, that hadn’t really been fair to him or me.

He did write me a brief friendly note the Monday after our date. I was expecting the “I didn’t feel any spark” thing which I usually get on every single date, but it wasn’t there. Unfortunately I got spooked and never wrote back.

sigh.

artist sandwich

October 18, 2008

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. 😉

hell month, part two: the musical.

July 28, 2008

I’ve had a hard time dealing with stress since say, about 1989. Up until then  I ate stress omelets for breakfast. I stuck out my chin and ordered stress jalapeno burritos for lunch! Now? If I can’t open a Diet Coke bottle because of my fibro, I totally flip out and weep profusely and shake my fist at the world, blaming everyone from my mother to the Pope. And you know what? I don’t like that, but that’s just how I’ve gotten.

These last three weeks? Its been the freaking Flip Out Weeping Fist-Shaking Olympics. Something I haven’t mentioned here, at least I don’t remember, but then again, I’m usually somewhat medicated so I might have, is that my mother has cancer. She found out waaaaaaaaay back in December, but did she do anything about it? NO. Well let me rephrase that. She bitched and complained and moaned about the doctor who was supposed to treat her. Why? Because when he was discussing her cancer, you know, a very serious illness, he had the utter, the UTTER gall not to smile and she was very offended and thought he was mean and wanted another doctor and a second opinion and….okay, she also wanted to keep that first week of June open for her 80th birthday party….the one starring Gay Elvis.

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

Me? If I heard the word “cancer”, I would have been busting down the door, grabbing the doctor’s pant leg and pleading for a SURGERY DATE like yesterday….Because you know….like fucking CANCER !?!?!!

But not my mom. Why? It was all about The Party!

Was I upset? Yeah, just slightly. Like every single fucking day for the last seven months. But unfortunately there was no talking her out of waiting. Even for a life saving cancer operation. 

Anyways, she finally had her operation on July 9. Fortunately I was able to wait with my favorite aunt the whole day. I even had a chance (yippee!!) to grovel and borrow some money from her that day since my car has been having some substantial problems*. (* Hell Month, part II). I just edited this whole part out. Just suffice to say, I fixed some things, but I’m still driving a car that has some really major problems.

Where’s Oprah and all her FREE cars when you need them!?

Anyways, the day my mom got home from the hospital there was a frantic message on my machine. She wanted me to drive a 34 miles round trip to her apartment, in my ready-to-break car, to carry her suit case 25 feet into her apartment from her sister’s car.

Am I stressed? A little. Do I feel guilty? A lot. Why yes. Thanks for asking.

Now during all this I had started a writing relationship with a guy from sMatch.com. He started writing me about 5 days before my mom’s operation. He was a British guy. Nice looking. Close by. He didn’t write like a retard, i.e.,  “I like 2 meet U 2-day. U seem niccce.” And my goodness, he even made a bit of money. So I told him I was leaving sMatch.com, which I did on 7/10, and we continued to write every day after that, with our real e-mail addresses. I’ll just call him The Science Guy.

In an effort not to screw this up, I did askfor pointers on British men from the stunning Stepfie over at Stepfordtart@diaryland.com ,  since all I know about British men comes from James Bond movies, those in supporting roles in Judy Densch movies and John Cleese.

So here I’ve been the last three weeks juggling a cancer operation mom, a car about ready to shatter if I hit a pot hole and writing to some brainy, bird-watching British Guy who was actually showing some interest in me. How do I know? Well as soon as I told him I had an art show downtown, he immediately went down and saw it! Can you believe that?

And what happened next was realllly  weird. The day I went to the hospital to wait for my mom’s surgery I saw this guy walk by in the cafeteria. I just happened to glance at him, since I really did have more serious things on my mind. Yes, I really WAS worried about my mom, despite how I sound here. And who do you think it was? Go ahead guess! It was the British guy from sMatch.com!!! And I didn’t even have a clue he worked there…at that point. I just knew he did science stuff.

So I wrote him later that night and asked him if he had been wearing a black and gray striped shirt and gray pants and did he walk through such and such place that day and he wrote back and said yes. He was astounded at my total recall. Me too!!!  Especially since I usually can’t even remember my password to MySpace.

Come to find out he worked on the floor just below where my mom was. Like WTF? Or as my former co-worker “J” would say, talk about synchronicity!  My mom’s having a cancer operation and her room is right over the guy I’m writing to on sMatch.com??? Like how likely is that?? I really did think that was synchronicity.

So finally after 10-12 days of writing Science Guy, we finally went out on a date a week ago Friday. It only had to be the hottest and most miserably humid day of the year with an Ozone alert. I was a wreck most of the day. Did I have to say that? Probably not. I’m wittykitty.

Anyhoo, I also had my mom calling me up all afternoon, telling me how the visiting nurses had forgotten something. And she wishes she had a salad. And she really needed stamps. And I’m like holding the phone, trying to pluck my Frida Kahlo unibrow. I finally managed to get 2 hours to myself right before the date and watched my favorite Woody Allen movie “Manhattan”.  I just needed a brief reprieve to perhaps remind myself that neurotic people can find love too. Thanks, Woody!

I finally left for Science Guy around 5:50. I briefly called my mom asking her to wish me luck and she told me about her physical therapy with her nurse and how young the nurse thought she was. And how she was able to touch her foot to her knee or something. I finally hung up realizing it was hopeless expecting any kind of support.  Although she did ask me if I had remembered to brush my hair. OMG!  I like totally forgot!  Really? I should brush my hair for a date? No way!  No feck-ing way!!!

Anyways, Science Guy was very nice looking. But very serious. He suggested Indian food instead of pizza at the door of the restaurant and I just asked if it was spicy and he kinda h’ruumphed and said never mind.  So we had pizza. It was incredibly hot in the restaurant. It was the same place I had brought The Village Guy last summer.

I BRINGZ ALL MY “MEN” HERE. (scratching my crotch and belching).

Anyways, conversation was really hard for me. He asked me about my art, but my throat was all tight and constricted. All the drugs I had taken just before I left weren’t working. He wasn’t real loquacious either. I actually was so intimidated, I couldn’t even make any jokes. Me! Can you imagine the Ingmar Bergman Version of wittykitty?

And when he asked what I did besides art, I knew what he meant. What do you do for a living. You know…a real job. So I said I was on disability. The date seemed to end shortly after that. I suppose I could have lied and said I was the CEO of WordPress or a hand model or something. I actually didn’t think he was bad. He spoke lovingly of his kids. I think we were both nervous though. I wrote him a thank you note the next day but got back the obligatory “I didn’t feel any sparks” thingie. 

How many times have I gotten that? Too many times, I’m afraid. I’m not a freakin’ Zippo lighter you know.  You, my friend,  were the first British person I’ve ever met, who didn’t have a sense of humor. I guess I could have sent him an e-mail, regarding this,  since it was clearly stated on his sMatch.com profile that he had one. A Sense of Humor, that is. 

Sigh.

 Thanks for your help, Stepfie. You were very sweet.  At least it gave me a reason to shave my legs this summer. Booya!

wastingmymoney.com

June 20, 2008

Against my better judgement I decided to re-up my Smatch.com subscription because there were two pesky e-mails sitting, waiting in my mailbox and if you’re not a member you can’t look at them. And let’s face it, I could very well be missing out on the man of my dreams. The MAN OF MY DREAMS, I TELL YOU!!!

I finally paid the damn fee (again-Grrr!), which I am now comparing to standing on a highway overpass and throwing twenty dollar bills off into traffic, since I’ve yet to get anything tangible for my money except…well, we’ll talk about that in a second.

Anyways, so I excitedly clicked on the link to look at my two pieces of mail. OMG, I was so excited. And it was so worth the wait and the $37.48 I threw off the highway overpass, since his profile was positively dreamy. It read as follows:

About my life and what I’m looking for:

wery well and suver you can meet me and i like drama book s riding , swiming .adventeggers, new freinds, honest. foweds. new idieas .art. travalings .studies. acitectuer, disainig.forest area.new finding maimings. helpfull .

Is it me or was that possibly not in English. I’m usually pretty good with words,  but I have no idea what Mr. Groove Thang was getting at. “Suver”?  “Adventeggers”? “Fowed”? Was that like when Elmer Fudd says “I’m looking fowed to meeting ywo witty!”

I guess “acitectuer” was probably “architecture” and “disainig” might have possibly been “designing”. But its really the phrase “new finding maimings. helpfull”, that I found, well, a little disturbing. I’m not saying that finding maimings might not be kind of fun thing to do, in a “CSI: New York” kind of way. But what the hell was this guy trying to say? Anyone?

As for the other sMatch.com goodies I’ve received in the last two weeks. Well, there was a wink from a guy in Sri Lanka. Sri Lanka? WTF? Yeah, me too! I could just see this skinny little starving dude, hunched over his free Feed-the-Hungry laptop from Mac, at the side of the road, sitting in ox shit, looking down at the screen and saying, “Oh, that eez a good wooonabbi. I will wink at her. Maybe she will give me a penny, so I will not die.”

And then there is the cowboy dude who keeps bugging me. He’s 5’5″, weighs 280 pounds (more than me, even!!), wears a huge cowboy hat, has a scruggly beard and wears sun glasses, undoubtedly to hide his identity from “America’s Most Wanted”. He has winked and written several notes. I guess he read that I’m a writer (AND I’M WRITIN’ ‘BOUT YOU RIGHT NOW, BROTHA!). Anyways, instead of trying to carry on any kind of thoughtful conversation or saying anything useful, he just keeps typing the same single sentence over and over:

“Maybe you can write a story about my gold nuggets”.

Huh? Like ewww! Like I would really want to see, let alone write about your nuggets, dude.  If that’s the best line you can come up with, you might want to take it down to Walmart or something. Because it sure ain’t gonna work on me.

Of course we all have our profile names. And no I won’t tell you mine. But I did see the fabulous CUMSEE. Okay, sure, maybe he’s from Sri Lanka too and its a family name from like 20 generations back, but something tells me that the person who is suppose to catch naughty words down at sMatch.com, might be a Mormon or something. Why? Well, because everytime I make even a minuscule change to my ad, like take the words “overweight, hateful, neurotic nutball in the throes of menopause” and replace them with “thoughtful, kind woman who loves to laugh” (which is really sMatch code for “rough sex with small kitchen appliances”), you have to wait 24-72 hours for them to approve your wording and photos. I guess that is so that hookers and Republicans can’t put up questionable photos (think: Dick Cheney dressed like a nun humping a goat or something).

I guess CUMSEE must have slipped through. Literally.

I have made an attempt to contact a few people I was interested in. A Jewish orchestra conductor. He wrote back once, since we had theatre people in common, but then he never wrote again. And then I wrote a shrink. Ha! Yeah! Isn’t that funny? I liked his yearly income profile and liked what he had to say. And he was sardonic like me and he said he looked like Howie Mandell. So I wrote a humorous note to him, since the wink didn’t do anything. And then he wrote back a nice note, but basically said “You lack confidence, so thanks but no thanks”. Geeze, I can just go to my own shrink and get that news.

I also wrote one more guy, but he’s never written back. He’s a guitar playing Buddhist hippy who lives up in the woods with a cat. If you can’t even pique the interest of a hippy out in the woods, just who can I find??

So that’s what new on the sMatch.com front. I just had a call from my mother. She works at a thrift store once a week and had found a teal colored leather jacket for me. I was silent for a moment when she said the words:   “TEAL colored leather jacket”. What is this? 1982. And then she said, “You do know what color teal is, right?” And I said, “Well, I am an artist. I would think I knew what teal is and no, I’m not interested. Thanks” Her: (after a long, exasperated pause) “I just wanted to get something to jazz you up, you’re always so plain.”

Now, why do I lack confidence again?

365.2/60 Old School glamour shot