Stuffed Love

My brothers and I were not easy on our stuffed friends. I still have a few of mine. Believe me, they won’t be crowned in any beauty competitions.

My little brother had a monkey (cleverly named Monkey) that smelled like a combination of steak and salad dressing. I don’t know what Monkey had gotten into, but I do know it’s not a good idea to go around smelling your brother’s things. My older brother had a fuzzy dog we called Risko. We had a tagline for Risko…Risko RISKS HIS LIFE to SAVE the others!! Proof that poor Risko lived up to that motto is that none of us can remember what happened to him. Wherever he ended up, he had to be carrying out a valiant rescue attempt.

I had a bear that underwent so many neck ‘surgeries’ that my mom finally had to crochet a collar just to keep his head on. I also had a stuffed chipmunk with tire marks on his tail. When your stuffed animals start resembling road kill, I think you’ve pretty much reached the pinnacle of toy abuse. The chipmunk and bear duo had the dubious honor of being my all-time favorites.

Here’s to the brave softies. They’re cute. They’re cuddly. They comfort us and keep us company. We repay them by biting off their noses and dropping them in the toilet.

We might have it rough. But it’s gotta be tough to be stuffed.

Skinny White Dog

I’ve always been partial to dogs that are black or brown or a mixture of the two. I like big dogs that look a little intimidating. When we first considered getting another dog, I had in mind a black or chocolate lab.

Then one day while looking at shelter ads online, I came across a picture that seemed to have a message for me.

So I did what I had to do. I secretly stashed a leash, collar, and the exact adoption fee in cash into the glove compartment of my car, and told my family, “Let’s go for a ride!”

And then I said, “As long as we’re close by, why don’t we stop in the pet store and look at the puppies?” And, “Well, look at that, they’re having an adoption event today!”

And just like that, my desire to own a majestic and slightly imposing animal gave way to a new reality.

I was the owner of a skinny white dog.

By the time the skinny white dog was curled up in the back seat of my car and named Luna, the only thing left to do was to convince myself of the merits of having a white dog.

You know what’ll be great? I told myself. We won’t have any of those big piles of dark hair all over the place. No evil black dust bunnies gathering in the corners.

And you know what?

I was right.

It’s great not having dark furry tumbleweeds to sweep up. I don’t know how, but people always seem to be able to tell I own a white dog. They can sense it somehow.

I am thinking of brushing Luna outside from now on.

If I could just find the leash.

Kitchen Help

There must be something to learn from this. One evening I pose the question: What should I make for dinner tonight?

To which CHILD #1 (a.k.a. Daughter) responds: Nothing.

Which probably means: Please do not bother me with mundane things. I am far too busy to be inconvenienced by such pedestrian matters. Can’t you see I’m texting? Geez. U r so lame.

And then CHILD #2 (a.k.a. Son) answers: FOOD!
Translation: FOOD! What else? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of an EPIC video game battle?

Die, zombie robot, die!!

(Question – Is it just me, or is it really necessary to have a being that is both a zombie AND a robot? Aren’t robots already kinda dead? Anyhoo…)

At this point THE FEATHERED ONE (a.k.a. Corfu) says:

Translation: Pizza! Pizza pizza pizza pizza! PEEEEEEEEEEEEEET-Zuh!!!

And that outburst is quickly followed up with:

Meaning: Head rub now? Promise I won’t bite. This time. Heh heh.

And then I give up and rummage through the freezer for Hot Pockets.

NOTE: I should explain the sloppy art: I just bought new software so I can do my homework at home, and I need to learn it. So now goofing around = practice. And practice = dumb stuff I can post on my blog! Hooray!

Also, I should point out that my kids are actually pretty helpful. But boy, timing is everything. Corfu, on the other hand, hardly ever lifts a finger around here (but occasionally bites one).

The Barber is In

Here we are at the beginning of a new year. It’s a relief to put the last one behind me. If last year were a hairstyle, it’d be a Mohawk: scary all around and just plain ugly in the middle.

The year wasn’t totally without highlights. There IS an upside to having your life turned upside down. You’re compelled to take personal inventories, to appreciate things differently. Nothing like being flipped hip pockets over split ends to make you sit up and take notice.

I’ve enjoyed taking classes again. After sweating out some fears in computer workshops, I took a semester length class (got an A!). I signed up for two more this coming semester. It’s surreal to be in that environment after so many years, but I like being there. How often do people take a hard look at their lives, realize their dissatisfaction, and keep on doing the exact same things? It’s like watering a dead plant every day and hoping an orchid will pop up. But who am I to talk? Without a good kick in the pants, I fall into the category of stick waterers.

Being forced to set aside writing/illustrating pursuits brought an unexpected revelation, too. Even though I enjoyed what I was doing, I had a nagging feeling I wasn’t representing myself in a very authentic way. I doubt nagging feelings lead to wild success and utter bliss, so I’m okay with letting it all simmer on the back burner for now.

That leaves me with a question -what to do with this blog? It hangs in the blogosphere and in the back of my mind. I miss the camaraderie. I just haven’t quite figured out a way to keep it up.

So, no resolutions …just faith that this year is going to be better. It’s off to a pretty good start. I’d say so far it’s more like a bowl haircut: kinda funny looking, but ready for that awkward growing-out stage.

Happy New Year. Hope it has the right amount of bounce to it.

Homework (And a Little Type History)

Here are two versions of a recent assignment to design a poster for a typeface. I picked Letter Gothic, which was designed in 1962 for the IBM Selectric typewriter. The font was often used for tabular items (like columns of numbers) because of the even spacing between letters.

The type element in the IBM Selectric was a pivoting ball (nicknamed the golf ball) that was removable, so you could change fonts on the typewriter. I think only the teacher and a couple of other older students knew what the heck I was talking about, but I remember using one in the office in the late 70s.

The first poster was inspired by the history of the typewriter and the art of the time; the second poster focused more on the properties of the font.

It’s been a long time since I worked in graphic design and much longer since I walked a college campus as a student. When I signed up for a semester length course in digital media this fall, I was sure I was in over my head. I’ve taken some workshops but never really used programs like Photoshop, Illustrator or InDesign. The first thing I did was look up the last day to drop the course.

So far I’ve been pleasantly surprised. It turns out not every nineteen year old is already an expert in Photoshop, and not everyone that grew up in front of a computer screen has a perfect sense of design. There’s a whole range of skill and talent, and although I have yet to see a grade, I think I’m keeping up.

The best surprise is how much I enjoy the projects. I love a design challenge and the chance to apply what I’ve learned. I also like deadlines – nothing better to motivate you to get your butt in gear.

Have you tried something new lately? Was it terrifying? Exhilarating? A little of both?

I Hope the Zombies Don't Have Gold Star Memberships

There are online forums for everyone. I stumbled on one for zombie fans when they linked to an old post of mine, about a short zombie movie that was filmed in my neighborhood. Somehow my blog post got confused with the official site for the short backyard production.

Anyway, the zombie mix-up reminded me of a fun topic my kids bring up occasionally that goes something like, “Where would you go in the event of a zombie apocalypse?”

After some discussion, we always conclude we’d head straight for Costco. We can’t think of a better hideout. You could survive in that place for YEARS.

"They’ve got everything!” we declare. Food! Furniture! Beds even! To hear us, you’d think we were ready to lock down those industrial doors and set up camp right by the tube socks.

“They’ve even got make-up,” my daughter says. “Who cares if we can’t go outside, we can still look good.”

“And they have books,” I add. “And music and movies. We’d never get bored.”

We bring up the massage chairs, the exercise equipment, barbeques and umbrella tables. We list the soaps and sundries. We imagine setting up storage sheds (everyone gets their own room!) and rolling out the toaster ovens (unlimited samples!).

We go as far as to ponder what we’d do with perishable items. We’d start in on the fruits and salads, but luckily all that meat and seafood can go right into the walk-in freezers.

“Too bad cheese doesn’t freeze well,” I say with a sigh.

“Uh, Mom, it’s okay. You know there’s not really a zombie apocalypse going on, right?”

Right. Back to reality. I could really go for a hunk of brie though.

Lessons from Driver's Ed

Here I go again, letting more than a month go by without posting anything. In my defense, I’ve been without internet for a while. I had no idea how dependent I’d become on things like Google Maps.

My daughter just finished the classroom part of Driver’s Ed. I picked the closest location that was reasonably priced. If my internet service was up and running, I might have checked the street view of the driving school before enrolling. Lesson One: The risky part of learning to drive is not necessarily the driving.

Used car lots and liquor stores flanked the driving school. It was located upstairs in a two story building that also housed a smoke shop, a gold buyer and a cash advance place. Lesson Two: Sometimes you have to do things that go against your every instinct as a parent, like dropping your child off and driving away.

For the first two days my daughter walked to a fast food place at lunchtime with a couple of girls from the class. Lesson Three: Your classmates in Driver’s Ed are probably not the same students you run into in subjects like AP World History.

After the second day of listening to the two girls talk nonstop about their recreational drug use, she decided to ditch them before getting invited to light up on the way back to class. Instead she walked the two blocks back to the driving school alone. Lesson Four: Cute girls in shorts get unwelcome attention from truck drivers.

So, my daughter spent the last two days of Driver’s Ed clad in jeans and a sweatshirt. She opted to stay in the relative safety of the classroom for lunch. We both welcomed the end of day four, the last day of instruction.

“Guess what happened,” she said. “Today there was an armed robbery downstairs.”

“What?” I asked. “Where, in the smoke shop?”

“No, the cash advance place. One of the guys in the class saw someone run outside with a gun. And then in a minute there were cops everywhere. Oh, and here’s the best part – after all that, the guy got away!”

Lesson Five: Parenting teens is not for sissies.

So Much Depends Upon Wheelbarrows and Timing

A minute after I entered the freeway it happened - the red wheelbarrow soared from the bed of the pickup truck in front of me, and bounced to a stop. Up until the moment the wheelbarrow became airborne I’d been on autopilot, fighting the stupor induced by a four-hour Indesign class and wondering if the kids had made themselves lunch.

It took a split second for my brain to register that the large object in front of me was solid and ought to be avoided. It took another split second for me to slam on the brakes and hope the driver behind me wasn’t texting or reaching for his frappachino. Another fraction of a second to realize I couldn’t stop in time, and to glance in the side view mirror and hope no one was in my blind spot when I swerved.

Minutes before, I’d been chatting with a classmate about the design exercise we’d just completed. We compared thoughts on how clumsy it felt to be wrestling with programs so new and foreign, with things like control panels and smart guides.

“Hopefully it’s like driving,” I said. “Eventually we’ll be able to do all this by reflex.”

Precisely because I stayed after class to have this conversation about complicated rules and reflexes, I arrived on the freeway at the exact moment the wheelbarrow took flight. It was as if I’d just ordered up a test to prove I actually had driving reflexes.

If I’d entered the freeway an instant sooner, the wheelbarrow might have landed in the front seat with me. An instant later and the guy behind me might have redesigned my bumper, frappachino or no frappachino.

Earlier that same morning when I’d left for class, the brake light on my dashboard flashed on. I was already late and thought about dismissing the brake situation until later. Instead I decided not to take a chance, and submitted to doubling back home to add brake fluid.

Some days just work out like that.