Today is Sophie's first day of first grade. We've come a long way, baby! Last year at this time, I was rounding up our friends from across the street to see Sophie off on her first school bus ride. I video taped her with my Flip Mino (that has since been stolen during our basement remodeling), made a little movie for the relatives, put her on the bus and spent the rest of the day trying not to throw up. When she got off the bus, I heaved the huge sigh I had held in all day while I fretted and wept and gagged.
This year, we barely made it to the bus on time, and I did a half-assed job taking a few shots of her with my phone while she boarded the big yellow bus. No nausea, just some asthma, and I just now noticed that it's about time for her to step off the bus. Next year, I'll probably had her a soggy waffle on her way out the door, and watch her walk down the middle of the street. I'll say to her in the evening, "When did you get home?"
Progress.
When I went back to work last December, very unexpectedly and after working at home for what seemed like a millennium, Sophie and I were forced to do the thing we hate the most: Change. I have to give the both of us considerable credit for molding ourselves into the people we need to be to maintain our dynamic duo-style relationship during these strange times. During periods of feeling like someone left our cake out in the rain, it's true that we do fall apart every now and then. You might notice the conspicuous absence of Alex in all this. It's only because he's a complete nutjob no matter the weather.
So if you know us--or if you don't--and you find us acting weird and rough around the edges, it's only because we're all trying to figure out how we will continue to make these kinds of steady strides toward remodeling ourselves without feeling like we've been robbed. And if you know us--or if you don't--say a prayer for us. I recommend sending up a few to RuPaul, patron saint of radical transformation.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Art Proudly*
If I had to decide what I missed about working a real day job during my years as a home office freelancer, I would say with all certainty that it's the amenities. Sure, being able to steal office supplies is nice, but that's not what I mean. I missed the little classes, the seminars, the workshops all provided for free, under the philosophy that, employees who are also fulfilled people will contribute more to the company, longer.
Whether you believe that's true is irrelevant. But I missed the little seminars and talks that were provided to me by some entity at no charge, and now that I work in an academic setting, the pickings are even better than your garden variety corporate time management class. After all these years of working in a vacuum, I feel like a whole new world of knowledge has been stuffed into tiny, poorly air conditioned conference rooms, and served up for me and whomever else has a free hour and the desire to consume as many as three different kinds of refreshments. It's a beautiful thing. I say that, of course, after only seven months or so on the job, but let's let pessimism court itself for a while.
I've already been to talks on the future of digital publishing, parenting, conflict management, and today's gem: Art therapy. It's my favorite so far, hands down (scroll down for the pun). Today, a little slip of a young art therapist taught us the restorative properties of creating mandalas, an ancient and sacred art form known for its healing properties. Under her gentle tutelage, we took a crash course in the mandala--Sanskrit for "circle"--and its origins before getting the chance to make our own. "Try not to think about it too much." she said, as a latecomer came in and took the last seat next to me. "Remember, you can't get it wrong,"
As we all got down to work with pieces of black paper and white pencils, the woman next to me mumbled and fidgeted with her supplies. She adjusted and readjusted her chair. "I don't think I can do this in front of everyone," she said.
At last, she put some scribbles down on paper, and asked the therapist if it was OK to look at other people's work. "Of course," she said. "And if you see something you like, try it yourself." It's the way inspiration works, she said. "Sometimes the most personal image is the one that's copied."
At the end of the class, everyone held up their art, except for the nervous woman next to me; she left early. Everyone looked proud, and restored, and totally psyched about the leftover lemonade. Here's mine. I can't wait to take it home and finish it--in secret, of course, as any art supplies in eyeshot immediately become the property of a certain five-year-old who is already proud to make art in the presence of anyone who will sit in the same room.
*See also: Fart Proudly, by Benjamin Franklin.
Whether you believe that's true is irrelevant. But I missed the little seminars and talks that were provided to me by some entity at no charge, and now that I work in an academic setting, the pickings are even better than your garden variety corporate time management class. After all these years of working in a vacuum, I feel like a whole new world of knowledge has been stuffed into tiny, poorly air conditioned conference rooms, and served up for me and whomever else has a free hour and the desire to consume as many as three different kinds of refreshments. It's a beautiful thing. I say that, of course, after only seven months or so on the job, but let's let pessimism court itself for a while.
I've already been to talks on the future of digital publishing, parenting, conflict management, and today's gem: Art therapy. It's my favorite so far, hands down (scroll down for the pun). Today, a little slip of a young art therapist taught us the restorative properties of creating mandalas, an ancient and sacred art form known for its healing properties. Under her gentle tutelage, we took a crash course in the mandala--Sanskrit for "circle"--and its origins before getting the chance to make our own. "Try not to think about it too much." she said, as a latecomer came in and took the last seat next to me. "Remember, you can't get it wrong,"
As we all got down to work with pieces of black paper and white pencils, the woman next to me mumbled and fidgeted with her supplies. She adjusted and readjusted her chair. "I don't think I can do this in front of everyone," she said.
At last, she put some scribbles down on paper, and asked the therapist if it was OK to look at other people's work. "Of course," she said. "And if you see something you like, try it yourself." It's the way inspiration works, she said. "Sometimes the most personal image is the one that's copied."
At the end of the class, everyone held up their art, except for the nervous woman next to me; she left early. Everyone looked proud, and restored, and totally psyched about the leftover lemonade. Here's mine. I can't wait to take it home and finish it--in secret, of course, as any art supplies in eyeshot immediately become the property of a certain five-year-old who is already proud to make art in the presence of anyone who will sit in the same room.
*See also: Fart Proudly, by Benjamin Franklin.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Praising Jesus: How the Blogosphere Might Just Resurrect My Tee Shirt Slogan Career
Now I've seen everything. Just minutes after pretty much bagging any plans I may have entertained involving my greeting card and tee shirt career, I find Jesus--and a black hockey one, at that--wearing one of my tee shirts. (Allegedly for church attendance purposes.)
Yes. The Team Vagina baseball jersey. One of my favorite designs, not to be outdone, mind you, by the "Ask Me About My Vagina!" series, and the "Vaginas Are for Lovers" line of merchandise that has been for sale at my CafePress stores since sometime around 1865. I admit that offering to send Black Hockey Jesus a tee shirt was a no-brainer, considering that his daddy blog is called The Wind in Your Vagina. It is ironic, though, since I never would have predicted I'd be sending some of my favorite home-grown pieces of merchandise to a man, much less a man I'd never met. But these times, they are a-changin'.
"What gives, anyway," you ask, "with the vaginal slant to your work?" (No pun intended, I'm sure). That's a long story; put on a pot of cough medicine and hunker down, dears. I'm about to tell you what happened long before Jesus there got dressed up for church, and what's happening now. Side note: None of it has anything to do with the DNC, the RNC or the next presidential election, so if you've come seeking a political respite, or a way to cleanse your political palate, you've come to the right place.
In 1997, I was a fine young woman going about the business of figuring out who she was, and in my love of literature, happened upon a book called The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler. I admit, its brilliant simplicity hit me hard, and I immediately declared it one of the most important works of literature I'd ever read. Most of all, I wondered, "Hey, why hadn't I thought of that?"
Also at the time, I was busy launching my lifelong career as an Internet dilettante, and was enjoying the free time that being self-unemployed afforded me. I had launched a little 'zine called Saucy Chicks, which was receiving a modicum of recognition, and was fun. This, as I learned, was a recipe for hatching crackpot schemes that were sure to make me millions overnight. In other news, I'm still waiting for morning. And also, I became the author of slogans that I thought were funny, cool, and destined to further countless women's hard-fought battles for vagina liberty. Represent.
In keeping with all my networking, reaching out ways, I had become vaguely friendly with the folks over at VDay, Ensler's anti-violence philanthropy event, and was asked to contribute some of my merchandise for their first annual benefit in New York City. (They celebrated thier 10th anniversary not long ago.) I was so excited by it all, that not only did I send boxes of "Vagina" tee shirts to be auctioned off in support of Eve Ensler's flagship foundation, but I went to the event and met Ensler herself. She and her staff were friendly and enthusiastic, and the women I met were nothing but supportive. When I asked where the shirts and mugs I'd sent were located among the other auction items, they told me that everything sold within seconds. I admit: tee shirts at an Eve Ensler benefit is not a tough sell, but I was sure all that was a sure sign that I was going to be featured in The New Yorker at any moment. All told, I'd say it was a net gain. I still consider that year one of the coolest times in my life and remember it like it was yesterday.
And then shift happened, as it will. I became a different kind of writer, a wife, a mountain-dweller, a work-a-day gal, and a mom. I've had ups and downs in my career, a goiter in my neck, a false start on a memoir, a problem with discipline and time management pretty much everywhere. I passed off Saucy Chicks to its co-founder, and now we'll say it's just napping instead of defunct. A literary agent told me quite a few years ago that she considered the vagina thing kind of over with. Moreover, I stopped caring about funny little creative projects that were going to make me--the underdog, the dark horse-- into the heroine as the credits rolled. I think the word is "disillusioned," but I refuse to say it out loud. I admit that I kind of gave up for a good, long while.
And then some dude under the moniker Black Hockey Jesus starts a daddy blog of all things, and really embraces it with the same kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for gambling, or eating hot wings. It made me nostalgic. Inspired, even. Maybe even kind of fired up in the same ways I was fired up over Saucy Chicks, meeting Eve Ensler, my early writing career, technology, and my own creative potential. My tee-shirts and mugs and stupid little shit no one is supposed to care about. I think the word is "hopeful," but I'm not ready to say it out loud. Yet.
While I was at BlogHer '08 this summer, I happened to meet the nice people at Cafe Press. They gave me a free upgrade to a premium shop for a year, which I thought was right neighborly of them. I'm designing shirts again. They make me happy, which I think is important, no matter how many or few I sell. Some of them are more kid-friendly than others. Some are more philosophical, like my forthcoming signature line of What Would Charo Do? tees. And then there's a little special something for the bloggers out there. It's coming. Will you wait for it?
Yes. The Team Vagina baseball jersey. One of my favorite designs, not to be outdone, mind you, by the "Ask Me About My Vagina!" series, and the "Vaginas Are for Lovers" line of merchandise that has been for sale at my CafePress stores since sometime around 1865. I admit that offering to send Black Hockey Jesus a tee shirt was a no-brainer, considering that his daddy blog is called The Wind in Your Vagina. It is ironic, though, since I never would have predicted I'd be sending some of my favorite home-grown pieces of merchandise to a man, much less a man I'd never met. But these times, they are a-changin'.
"What gives, anyway," you ask, "with the vaginal slant to your work?" (No pun intended, I'm sure). That's a long story; put on a pot of cough medicine and hunker down, dears. I'm about to tell you what happened long before Jesus there got dressed up for church, and what's happening now. Side note: None of it has anything to do with the DNC, the RNC or the next presidential election, so if you've come seeking a political respite, or a way to cleanse your political palate, you've come to the right place.
In 1997, I was a fine young woman going about the business of figuring out who she was, and in my love of literature, happened upon a book called The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler. I admit, its brilliant simplicity hit me hard, and I immediately declared it one of the most important works of literature I'd ever read. Most of all, I wondered, "Hey, why hadn't I thought of that?"
Also at the time, I was busy launching my lifelong career as an Internet dilettante, and was enjoying the free time that being self-unemployed afforded me. I had launched a little 'zine called Saucy Chicks, which was receiving a modicum of recognition, and was fun. This, as I learned, was a recipe for hatching crackpot schemes that were sure to make me millions overnight. In other news, I'm still waiting for morning. And also, I became the author of slogans that I thought were funny, cool, and destined to further countless women's hard-fought battles for vagina liberty. Represent.
In keeping with all my networking, reaching out ways, I had become vaguely friendly with the folks over at VDay, Ensler's anti-violence philanthropy event, and was asked to contribute some of my merchandise for their first annual benefit in New York City. (They celebrated thier 10th anniversary not long ago.) I was so excited by it all, that not only did I send boxes of "Vagina" tee shirts to be auctioned off in support of Eve Ensler's flagship foundation, but I went to the event and met Ensler herself. She and her staff were friendly and enthusiastic, and the women I met were nothing but supportive. When I asked where the shirts and mugs I'd sent were located among the other auction items, they told me that everything sold within seconds. I admit: tee shirts at an Eve Ensler benefit is not a tough sell, but I was sure all that was a sure sign that I was going to be featured in The New Yorker at any moment. All told, I'd say it was a net gain. I still consider that year one of the coolest times in my life and remember it like it was yesterday.
And then shift happened, as it will. I became a different kind of writer, a wife, a mountain-dweller, a work-a-day gal, and a mom. I've had ups and downs in my career, a goiter in my neck, a false start on a memoir, a problem with discipline and time management pretty much everywhere. I passed off Saucy Chicks to its co-founder, and now we'll say it's just napping instead of defunct. A literary agent told me quite a few years ago that she considered the vagina thing kind of over with. Moreover, I stopped caring about funny little creative projects that were going to make me--the underdog, the dark horse-- into the heroine as the credits rolled. I think the word is "disillusioned," but I refuse to say it out loud. I admit that I kind of gave up for a good, long while.
And then some dude under the moniker Black Hockey Jesus starts a daddy blog of all things, and really embraces it with the same kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for gambling, or eating hot wings. It made me nostalgic. Inspired, even. Maybe even kind of fired up in the same ways I was fired up over Saucy Chicks, meeting Eve Ensler, my early writing career, technology, and my own creative potential. My tee-shirts and mugs and stupid little shit no one is supposed to care about. I think the word is "hopeful," but I'm not ready to say it out loud. Yet.
While I was at BlogHer '08 this summer, I happened to meet the nice people at Cafe Press. They gave me a free upgrade to a premium shop for a year, which I thought was right neighborly of them. I'm designing shirts again. They make me happy, which I think is important, no matter how many or few I sell. Some of them are more kid-friendly than others. Some are more philosophical, like my forthcoming signature line of What Would Charo Do? tees. And then there's a little special something for the bloggers out there. It's coming. Will you wait for it?
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