One of my many hobbies is figure drawing. There’s something meditative about spending a couple of hours intently focused on another human being, the contours of their body as they take different poses, the shadows and nuances of their muscles … I could go on and on. I haven’t done a lot of figure drawing over the past twenty years because it’s difficult to find a group of artists to join. And trust me, you don’t want to ask a friend, neighbor or spouse to strip and pose.
In the first session the five minute poses really killed me! But I had fun making messes.
A lot of people don’t understand that drawing naked people is not the same thing as creating pornography. Figure models generally belong to guilds that have strict rules and regulations. (Everyone can take off their clothes but not everyone can hold a poise for five minutes!) Successful figure models can earn up to 100 dollars per hour and the hours are generally mid-day or in the evening. Perfect for professional dancers.
Here I went a little crazy with a variety of pencils and chalks! I’m still trying to figure out my tools.
When my children were young I lucked on to a sculpture class that focused on the human form. Thus, my children were accustomed to seeing sculptures of naked people all around the house. However, every now and then I’d hear a new playmate snickering over the sight of “naked boobies!” and worry that the local vice squad might be showing up at my door.
This sculpture was done so long ago I can’t remember what I was thinking. We certainly weren’t beheading children and using them as props.
The group I was lucky enough to join meets in a room at the local community center that is also used for children’s art classes. It’s delightful to see their drawings posted all around … however, last session I needed to leave early and inadvertently left behind my sketches. Whoops. Naked bobbies in the children’s art space.
Experiments with chalk – it’s soooo delightfully messy.
I hope the janitor finds them and throws them away before the kids show up for their class! I don’t want to get arrested for warping young minds with naked boobies!
I tend to read several books at once, but the moment I started reading Happy Hour and Other Sorrows, I put everything else aside.
It’s always satisfying to find a book that efficiently conveys its concepts without wasting words. I loved how full the whole world of this book felt, how effortlessly the story flows. Charming and witty, it is delightfully twisty, the mystery completely unique. The characters and dialogues felt so real…JT Twissel has a knack for telling interesting stories, and that’s a fact! I’d read anything she writes. Hope there’s more to come.
It was particularly wonderful for me because Bojana is one of my favorite authors. She has a true gift and is unafraid to dig deep. I highly recommend her book for those of you who love short stories and flash fiction!
Every Friday I will be posting a snippet from the sequel to Flipka. If you’re interested in following along, welcome! All feedback, be it fair or foul, is welcome.
BY DAYBREAK I’d whittled my former life down to ten boxes to be shipped to Chapel Hill. The rest was marked for the Goodwill.
Lopinski had chosen to stay home and I didn’t blame him. Even though Hyman had comped me a suite at one of his less seedy resorts, two days of watching me sort through my past would test the strength of any relationship. Besides, it was the beginning of the fall semester and he had classes to prepare for.
“This was a bad idea,” I admitted when he ‘d called the night before to check on me, “I’ve got about hundred boxes to go through and so far, I’ve only opened one. To be honest, it’s the one I should have saved for last.” “You’re still coming home tomorrow night?”
Home. What a beautiful word that is. Home. “Yes, professor. I will be home.”
During the first few months of my exile I’d fluctuated between rage and shell shock. Logically I knew that staying away from Vegas until things blew over was for the best (and I had been well compensated) but shit! Did they have to treat me and Lopinsky like we were pawns on their goddamn chess board? I still had nightmares of waking up in a decrepit farmhouse in Nebraska with no idea how I’d gotten there. And Lopinsky? I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Why hadn’t they just warned us that things were going to be bat shit crazy after the so-called “story” broke and let us leave on our own?
Lopinsky would have left Nevada happily. He had all the materials he needed to work on his book and, the fact that he secured a publishing contract so soon after we arrived in Chapel Hill, instantly removed any anxiety he had about those missing hours of his life or the manner in which he’d been ejected from that state. The book! The book! All that mattered was the book, assembling the photos, researching his sources, creating an outline — all day long and well into the night. He needed me if for no other reason than I made sure he got some fresh air. I must admit, working on his book had been a hoot but, would it have been my choice to go into exile? Someone knew that it would not. Someone knew that I wouldn’t willingly leave without knowing the truth. Someone knew I’d never go along with the cockamamie coverup. And I had my suspicions about who that someone might be.
I was in the process of labeling the boxes when there was a knock at the door. “Room service?” I asked. I’d ordered a huge breakfast hoping it would keep me going through a long day of travel after a sleepless night.
There was silence. “Room service?” I asked again
The door opened and in sauntered the man who’d upended my life, the last man on earth I wanted to see: Douglas Hyman, de facto King of Vegas or, to the Russian acrobats, Satana. He scanned the boxes piled on the bed, the floor, and the desk. Basically on any flat surface. “That looks like a shitload of books!”
“Our deal was you’d ship out whatever the hell I wanted —-“ “Put your shoes on, Doc. We’re going to breakfast.” “You’re taking me to the rodeo?” He was dressed like a wealthy rancher. Pricey cowboy boots; dark Levis, crispy white shirt and a Bolo tie.
“Ha,” He gave me the once over. “Hey, you’re looking pretty good. You probably could lose a few more pounds ⏤ but with your hair long at least guys can tell you’re a dame and not some kind of dyke.” “Charming as usual. Why don’t you just tell me what you want.” “I like to negotiate deals over a good steak.” “I already ordered my breakfast.” “And I already cancelled that order.” “I know this is your hotel but I don’t work for you anymore and —“
He spotted the lavender envelope on the nightstand behind me and edged towards it. Perhaps drawn by the archaic script and Wiccan symbols Antionette always used on her “correspondence.” I grabbed the letter and put it into my pocket. He didn’t need to know all my secrets.
“Butters, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.” “And if I refuse I’m gonna find a horse head in my bed?” Apparently I’d slipped into that alternate universe where no one dared joke with Lord God Hyman. “Still have that mouth I see. I’m amazed it hasn’t gotten you killed. Just hear me out. What do you have to lose?” “Let’s see. Because of you I lost a job. A home. My —” “Some job, some home …” “Yeah, well it was my home and my job … however humble.” “I know your history, Butters. You can play a crappy hand better than most, heck, almost better than me. But this is not a crappy hand. This time you’re holding all the aces.” “Okay, I’ll hear you out but only because I’m like a cat. Too curious for my own good. Besides I’d like to eat.”
Next Friday, August 16th: Hollywood Comes Knocking. Character Study: Meredith Hyman
I’ve been getting prepaid cremation offers since I was in my early forties. At that time I had no extra money sitting around with which to secure the “peace of mind” of knowing that my “remains would not be a burden” to my loved ones. However, had I been truly budget conscious I would have skimped and saved and grabbed up one of those suckers. Cremation costs have quadrupled since the 1990s. I could have locked in a $700 no frills trip to the crematorium!
Mourning Doves in a dying smoke tree.
But, is it really a good idea to prepay for cremation services decades before the main event? Sure, someone will save a bundle but it won’t be you! Besides, who’s to say there won’t be a newer more efficient method of body vaporization by the time you kick the buckle?
Imagine this scenario:
May 5, 2030
Funeral Director to the daughter of the deceased: Sorry for your loss, Bridey
Bridey: Well, she was one hundred and thirty years old. Thank goodness she prepaid for her cremation. Otherwise I don’t know how we’d —“
Funeral Director: Thank you for bringing in the original receipt. Heavens! It’s been decades since we dealt in paper.
Bridey: Mother never did trust the “internets” as she called them.
FD: I’m sure you realize that bio-disposal technology has greatly evolved since the 1990s. A process that used to take several hours, and meant you had to wait at least day for the processed remains of your loved one, now takes mere seconds! That means you could walk out of here with your mother’s ashes in less than an hour! Of course —
Bridey: You want more money.
FD: Nitey Time Mortuaries will stand by our original commitment but we phased out our old equipment years ago and so, if you choose not to upgrade, we will have to transport your mother’s remains to Reno Auto Wrecking for processing.
Bridey: Reno Auto Wrecking?
FD: Yes, they bought the old machines for parts but I believe they still have one intact crematorium which they use for … well you probably don’t want to know. Didn’t your mother once worked there?
Bridey: Yes she was their bookkeeper but —
FD: I’m sure they’d treat her remains with dignity and respect. However, we are prepared to give you a huge discount on our newer services because she was one of our legacy customers….”
Bridey: Yeah, I bet you are.
Despite my snark, the few times I’ve dealt with funeral directors they’ve been wonderful. But knowing my kids, they’ll have my remains composted into a cubic foot of nutrient rich soil for a quick and dirty green burial. It’s fine with me I just don’t wanna to know the process! I’m sure it involves all sorts of creepy crawlies. I mean, it must, right? If I understand the composting process, my body will basically become a cubic foot of worm poop. Well, who knows? I may have started out that way.
Now onto those daily offers to learn the “humorous, inspiring and practical” side of downsizing for my ultimate transition to the Life Plan Community of HumanGood. I can’t imagine anything humorous about throwing out grandma’s treasures. Obviously I’ve got a long way to go.
I love dreams about company picnics and reunions (not) – they’re almost as bizarre as the events themselves. It’s been many years since I worked a nine-to-five job in a downtown office high rise but I still have nightmares about the experience. Company picnics and holiday parties were expected to improve morale but that rarely happened.
However, I still feel sorry for the organizers of the last company picnic I attended. Times were tough and so they had to find a relatively inexpensive site which is not an easy task in the SF Bay Area, Finally they found a campground no one had heard of on the eastern slopes of Mount Diablo. Even for people who knew that area well, it was a bitch to find. Thus employees arriving from far away with carloads full of antsy children were beyond dismayed to learn that, on a scorching hot day, the campground’s two “olympic size pools with diving boards and slides” were closed. The reason, the ongoing drought had forced rattlesnakes and other critters down from the mountain in search of any source of water… even the chlorinated variety. The swimming pools were full of snake, mice, gophers … you name it. Some dead, some alive.
The organizers tried to make up for this unfortunate event by setting up a dunking tank and convincing the company’s most loathed director to be the “dunkee.” Lines of disgruntled employees lined up to dunk the man who made their working lives a torture only to find out he was having the time of his life. After each dunking he arose from the water, fist pumping the air. “I was in the Massod. Bring on your flimsy attempts to torture me! ” Eventually it wasn’t fun to watch the most despised man in the company enjoying the only container of water not filled with rattlesnakes.
We’d had to forego the traditional barbecuing of hot dogs and hamburgers because of the high fire risk and so, for lunch we had our choice of boxed lunches, each containing a sandwich, chips and a cookie. The organizers hoped to make up for the rather bland lunch with a piñata contest. Only the piñatas they’d bought and filled with candy had been manufactured to withstand a nuclear blast. After blindly whacking the darn things and getting not one treat, the little children soon gave up and moved on to the petting zoo. Some of the older kids gave it a try but most were insulted by even being asked to participate and moved onto their established bitching grounds. The menfolk, having been fortified by their allotted ration of beer, then stepped up to bat. They were determined to whack the shit out of the cute little donkeys and zebras, probably because the dunking tank had provided no satisfaction. After the slaughter was complete, the children were invited back to pick through the debris for whatever candy they could find. Needless to say, they looked a bit bewildered. This is fun mommy?
Last night I dreamt that I took the children of a serial killer to my company picnic. The serial killer was the daughter of someone (who will remain nameless) that I once worked with. The picnic was to be held at lake but it turned out to be a large puddle by a railroad track. The serial killer’s children turned on me and then luckily I woke up.
I wonder if my dreams would be much more pleasant if I hadn’t worked so many years in corporate America. What do you think??
If you were a teenage babysitter, back in the days before the professionals took over, you know that the holiday season is the prime time to rake in the bucks. Here again, from 2021 is: There’s no phone in the basement and other babysitting woes
The other day an aunt of mine posted a meme on Facebook that read:
You’re sixteen and it’s a Friday night.
What does it mean to you?
“You’re sixteen and it’s a Friday night. What does it mean to you?” Her answer was: “Date Night!”
Apparently I was an ultra nerdy teenager because my immediate response was: “Babysitting.”
Not counting the many times I watched (for free) my ungrateful and obstinate siblings, I became a “professional” when I was just eleven years old. My first gig was for an older couple across the street who had a baby girl. I never knew if she was a late in life baby or a grandchild whose parents, for whatever reason, couldn’t raise her. I wasn’t permitted to ask about such things. Anyway, both of the parents worked at the casinos – one worked nights and the other days, meaning they didn’t need a babysitter most of the time. However sometimes they would both need to work a swing shift – generally during the busy hours of 8 PM to 1 AM, I would arrive after the baby had been put to sleep. All I needed to do was to be there. If the baby woke up and actually needed attention, I phoned my folks … HELP! If they weren’t home, I knew all the neighbors. Still … eleven years old!!! I can’t imagine anyone leaving an infant in the hands of an eleven year old these days. In fact, it’s illegal in most states.
What happens when you hire an older woman to be your babysitter!
Most of my jobs came from my mother. She had no problem pimping me out to anyone desperate for a cheap sitter. Today there are babysitting agencies. Before you hire a babysitter, you can check out her resume, her profile and even read her reviews. Back then it was Mrs. Brown asking Mrs. White for the number of a “girl.” Then Mr. Brown would be send to retrieve the girl while Mrs. Brown prepared the list of do’s and don’ts (no candy before bed, no television until homework’s complete, etc.) most of which would be ignored. After the children were in bed, the “girl” would get on the phone with her friends and eat every potato chip in the house. Woe to the Mrs. Browns of the world who failed to stock up on junk food before a sitter’s visit. Word spread quickly of no snack houses! As did word of lousy tippers, smelly houses or creepy husbands.
Besides babies waking up and needing real care, I only had a few frightening things happen while babysitting. Once a hollow-faced man appeared in the window next to the front door. I screamed and he ran away. When I called the parents who were at a cocktail party with my parents and they told me it was just Jim, the neighborhood crazy guy, and he was harmless. And then they laughed. Apparently they thought terrorized fourteen year old babysitters were a real riot!
Another time the telephone rang and I answered thinking it might be the parents. A male voice said “I’m in your basement and I’m going to come up and kill you!” I was about to run out of the house with the three kids I was sitting when the ten-year-old said. “There’s no phone in the basement.” Then he laughed and told me what a “stupidhead” I was.
However, for the most part it was boring and so I’ve never understood why so many movies have been made about babysitters. Take Adventures in Babysitting (1987), the sitter and her charges are chased up the side of a high-rise in Chicago by mafia thugs, save a runaway teen from a rat-infested bus terminal, and crash a fraternity party … to name just a few of their adventures. Then they had to race back to the suburbs before the parents arrived home. Of course, the parents were clueless and didn’t suspect a thing.
I imagine if I was a teenage babysitter today my review would read: Panics easily, eats you out of house and home, and bores the children to death.
Following the advice of WHO and in solidarity with the lovely people of Italy, I am in self-quarantine until, of course, we run out of gin. So today, I’m inviting you to my house ….
Come a little closer; I won’t bite …
This solid wood door was originally a dull shade of beige but then I discovered Beet Bonanza Delight. The Jade plant to the side has endured all sorts of torture, including lack of sun but is still holding on. Amazing. The figure greeting you at the door with the ears and the antlers is a reindeer, of course, left over from a Christmas long ago. He actually provides a good place to hang wet garden gloves, tools and umbrellas.
Swinging from the lamp is Guard Toad First Class, Edmond Von Petty. He has ESP.
If he senses that you have a black heart or want money, his chimes begin to quiver in warning to Greta Gecko who wishes to keep her rank a mystery.
Since you all have golden hearts and want no money from me (I hope), you may press Greta’s button without fear of being zapped.
Have you brought your card? Well, there’s always room on the fridge.
Door to my fridge.
Yes, I’m one of those crazy people who tacks everything on her frig.
I also planted an Australian fern right next to the front door because I love ferns.
Unfortunately these ferns can reach 16 feet high and wide. He’s also very affectionate and so watch out as you leave!
Sorry you have to go so soon but I know you have other doors to check out over at Norm’s Place. Come again.
My husband just told me we have a “large” animal living in the cellar beneath our house.
Me: “How large?”
Him: “Well, it wasn’t afraid of me. It just kind of waddled away swishing its fluffy tail in my direction.”
Yikes!
“Do you think it was a raccoon?” I ask hopefully.
The only other animal small enough to get into the cellar is, yes, you’ve guessed it – a SKUNK. Double, triple yikes. (Faithful readers will remember the unrelenting Skunk Siege of December 2014.)
He seems to read my mind: “Maybe that’s why our house smelt so bad for so long – a skunk confronted our raccoon.”
Now it’s our raccoon. I must nip this idea in the bud, immediately. Hubby has already adopted several squirrels and chickadees. “It’s not our raccoon!”
He has another idea. A few weeks back he left the door to the cellar ajar and of course Pretty Kitty with his little furry paws managed to pry it open and romp around in the dark, dank and dirt of the storage area. Of course we didn’t realize it until three in the morning when we heard a piteous yowl and practically fell out of bed. “What the hell was that?” We both asked in unison. The resulting search of the house failed to locate Kitty and, after coming to the conclusion that he was hiding in some deep crevice and would come out when he was ready, back to bed we stumbled to try to get some rest. In the morning Kitty still could not be found, until around noon when I looked out the back door and there he was.
Playing peek-a-boo
Snubbing his nose at us as if to say, “Aren’t I a clever cat”?
Hubby’s new idea is that the cat ran into the raccoon. “Maybe that’s how he got outside.”
“Wait a minute. If it’s been under the house for so long then what’s it been living off?”
“Hum. I haven’t caught any rats in a while.”
Great! Apparently while I sleep there’s a party going on beneath me. Cats, rats, raccoons and skunks. Did I mention that we keep our wine in the cellar?
If he can wrestle crocodiles, I reckon he can take on a raccoon!
Never fear. We’ve called in Crocodile Dundee to track the wild beast down. Who knows? Maybe it’s a drunken kangaroo and he’ll know just what to do.
Saying nothing in particular 