Some honesty.

At some point in my life, I knew I was going to be an artist. In high school, I loved my art classes. I signed up for as many as I could and relished the time that I spent molding clay, "throwing" pottery, drawing, painting, etc. I felt free and happy and alive and I thought that I was doing something that was built for me. Then I went to college with no clear idea of what the hell I was doing. I wanted, at first, to go to Portland State University and see if I could hack it as a starving artist, dedicated to the trade. I was convinced through logic, loyalty, and good ol' common sense to apply at the University of Montana. Apparently, I had a Fine Arts scholarship but I'll be damned if I ever saw a cent of the money that I was supposedly awarded. No matter... I applied and was accepted. Seriously, it's no biggie to be accepted as an undergrad to the U of M. They'll take you as long as you have a pulse, funds for your education, and a social security number. I started out as Liberal Arts and was then convinced that Fine Arts was where it's at. Good, good. I'll fulfill my romantic adolescent dream of being a starving artist, struggling against the fearsome Dominant Paradigm to showcase my soul in the form of pencil sketches, oil paint masterpieces, and symbolic shouts in charcoal or conte' crayon my rebellion and unbridled talent. Oh yes, I was going to purge all of my angst and the years I spent silent yet angry onto a canvas or any medium that could stand up against my fierce passion.

Except... Only... If not for... Etcetera.

I'm a pretty good artist. At least, I was back in the day. I remember drawing a self-portrait back in 6th grade that drew the attention of my classmates who hated me as a matter of principal. Even they had to admit that I just might have some talent beneath my shy, awkward, grandma's-hand-me-downs-wearing exterior. That had to have been a big step for them. In high school, I wasn't the most talented but I'll be damned if I wasn't passionate. I had ideas and dreams and I was going to exhibit them for the world if it killed me. I took the "advanced" classes and attended a workshop for those who were supposedly the most gifted. It was at that point that I discovered that I wasn't the bee's knees. I was in a room with 3 to 4 more people vastly more talented and passionate than myself. Damn, these people could draw/paint/pastel circles around me. Well, fuck you! I'll keep at it! Through sheer will I will surpass you. You will be saying "I knew Sarah when..." I'll be brilliant and beautiful and my creations will be coveted the world over...

... only... not.

At some point in college, I learned the earth-shattering truth that to be an artist, I would either have to be mind-bogglingly talented or a great bullshitter. I was neither. Don't get me wrong, I can B.S. pretty well but that's not what I wanted to be. If I was going to Make It, I wanted it to happen because I possessed something beautiful and undeniable. I wanted to be able to show people their own naked and vulnerable souls staring back at them through my work. I wanted to be able to cause inspiration, create life-altering moments, uncover truths. I couldn't do this, no matter how much I tried. I had to do a ridiculous performance art piece for one of my first art classes in college and I freaking poured myself into it. I threw out all the ideas I had and was determined that it was going to be actually meaningful instead of pretentious and ridiculous like so many performance art pieces before me. Yes, I was going to turn something absurd into something important. Only, I didn't. I never did. I sketched and I painted and I sculpted but it wasn't breaking the ground I wanted it to. I wasn't shining. I wasn't special and important. I was just one more [fill in the blank] in a long line of [fill in the blank]. I experienced a soul-shattering moment at 19.

Enter Creative Writing. I remember back in the day when friends and even enemies (or those I perceived as such) said in one way or another that I was a good writer. A girl that I had always thought of as "one of those girls who hates me/doesn't know I exist" said to me "I wish I could write like you.". I remember when she said it, I remember her name, I remember how it felt to hear those words. A friend once told my mother that I was a far better writer than she was. My mom told me this out of the blue and indicated that this was information that wasn't supposed to be passed on to me. I could have flown. This was important. This was, maybe, what I was meant to do. All of this came back to me when I decided to switch my major to English. Mind you, I had done poorly in grade school English classes. I couldn't diagram a sentence to save my life nor identify the participial phrase. It wasn't until my English classes became focused on stories and novels that I was able to pick up on just what the hell was going on here. Thanks to the transition, I earned the award of "English Student of the Year" in 8th grade. That's right.

So I spoke with my Art advisor and tried to make clear that this relationship just wasn't fulfilling my needs, blah blah blah. I don't think anyone was sorry to see me go. English was going to provide me with everything my soul needed to thrive. I took a fiction workshop that I think I must have mentally blocked for my wellbeing. My stories were utter crap. At one point, I animated a bowl of tomato soup. It was that bad. Switch, quickly, to poetry. My goodness, how it fed me. I felt like this was everything that I needed and everything that I was missing. It challenged me and nurtured me. I could do this. I was meant to do this. If I couldn't create art with paint and pencil then I could do it with words, god damnit. I was nowhere near the best in my classes, I struggled all the time, sometimes I just couldn't do it. But I always tried. I wanted this. Somehow, I was going to make it work. And I did and I graduated.

And that's it. I haven't written a single line of a poem since 2005.

I'm not sure what did it. At some point, I must've convinced myself I was being silly or unrealistic. I was fooling myself if I thought I could do anything with this. I got married and had babies. That's really no excuse at all and it's horrible to even think of my life at this point as an excuse. If poetry exists in anything, it exists in the struggles of my husband and myself to reconcile our love for each other with our daily compromises. It exists in every musical note of laughter that sings out of the throats of my children. It exists in every single second of my trying to rediscover just what the hell I'm doing with my one and only life. I don't want my kids to see me as a cautionary tale. I don't want them to grow up, thinking "don't be like mom". I still believe I have something in me, else I wouldn't bother with this fucking blog. I wouldn't even try. I just don't know how to find that part of myself again. I see glimpses from time to time but the image always fades quickly and I'm back to sitting at a desk, doodling on MS Paint. I'm back to doubting. I'm back to sitting at my home computer at 11:19 PM on a Thursday night, tipsy off some Riesling, listening to a song that I never thought I would love, typing away into the chasm of the internet, relying on the one or two readers that I might have picked up along the way. There is more than this and I will find it. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Spewing some existential crap

I am irritated by the widely-held demand that we all must either believe in something or entirely disbelieve something. I have been told on many occasions throughout my life that I either need to admit to myself that I believe in God (of the Christian variety) or admit that I believe in nothing at all. However, there's a tremendous gulf of gray area in between those two options. In my Quote of the Day email that I received this morning (yep, I'm that lame) I read this gem:

"Confusion is always the most honest response" - Marty Indik. I have no idea who Marty is but I agree with the guy on this point.

The Universe has conspired this morning to present my sleepy brain with all kinds of nifty little articles about the vastness of itself. The first five websites that I Stumble(d) Upon were all related to Space and Time and Quantum-y goodness. Basically I'm an infinitesimally tiny little speck, living on another infinitesimally tiny little speck of a planet, which is part of an infinitesimally tiny little speck of a galaxy that is part of a universe that is so vast that if I had any inkling of the actual vastness of it, I would probably either implode or explode. Either way, there would be 'ploding. How can I NOT be confused? How can I possibly imagine that I know anything about anything? Maybe there is a big bearded man up in the sky, shaking up this little ant farm of his and doling out reward and punishment as he sees fit. Maybe we are all possessed by alien spirits and subject to a false reality created by a meanie-head dude who controlled our solar system billions of years ago. Maybe my cat is actually a benevolent unicorn demigod in disguise. I DON'T KNOW! And I don't think there's anything that is fundamentally wrong with not knowing.

I personally believe that there is something that is truly beautiful and yes HONEST about not knowing - about admitting that we're part of a universe of strangeness that we can't comprehend but, damnit, we're going to try. So I do have beliefs but they are vague and ever-changing and I like it that way.

When does "the awkward phase" end?

I am not a graceful person. I took ballet lessons when I was very young but quit when I had to do an exercise in which I had to lie on my stomach and touch my toes to my forehead. I accomplished it, but couldn't move the next day. Also, I felt like an awkward loser in the class and couldn't take the pressure. That statement could actually sum up my K-7th grade experience. But I digress...

I was out with my kids yesterday and we were socializing with our neighbors. That's actually an awkward experience in itself because when other kids are involved, I never know what I can and can't say/do. Can I scold another child for being mean to my 18 month old or should I let the parent(s) handle it? I don't know! What is the etiquette?? However, that is neither here nor there when it comes to my original intention for this post. Back to me being considerably less than graceful. I was jauntily skipping up the steps to my porch when I tripped and skinned my knee and both hands. Instantly, I was transported back to when I was six years old and I tangled my feet in the bike racks and crashed horribly. Then, I zipped to 6th grade when I did the same damn thing and was actually carried to the nurse's office by my teacher. Then, it was 8th grade and I ran directly into a pole while playing tag with some friends after band practice. My most recent epic crash happened before I was pregnant with Ethan and I was running to answer the phone. I tripped on one of Ben's toys, ricocheted into the dining table, smacked my head on the marble phone table, plummeted to the ground, and then had a series of precariously perched objects fall on me. It goes on and on, really. I can't tell you how many times I have broken my toes just from walking around my home. I try to blame it on the fact that I have "finger toes" (or abnormally long toes in case you're wondering what the hell I mean) but I've had them all my life so surely I should know how to maneuver with them, right? Not a good excuse.

I often feel like the proverbial bull in a china shop. I fear for the safety of other people and breakable objects that happen to be anywhere near me. My fear is particularly enhanced when I'm around anyone smaller than myself - this includes children and more slender and/or shorter adults. No lie, I believe I would honestly feel like a spastic giant if I ever went to Japan. As a result of this, I tend to try to take up as little space as possible and remain still - fewer casualties that way. I'm an introverted person with an extroverted sense of balance, if that makes any sense.

If I am ever at your home and I break something/spill something/injure you/injure a loved one, I am very, very sorry.

Existentialism + stick figures

This is what I do at work.

And here's one I just did at home:

My whorish-ness explained.

What does it mean that "I'm spreading myself across the internets at a whorish pace"?

We've all heard the phrase "attention whore", right? A blog, for instance, designates the blogger as something of an attention whore because said blogger is somehow convinced that her head full of half-cooked ideas and vague notions are important enough to be plastered 'pon the internet. Compound that with an account on Facebook, accounts on several other forum-based/networking sites, a (long abandoned) account on Myspace, and voila! You have yourself an attention whore. The more of these things I subscribe to, the more of a floozy I am.

I justify the blog by pointing out my dusty ol' English degree. I took a lot of classes to learn how to write, think critically, analyze, and theorize and the big pay off is a hastily typed blog or two about made-up words, warm fuzzies, and self mockery. It was all worth it, right?

Thank you, oh commenter, for the question. I still kind of hate you for beating me at Oregon, though.

Echo! (Echo...echo...echo...)

I think I work best when I have assignments.

SO...

If I have any readers out there (I'm looking at YOU... you know who you are... all two of you), leave a comment and tell me what you'd like me to blog about.

Do it.

No, really. Do it.

Please?

The Truth About Squeetles

WARNING: I'm angry so there will be swearing.

I failed to mention in my previous post that Squeetles originally made their appearance in reference to what I thought was a rash on Ben's backside. This rash had gone from a patch of red, dry skin to a patch of nasty raised bumps. I thought it was eczema and Ben thought it was Squeetle bites.

Ben was closer to the mark.

Over the weekend, the once isolated patch of bumps spread over Ben's entire body. My beautiful, sweet, precious little boy has scabies. Fucking mange. MY KID HAS MANGE. These horrid little mites have found their way onto Ben's skin, burrowed into his skin, and laid their hate-filled, putrescent eggs IN HIS SKIN. Don't Google "scabies". You'll find horrific pictures of penises. If you're curious, here's what a scabies mite looks like:

They are evil.

And now I'm the mom who has that kid with scabies. I bathe my kids on a regular basis. I do not allow them to wallow in filth and snuggle dirty, stray animals. I don't know what to tell you, my dear two readers. Their daycare had to contact the health department over this. I had already taken Ben out for the day for the doctor's appointment that has forever cast a pall over my parenting skills but I had to retrieve Ethan as well. The little guy was quarantined in the baby room with no one for company except one employee who was keeping her distance. I had to go to Walmart (I hate Walmart, mind you... HATE IT) to get the Rx cream to clear up this infestation because no one else in town carried this crap. I have had to douse both kids and myself in this goop. You know what the doctor didn't tell me? He didn't tell me that Ben would scream in fucking agony upon application of this ointment. He stood there, sobbing "mommy, you hurt me!" as I slathered him head to toe.

The worst part? The doctor told me that we'd have to wash all of our bedding and clothing in scalding water because these blood-sucking, egg-laying, little demons would "jump ship" as a result of the cream. I don't want them to jump ship. I want them to fucking die. Not just die, but FUCKING DIE. I want to hear agonized shrieks from their tiny mouths as they die. I want to be lulled to sleep by their throat-shredding wails of pain. I want these microscopic beasts to pay for every single welt they produced on my son's body. I want to enlarge them to the size of throw pillows so I can punch each and every one in its grotesque approximation of a face and then set them on fucking fire.

I think my eye is twitching...