Out of the blue, been mailing work all over the place these last few days: Ireland, Australia, California, even exotic Winnipeg(!). I always put extras in my parcels -- drawings or other artwork, accordion story cards, etc -- but only sometimes do they have any reason attached, and work out perfectly, like these drawings on masonite board, which did double duty protecting a painting.
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The NHL lock-out/strike has started. Who cares. They'll bleed money for awhile, until they start to feel it, and in the meantime the people who need the distraction will distract themselves with other distractions, and none of it means anything.
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Aside from incidents involving ambulances, firearms or oozing stigmata, is there a worse way to start your morning than spilling a cup of coffee? Luckily I didn't spill it directly onto the laptop (or into the keyboard), but it was still a hellacious mess. C came down and asked, O, was it only coffee?, which is a bit asking, O, was it just a bear in your cabin? I mean, was it just the one bear that you woke up to, standing over your bed? Hungry and enraged? Was it just him, in that cabin, that isolated cabin, in the middle of the forest, where no one can hear you scream? It was just him, right? Okay good, just checking.
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My mom and my older brother visited last week. Specifically, they visited Oona (I have no illusions in this regard), and it was Oona and her grandma, in particular, who hit it off like two little frogs on the same leaf, singing songs and poking each other in the chin.
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Of course my mom can make me a little nuts, too. At one point we were talking about my hometown, and the house I grew up in, and I made the observation (which I had never really thought about until then) that I could have stepped out the back door of that house and found either a drunk or a crazy person in just about any direction I turned. That we were surrounded by them. Crazy person in the next house across the back yard, drunk/crazy guy who slept with his dog in a truck just off to the left, broken down drunk guy across the back lane just off to the right, and occasionally troublesome drunk guy (hey, what are you doing in our house, old drunk guy?) directly behind me, going out the front door. And that's just an immediate circle, and the only thing that keeps it from being a full drunken/crazy sweep was the nice lady to the right and the Anglican church to the left (and you can say what you want about that one). And my mom's answer to anything like that, to pointing out that this or that guy was drunk or crazy, is Well, that's just what he chose to do. To which I countered that this is not actually an argument, like the kind you can use in court, as in, Your Honour, this is what I've chosen to do with my life, to put knives into people.
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And now that Grandma is gone, Oona is no longer into sharing. Or even less than she ever was.
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The winner of the draw is Eric. Send me an email, Eric Bosse! Don't make me hunt you down!
oh dj, always a delight! many truly insane and traumatic things happened when i was growing up. the whole living room would up and throw its furniture all over the place into pieces, same with the kitchen-it especially like to toss its plates out of the cabinets so they would crash onto the floor. the best/worst was when the front door would kick and tear itself apart and knock itself down. when we would speak of these things later, my mom would always say, "that dog of ours! look at what he has done again!". to this day, "the dog" continues with some really amazing feats though he is about 50 years old-human years, like being a naked boyfriend vacuming the carpet when she invites herself in to share a newspaper clipping/happy christmas gift titled, "9 ways to survive when an intruder breaks into your house and tries to rape you"(the happy article was put inside a happy holidays card of course). "my god! i had no idea that dog could vacum!" would be the discussion at dinner later. ahmen.
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