Pullin' up the carpet

Guess what I just did?

I am crossing off one of my goals I planned to do this Spring/Summer because I just pulled up my carpet in my living room. I'm looking at it and scratching my head wondering "what was I thinkin'?"

No one else has seen it yet and I know hearing their opinions will help mine considerably. I love it in other people's homes. And once they're restored, I'm sure I will be happy, but for now, my back hurts and I feel dusty and feel unsure about my efforts.

One thing I am certain of is this: It is truly rewarding to do something really productive and the satisfaction of being able to say, "I did that".

I can hardly wait to write off the other goals from my list.

(Thank you Janet for your enthusiasm and encouragement)

One Red Paperclip and a Dream

Have you heard of Kyle MacDonald from Montreal? He had this dream to trade a red paper clip for something bigger and better.

It was a game he and his friends would play when he was a boy growing up. This time he decided to push it beyond his neighborhood.

So, he put his ad on Craigslist under the Barter section back in July and within twenty minutes he traded his paper clip for a fun fish pen. He was visiting his parents in Vancouver, BC at the time and met the two women at a 7-11 parking lot to make the trade. Then he traded the fun fish pen for a door knob with a smiley face on it from a woman in Seattle. From there, he went to Amherst to trade the knob for a coleman's stove. The two guys celebrated the trade by cooking steaks on it for lunch.

He travels all over making the trades in person and the trade up gets bigger and better.

Kyle dreams of owning his own house. And I bet he'll get it. He's already up to one year's free rent on a house in Phoenix.

All from a red paper clip. And a willingness to be creative and be original.

Paint By Desire

So, the other night I decided to start painting on a 24x36 canvas. Without having an easel, I always lean my paintings against the wall, while I sit or kneel or crouch on the floor to paint.

Paintings always looks so easy to do when you see them hanging on a wall in someone else's house. "I can do that!" I find myself saying all the time. "That looks easy enough!" I can see the painting in my imagination, but what comes out of my brush onto the canvas is completely different. Much like my singing voice. And now that I think about it, it's no different than my gift-wrapping efforts as well.

I am learning that painting a picture is hard work and can't be done overnight.

When I was a kid, I would sometimes have those coloring activity books that had dots inside the drawings. This was to inform me that I could use my water color paints on it. But no matter how many times I would paint in those coloring books, the paint always seem to seep through the pages. And I never understood what all those dots were about anyway.

I loved painting-by-numbers. Remember them? You never had to make any decisions about what the colors should be like or what to paint, because it was all written out for you. I still really like the style of the bold colors and the shading. It looks so easy to do. Not really any blending at all.

But, of course, it's never easy.

Unless you're a painter.

I'm not that patient when it comes to painting.

So there I was, squatting on the floor painting, when I decided to paint a straight line and I was too shaky, so I used the blue tape one uses when painting the interior walls of a home. I taped it where I wanted the line to be straight. But I was so thrilled by thinking of that grand idea, I didn't wait for the paint to dry before ripping off the tape to see my perfect straight line.

Of course, the paint smeared.

Shaken, I stood up to step back to see my painting more clearly, when I accidently kicked the water glass over filled with a mucky orangy-greenish-blue paint. It was disastrous.

As hard as I could, I wasn't able to scrub the large stain out of my living room carpet.

Remember when I spoke of my desire of pulling out my carpet? I think I'll be pulling it up sooner than later. Because right now, all I can see when I walk toward the kitchen is the stain. I know my hardwood floors will have stains, as well. But I'm ready for the change and I'm ready for the new challenges.

Wish me well. Any recommendatons/suggestions accepted.

Speed

Vespas are not the speediest of vehicles. But I love the way they look. And I always get a kick out of seeing someone driving one. They seem so colorful. Everyone has a story and I try and imagine what theirs might be.

Contemplating Spring

I am sitting here freezing to death. I am half-believing any moment I will start to grow a thin layer of fur to keep me warm. It's been raining here too many days in a row. I heard on the news that it has rained 45 out of the last 50 days.

The average rainfall is 29 inches a year. This year it has already rained more than 15 inches over that number and there is no end in sight.

While standing over my heater vent, I looked down at my aging carpet and decided to pull the heater vent off I was standing over and pull the carpet up against the wall and see the condition of my hardwood floors. They looked pretty good in the 5 by 7 inch area I saw. I got so excited, I had to stand on my hands for a bit to keep me from pulling any more carpet up. I will wait for a warmer, sunnier day and when I'm alloted more time, I will pull away, not knowing what I'm doing, of course.

I went back to standing over my heater vent and while standing over it, feeling the warmth flow upward toward me, I started to daydream of what I will do when Spring actually arrives at my doorstep.

Here are ten things on my wish list I would like to start doing in Spring, and have them completed by the Fall.

HOME CHORES

01. I want to clean out my bedroom closet and only keep a small amount of clothes that I actually wear and donate the rest.

02. I want to lay new linoleum down on the floor under my kitchen sink, where it flooded when I first moved in and the linoleum came up.

03. I want to pull out all those sticker bushes on the side of my house that seemed to grow overnight.

04. I want to pull up my carpet in my living room just as I have seen Tanya Memme do a dozen times on A&E's Sell This House.

05. I want to paint the exterior of my house. Not because it needs it, but because I want to.

06. I want to clean out my garage and organize it.

07. I want to buy a red chair for my living room.

08. I want to create a better garden in my backyard.

09. I want to add more curb appeal to the front of my house.

10. I want to go through the boxes in my closets and throw out (or donate) the stuff I don't really need or want.

When I do these, I will post the before and after photos as I complete my list.

All day I've been singing, "The sun will Come Out Tomorrow.." and even though I know it won't be for at least another week, I am beginning to feel the spring in my walk as I contemplate Spring and daydream of those long sunny days and warm evenings of Summer.

Eye Test

How many Fs do you see in the text above? Go ahead and count them.


There are six Fs in there. Go back and read it again.

You know why you didn't count six? Apparently, the brain can't process the word "OF".

The other day I came across someone who couldn't process the word "NO", but that's another story.

Spring

I noticed on my calendar that Spring arrived last week, but I can only imagine it from a distant memory. Looking out my window here in the Bay Area, I can only see gray skies and a continual pouring of cold, constant wet rain.

Oh Spring. Please come and pay us a visit soon.

Hiding

One summer evening, when I was 16, I briefly dated a quiet guy who looked just like Vinnie Barbarino in Welcome Back Kotter. He was very kind and sweet and I couldn't come up with any valid reason why I wanted to break up with him, except that my friends were much more fun and I was bored with him. And, every moment spent with him was less time with my friends.

I was eating dinner at home with my family when I saw him drive up to pay me a surprise visit.

"Oh no!" I sighed. "Please tell him I'm not home!"

My younger brother got up to answer it. We all sat, quietly eating.

"Is Shawn home?"
"Sure!" said my brother. "Come on in."

I bolted out of my chair and with my half-eaten dinner plate and hurried outside to the back.

I ran out into the garage and then through another door into a very dark workshop filled with dust and spiders and cobwebs. I hid behind some old chairs and a sign that read: "Anyone caught stealing on these premises will be shot" that my dad actually stole.

I could hear my brother say, "Hmmm. Maybe she went into the garage. Let's have a look." I could hear them shuffling about heading toward where I hid. Surely, he wouldn't take him back into the workshop. With my dinner plate still in my hands, I crouched below the work counter completely hidden behind the "do not steal" sign. I held my breath. I was horrified they might find me.

He didn't let up on his search. "Could she be back there in that dark workshop?"

My brother turned on the light and then walked around, moving away a few chairs before lifting the sign to find me hiding. Vinnie took one look at me and told me to go to hell.

I sat there long after he left. Staring down at my shoelaces and petting my dog and feeling ashamed that I couldn't just tell him I no longer wanted to go out with him.

I saw him recently walking through a strip mall parking lot pushing a woman in a wheelchair. He was with others doing the same thing. Those in wheelchairs were handicapped in various ways. As they headed toward my direction I stopped abruptly and quickly darted into a store, unseen, and watched them through the door at them.

He and a few others pushed their way over to a small yellow bus and he began to help them board.

I stood there for the longest time, hidden from view, waiting until he boarded the bus so I could go on my way. Yet I just felt small and ashamed of myself --not only from my 16-year-old behavior but here I was, hiding from him again.

So I walked back out of the store and walked up to him. He smiled, instantly recognizing me and acted like he didn't remember me hiding in the dark workshop that night with my dinner plate. Here he was, this kind, gentle soul, taking care of those with special needs.

We only said a few words and I went on my way with a sigh of relief and a comfort in my heart that I was able to push beyond my feelings and walk up to him. I am still learning and growing. But often times, I'm still that 16-year-old girl with her own special needs... still hiding behind a stolen sign that says "do not steal".

I'm back from the desert

I just returned from having a fun and relaxing time in Phoenix.

Four days of being in the desert warmed me to my core.

It was such a wonderful reprieve from our lengthy cold wet weather back home. We're two days shy of having the wettest March in the Bay Area. I think it might even be the wettest season on record. And the weather folks don't see any change in sight.

So, today I unpacked and went back to work on some designs, stopping occasionally to stand over my heater, pretending the heat was the desert sun, imagining myself being back there with a friend I feel so comfortable with; who I never tire of being around.

I took these photos while we sat enjoying our magical dinner out on the terrace at The Phoenician in Scottsdale on Monday night. Some day I hope to return to this place.

Phone Calls

As a kid, I remember dialing up my friends on the telephone, and when no one answered, I was patient enough to let the phone ring for as long as I could tolerate it.

"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer... you take one down, pass it around... ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall..."

I would sing it until maybe the 50th bottle. Because I knew that as soon as I hung up, they would walk in the door and miss my call.

There were no answering machines in my childhood.

I used to have the patience to wait on a busy signal. I once read Amelia Bedelia, The Littles Take a Trip and one of the Encyclopedia Brown books with that busy signal honking in my ear before I decided the busy signal tone wouldn't just change into a ringing tone.


I am still puzzled to this day, why a busy signal tone can't transfer into a ringing tone. ...."If we can put a man on the moon......"


I remember getting my first answering machine in either 1985 or 1986.

The large brown machine used a cassette tape and was attached to the phone by cords.

"Hello, this is Shawn.
I can not come to the phone right now.
But.
If you leave your name.
Your telephone number.
And a brief message.
I will call you back as soon as I can."

I stole those lines off the instructions to my answering machine manual.

I recorded my voice over and over and over again. It never seemed quite natural. Like I was reading it. Or... I phrased it wrong or swallowed in the middle of it all or didn't sound like myself. (actually I probably sounded too much like myself, and I wanted to sound more sophisticated). Many times the phone would start ringing in the midst of me leaving the message so I would have to redo it. But. Whatever the reason, it would always take me about two hours to leave a ten-second internal message, sitting under the kitchen table feeling shy and embarrassed to make this recording.

I remember being warned. NEVER say "Hello. Today is August 30th. We cannot come to the phone right now, as we're camping at the Russian River and won't be home until September 2nd. Gordon, the key is hidden under the Welcome Mat as it always is. The window in the bathroom is still broken if you lose the key and need to climb inside. To all others, leave your name and telephone number and a brief message and we'll call you back when we return. Have a nice day!"

So I learned to always say, "I can't come to the phone right now" as opposed to "No one is home to take your call." It was to keep burglars away, of course.

You know what was even worse than leaving that internal message? It was much worse when I was on the other end having to leave a message. I would call a friend and the answering machine would pick up and I would have to leave a message on the spot. Without any sort of rehearsal.

I was too shy to leave messages that first year.

If it was really urgent, I would hang up, write down what I wanted to say, try it out a few times with different expressions and then read it outloud on the message machine. I just couldn't adlib back then. Eventually I started to get brave as others were beginning to become brave and leave messages on mine.

The answering machine was a hugely new invention. And, it took us all awhile to get comfortable. And, then we eventually did.

"Oh hi!!! This is Shawn. Well. ...You probably already knew that. Um... Are you there? ... Hello? ... Are you there screening your calls? ... I can hear you breathing. ... No, I guess not. ... What? ... Hello? ... Oh. ... Sorry. I thought I heard a click. ... Annnywaaaay, I guess you're not at home. ... Well... if you get home before 10, can you call me at --- beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. (my fifteen seconds were up).

I remember before cell phones, I would be at a pay phone listening to my messages and I would inevitably get, "Hellooo Shawn. Where are you? Where are you? Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Are you there? It's me! Hello? Are you there? Are you going to the bathroom? I'll wait. I'll sing to you.. "La-la-la-la-la".. okay, take your time. I'll just tell you a funny story that happened to me at the grocery store.. " and they fill up 15 minutes of my cassette tape before they decide I'm not really home. Meanwhile, I'm depositing coins left and right.

And then after that long message, I would get these:

Beeeeeeep. "Hi Shawn. This is John. Guess you're not home, so give me a call." (Time: 2:06 pm)
Beeeeeeeeep. "Hi Shawn. Are you there? Guess not. It's John. Give me a call when you get home." (Time: 2:13 pm)
Beeeep. "Hi Shawn. It's John. Give me a call." (Time: 2:22 pm)
Beeeeeeeep. "Hi Shawn. This is John. I'm tryin' to find you. Give me a call." (Time 2:51 pm)
Beeeeep. "Hi Shawn. It's me, John. Just giving you a call to see if you're home. Give me a call when you get home." (Time 3:13 pm)
Beeeeeeeeeep. "Hi Shawn. It's just me, John. I thought you'd be home by now. Give me a call. Bye." (Time 3:51 pm)
Beeeeep...

----------------

Now, sometimes I prefer leaving a message on someone's answering machine. I've gotten quite good at speaking on the spot. I can even sing a good Happy Birthday song to anyone on an answering machine. But who gets to leave messages anymore? Everyone owns a cell phone now, too. So if you miss them at home, you can easily catch them on their mobile phone.

I certainly don't miss the endless ringing ... but.. every now and then, I secretly hope I get to leave a message ---- just like the good ole days.

Spring is in the air

We've had our fair share of snow and rain this past winter and I'm giddy with excitement that Spring is just around the corner. The sun is shining today. It seems like a long time since I've felt its warmth.

I've been sitting at my computer working on some designs, but I feel as though I need my creative battery recharged. I sit here sometimes and feel stifled in my design work. A friend of mine said to get up and out of the house for a bit and I'll be amazed at how quickly my creativity will return. So I'm off to mow my backyard as the lawn is in great need of a haircut. Then watch Lloyd act in his High School Play this afternoon.

Next weekend I'm flying to Phoenix to meet a friend and will stay here.

The change of scenery and new adventure will do wonders for my creative soul. But for now, I'll settle for the lawn mower.

Off the top of my head, here are 10 things that stir up my creativity:

1. Being around inspiring and creative people.
2. A place with a view.
3. Browsing through a bookstore.
4. An outdoor picnic.
5. Walking along the beach.
6. Listening to good music.
7. The beautiful grounds at wineries.
9. Warm weather Vacations
10. A brand new ultra-thin sharpie marker and a pad of paper.

Ker-plunk!

Do you remember playing Ker-Plunk?

It's a clear plastic tube filled with marbles, which are supported by crisscrossing sticks inserted through the tube. Then, each player takes a turn pulling out a stick, trying to dislodge as few marbles as possible. As the game progresses and fewer sticks remain, it gets harder to keep the marbles from going ker-plunk! And, at the end of the game, the player with the fewest marbles, wins.

Ever since I bought my 1950s home two years ago, I have looked forward to updating my kitchen with a modern dishwasher. But, for now, I am the modern dishwasher.

I play Ker-Plunk on a daily basis. But it's not that game we played as a kid. I play it in the kitchen. It's a test of coordination as I skillfully pull out each stick---err, cup and dish and glass and pan from my dish drainer hoping nothing drops.

One small mistake and everything goes crashing to the floor. The object is not to lose your marbles. And, I'm about to lose mine if I break any more glasses.

Just thought I'd let you know.

Chin Up!

My dearest friend lost her grandfather last night.

She called him Papaw... growing up in Texas and all. Her grandparents have lived in this small lake town in East Texas and attend the same church as Lance Armstrong's grandfather for many years. Aww. That just made me smile. It would make you smile, too, if you ever visit this sweet small town a couple hours from Dallas.

Brenda's grandparents "Mamaw and Papaw" were still driving all over the place just a couple of months ago. But ya know, what happens when old age sets in. It just sets in. They are in their mid 90s. It tears my heart out. You can't fight old age. It's a dirty trick .. this growing old.

Papaw was so alert to the end, but his lungs filled up. I knew him for more than ten years but only really knew him a short time. The first time I met him was July 4, 1995 at his home. Brenda and I pulled into their driveway that warm windy night on Independence Day, and he was in his shop working on clocks because even in his 80s he was a clock repairman and he poked his head out from the garage and said, "Booo!" in such a cute, adorable way.

"Boo". I still see and hear his sweet voice and face and I often replay that image in my memory like a "quicktime movie".

He touched me to my core. I felt my eyes glisten with emotion.

He seemed to die without much suffering so he lived this wonderful life deep into his 90 years of life driving anywhere his next adventure would take him with his wife always by his side. There was never an ill word spoken from him. He was an incredibly wonderful loving man.

Brenda called me late last night. He had just died and she just returned from the hospital after seeing him her last time. They picked up his belongings.

When we said our goodbyes, I said, "Chin up!"

It was an expression I have never said before.

She said, "whaat?"

It sorta caught me off guard, too.

I said, "chin up! Keep your chin up."

She said, "Shawn! That's exactly what Papaw would say to me each time we said "our goodbyes".. He would say "chin up!"

It sent a chill through me.


Chin up, Brenda.

I heard you, Papaw. Thanks for your message.

Humbled and Grateful

Where has the time gone? It seems like a long time since I've written anything here.

I am here. The days have a way of melting into the other... and now it is March.

I somehow missed watching the Winter Olympics and now it is over. I was busy though. Something else grabbed my attention and it wasn't the ice skaters or the snowboarders or the ski jumpers.

I keep hearing a whisper in my heart that says this is going to be my year.

So, I'm focusing on my dreams and goals in my life. I write them down in my heart and on backs of receipts and paper bags and napkins and post-its notes.

I whisper them outside and let the winds carry them on their way.

Over the Presidents Day weekend, I wrote down on my wish list how much I wanted to design fabric. Yesterday, I walked into a Fabric Company and showed them my portfolio. They hired me to do some designs for them.

I am humbled and grateful and excited over this new direction I am headed ... and in the power of dreams.




. . . I caught frogs and called them prince
And made myself a queen
And before you knew me I'd traveled 'round the world
And I slept in castles
And fell in love
Because I was taught to dream

I found mayonnaise bottles and poked holes on top
To capture Tinker Bell
And they were just fireflies to the untrained eye
But I could always tell

Cause I believe in fairy tales
And dreamer's dreams
Like bedsheet sails
And I believe in Peter Pan
And miracles, anything I can to get by
And fireflies . . .


© Lori McKenna / Fireflies (from her CD: Pieces of Me)

Who let the flys out?

I have these flies buzzing around my kitchen.

I had the door opened earlier in the day to warm up my house and since then, I've had all these buzzing flies just flapping their wings and hitting their heads and bodies against my glass kitchen door wanting to get back outside.

So I opened the door to let them out and they don't seem to notice. They just continue butting their heads against the window door unaware at this wonderful opportunity for them to be set free.

I know people like these flies.

They are trapped for various reasons. They have aspirations and longings to be free, but they, like the flies.. just keep banging their head up against the glass. There are clearly opportunities for them, but they are too busy bumping their heads to notice. Flapping their wings. Exhausting themselves.

I want to shout to the fly that, I, too, have flown the same flight pattern. I want to remind the dear fly to breathe. And when you breathe in, smell for the freshest air. Move toward that freedom. There is life where it's the most fresh. Smell the blossoms. The fragrance of new dreams. Rearrange your thinking. Your plans. Move toward the flow.

You can do it. I'm watching you and motioning you through. Loook! There's an opening. Fly through it!

Listening to Music

When I was a young girl, I always felt self-conscious by the music I loved. The teacher would let us bring in our records to school on Fridays to listen to, and while other kids brought in Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and David Bowie, I would bashfully hide my Olivia Newton-John and Bread albums under my coat.

The first record I ever bought was The Partridge Family at K-Mart. I remember my dad drove me there so I can buy it with my Christmas money I received. Later, I went on to buy The Defranco Family, The Carpenters, Bobby Goldsboro and Eddie Rabbit. For two cents, I bought Fleetwood Mac, Boston, Pablo Cruise, Peter Frampton, Abba, Barry Manilow, Carly Simon, Carol King and Chicago on 8-track from the back of our TV Guide.

I always felt intimidated with my choice of music until I got out of high school and then it didn't seem to matter anymore.

Now I like all kinds of music.

As you know, Party Shuffle on iTunes is a mix of songs that, if you decide to select it, iTunes chooses and plays 18 songs randomly for you out of your Library.

Here's what's playing on my PARTY SHUFFLE.

01. Beautiful World (colin hay)
02. You're Beautiful (james blunt)
03. Rain (patty griffin)
04. Remember When (alan jackson)
05. Never Saw Blue Like That (shawn colvin)
06. The Power of Orange Knickers (tori amos and damien rice)
07. Don't Panic (cold play)
08. Since You've Been Around (rosie thomas)
09. The One I Love (david gray)
10. Life is Beautiful (amy correia)
11. Flies on the Butter (wynonna)
12. Talk to Me While I'm LIstening (nanci griffith)
14. Operator (toby lightman)
15. Hockey Skates (kathleen edwards)
16. Relatives (christine kane)
17. Don't Wait Too Long (madeleine peyroux)
18. As Good As I Once Was (toby keith)

(what's playing in your iTunes Shuffle)?

Sometimes Words Can Make You Feel small

Whatever happened to Mister Baldi?

I recently thought of him and his influence on my life as a young woman many years ago. I once knew this well known motivational speaker who often times traveled around the United States to tell his feel-good stories. Stories that made him look and feel good, but very rarely made the people he spoke about feel good.

The way he spoke in his sometimes quite charming manner, was actually quite enamoring. I remember sitting in his presence many times, leaning forward, hanging on to every word he said. Sometimes his eyes would seem to stop when they connected to mine and would linger there for a word.. and he'd let the word hang, while he held my glance and then move on.

I wondered if others noticed that it was my eyesight he caught while I would nervously nod my head up and down to encourage him. Like I was clapping silently with my head.

But then one day, in one of his speeches he spoke about me.

And nothing was ever the same again.

He never spoke my name, but he described me in such various detail, I knew it was me.

Hearing his story about how I was just a girl who would always just be a Wanna-Be and would never make it as an artist made my entire head sweat. He was my mentor. Someone I hugely looked up to and admired.

"What if what he said was true and my whole life as an artist is a false? What if all I am is a Wanna-Be?"

Fastforward twenty years later and apparently everything he said about me wasn't true afterall. I've made my living as a professional artist all this time, yet sometimes in the stillness of the night, I hear his story about me in my memory and shudder. I now work harder... I labor longer... because of his words.

Isn't it amazing how mighty words are? Once they're spoken, you really can't take it back.

A dear friend of mine recently said this to me about the story I just told and I'm only repeating them to you because I believe these are words for you, too.

Memorize this. Paperclip this to your heart, mind and spirit:

------

I know you already know this, but I'm going to say it anyway. Nobody cares about those words, except you. And that's because they hurt you. But those words have nothing to do with you and everything to do with his ugliness and bitterness. They are not the result of what you were or what you are; they are the result of what he is. This belief that you struggle with all the time—it isn't yours. It's like some crappy spell he put on you with his words. You formed a belief about yourself based on his cruelty, not based on what is true.

Let me tell you something, my beautiful friend: you have always been an artist. It is in your heart. Let no one tell you anything different. Remind yourself a thousand times a day who and what you are. Your opinion is the only one that matters. Whether you are making millions with your talent or keeping it all to yourself, you are an artist. No matter what.

-------

I repeat her words to myself a million times over and over and over. I have embroidered her words into my heart. And soul.

Is there someone in your life that has made you small? And brought you down?

If so, remember this: Don't take it personally. It's not about you. It's about them. Read those wise words written above and seal them in your heart.

Being an artist isn't easy. We are constantly hit with criticism and various views and critiques on our work. It would be easier to be a door greeter at Walmart or perhaps an egg sniffer at a chicken farm. Though it may not be as rewarding.

No, not nearly as rewarding.

Glamour

Illustration Friday:Glamour

I remember the old TV Show "Hart to Hart" and thinking Stefani Powers was the most glamorous woman on television. Whether she was climbing through a sewer pipe or in a fight scene, she always had that natural glamour.

For those of us who aren't Mrs. Hart, we already know it takes a lot more than makeup to make oneself glamorous. Because it's more intrinsic than anything else. But it's a good start.

o little lucy

First of all, I want to thank everyone who expressed concern over my lovely cat, Mollie, and to myself. I was extremely touched and that warmth has really carried me.

My Mollie is still gone.

I am coming to terms with it. I still have hope she will return... but... I have cleaned up her dish bowls and put her toys away. For awhile, I left her little wispy cat hairs on a pillow she loved to sleep on ... but I've now since vacuumed them up.

Animals have such a way of filling up a heart, don't they? And they leave such a void when they are gone.



I am reminded of another cat I had who walked into my life and heart two years ago.

I was putting my townhouse up for sale when the most tiniest, skinniest cat with the sharpest little fangs and the biggest head in the world, arrived on my front step and started sharpening her claws on my screen door.

"NooOo, nooo, Kitty, don't do that!"

She had the fiercest meow.

She made a low but loud guttural sound that came deep from her gut. She demanded to come in. She appeared starving so I fed her some dry kibble I had and she ate the whole bowl up. She stared up at me and her meows sounded like she was yelling at me. I was afraid to touch her. She looked diseased and worried that maybe letting her in my home wasn't the brightest idea, but I knew she needed love and caring and I felt she wasn't getting it anywhere.

This little tiny cat, I eventually called Lucy, continually clawed at my screen door to get in during all hours of the night and poked teeny holes into it. At the height of my frustration, I grabbed little Lucy and carried her off to the farthest corner of the complex I was living in. I shouted, "Staaay!!" and I ran as fast as my legs would carry me back to my home.

It was just like those old chase scenes on TV, where the woman is running and stops to look back and sees the man walking toward her and starts running again and then trips on a root, and stands up and looks back and the man is still walking and they're about the same distance apart, no matter how much running she does, he is able to keep up.

It happened just like that. I'd be running through parking lots and along curving sidewalks and then stop to turn around and I could see her walking toward me and hear her loud meowing probably saying, "I'll get you, My Pretty!" as she followed me back.

I quickly grabbed a flattened box I had for packing, and taped it to my screen door with packing tape so she couldn't scratch it. When I reached down to grab the last strip of tape, my fingers touched something soft. It was little Lucy! She was right there like a bad nightmare screaming at me with those little sharp fangs.

"Get awaaay!" I quickly rushed inside, shutting the door.

For a good hour, I could hear her scratching the cardboard demanding to get inside. Like Chucky! (I've never seen a Chucky movie, but that's how I imagine them to be). Sometimes her meows sounded like, "wullawullawullawullawallaa woooooo!" I felt I was stuck inside a horror movie.

After some silence, I began to relax a bit, when I started to hear cat claws scratching my screen door again. The cardboard was flat against the screen so I thought it was my imagination. I s-l-o-0-O-w-l-y tiptoed to my front door and opened it up. I didn't see her and as I closed the door, there was a LOUD meo0OwW and I looked at my screen door and she had squeezed herself between the cardboard and the screen door! She looked like a cardboard cutout of a cat hanging on to the screen. "Meeo0OowW"

I can't express to you how terrifying she was. At one point, I thought maybe she was a mechanical cat and I was a part of a "Smile, You're on Candid Camera" episode.

It was clear she was homeless and she slept out on my front porch day in and day out.

She clawed her way my heart and when my townhouse sold within six days and a month later, I packed up and moved away, I reluctantly packed her up, too.

I took her to the vet to be checked out and this tiny little kitten, was actually approximately 19 years old with an active thyroid! I fed her as much as she wanted because I knew she wasn't long for this world. She would eat three cans a day at least and a bowlfull of kibble. Her fur started to feel silky and soft. Her meows weren't so angry. She seemed almost joyful at this new home of hers.

Six weeks later, I could tell she was dying. She wasn't eating and her eyes were dialated. I sat beside her for an hour and a half and hoped she wasn't in any pain. I talked to her for a long time in the softest, soothing voice I could come up with. The last time I saw her alive, was seeing her tail when she climbed under the fence.

We buried little Lucy on my mom's property in the pet cemetery with all our childhood pets. I cried for three days.

Cat (napped)

Aww. A sweet wonderful cat I named Mollie came into my life last summer. We had an amazing connection. I'm not sure who loved each other more. I felt she was an old friend. I think she felt it, too. We slept together every night. She'd lean against me and use my hip or leg for her pillow. I learned how to sleep on my back motionless .. or roll over so s-l-o-0-O-w-l-y that she never woke up. She was my best friend. And I never forgot to tell her that. She told me it, too. In her own way.

Now she is gone. She mozied out to enjoy the California morning sun at 10 am a week ago last Friday and hasn't returned. I miss my Mollie. If anyone knows her whereabouts, please let go of your embrace so she can run home. She misses me, too. No Questions Asked.

E is for Early Bird

Not being much of a fan of worms, I never saw the incentive of waking up early to catch them.

I know they are good for the earth ... (and for fishin') ... but it has always been easier for me to be a ... (whoo? whooo?) .. a night owl instead.

Okay, so I've been thinking

Have you ever just been laying down just before you close your eyes to sleep and you think of your beloved aunt or grandmother who has gone on before you and wondered if they're watching over you right then? And that's sweet and nice... and maybe you lay on your back and smile up to the ceiling with your best smile. Or you poof up your hair a bit, so it looks much fuller as you lay there staring up. Maybe you turn to lay on your side.. because it makes you look more slim.

Because ... you want to look good for them.

But. What if.

You want some privacy? Are they always staring down watching? Let's assume this is all true and we really do have loved ones who have gone before us watching over us.

Do they know when to turn their face? To cover their eyes? Their ears?

If this is all real and true and God is watching over us every single moment, then I am assuming he's not all that surprised by whatever we humans do. But. What about our beloved aunt or grandmother or distant cousin?

Not that I have a lot to hide. But. Sometimes I do have an occasional itch or somewhere to pick. Do I have to always worry that I'm being watched?

There is something really comforting being watched over in this life. But I'd really like it more if I knew they have some inner awareness to know what is private and what is not.

Just so I don't have unexpected guests looking on.

Ya know what I mean?

sea

Sometimes, life's greatest moments are when we take risks. What we think might be sharks could also be sailboats. But you never know, if you never dive into your dreams and take that risk.

Beginning the New Year

I entered 2006 by bursting out of the starting block into an all-out effort to catch up with my dreams. These dreams seem to always be running just a tad bit ahead of me. The chase is alway on. My dream this year is to catch up. To at least run... with the same momentum. If for a time, we can run, hand in hand.

Did you know? That when I was a small girl, I couldn't pronounce my ers. I would call squirrels, skwoy-luhs. My aunt who lives in Lindenhurst, NY said I talked just fine. I also talked faster than my mouth could pronounce them, leaving me talking part of the conversation and playing charades with the other part of the conversation.

Sometimes even now as a adult, I find myself still playing the charades while talking.

I have all these words and feelings I want to express, but often times the words just get jumbled up inside me and I have difficulty in expressing them. I marvel at these wonderful writers and people who can converse so effortlessly. I am rivoted.

I started drawing my life in comic strip form back in high school. It was therapeutic for me. Later, I sold children's records door to door (while being in a youth ministry). I hated doing that and felt so awkward and embarrassed and shy to walk up to homes of strangers and try and act brave and enthusiastic. Despite my fear, I sold many records. Often times, I would take a break and sit on the curb and draw my door-to-door experiences out. Then I'd stuff them in my record bag and head out to sell more records. It gave me a whole new wonderful and different perspective on my life. And how I viewed the world around me. It helped me clarify my thoughts. It was a form of charades for me.

I've always felt huge feelings. It sometimes fills me up in such a capacity, I don't know how to release it. Sometimes I wouldn't even know how I felt, until I drew my experience out and once I did, I was able to collect my thoughts and feelings about the situation.

In my mid-twenties, I was hired at a large insurance company. My mom said, "Shawn, you will meet friends for life there."

Friends for life. Friends for life.
I was so excited. I couldn't wait to meet these friends for life.

I was completely out of my element, though, feeling trapped wearing a dress everyday, sitting in these long rows working as a clerk typist.

It was my first (and only) non-creative job. My survival back then was to draw out my uncomfortable experiences as a clerk typist and then tape them along the wall next to my desk. I'm quite sure, no one had ever seen the likes of me before. I lasted six weeks before the creative publications department hired me. I only worked there for a couple of years before I discovered I could only be so creative in the insurance world. I wanted more.

I think for the most part, I often feel out of my element.

I can be at the mall and feel self-conscious. I feel out of my element, when I'm waiting in a doctor's office or walking alone through the neighborhood. I feel out of my element, when I'm getting my nails done and wonder if the manacurist can sense that from me. The only time I really feel in my element is when I'm drawing comics about my life and feelings.

So. With all that being said. I have decided to start posting my comics online... just little snippets of a day in my life. They won't necessarily be funny. Because my life's moments aren't always funny. But usually they will always be thoughtful.

I'm not a great illustrator. And I know I'm not a good writer. But the combination of the two help me see the world and myself in a new way.

It is called doodlesoup.

I've already posted a link to it on the column to the right.

I've been drawing these for more than 20 years. It's time to put them out there for others than myself to view. This is my big dream. I'm catching up to it and holding hands with it now.

Doodlesoup is a blog of sorts. It's a day in my life. It begins January 1, 2006.

Happy New Year.

Pleading Temporary Insanity

A powerful storm has barreled through town yesterday and all night long, causing record flooding and mudslides.

The rain has stopped momentarily.

The Napa River is at 30 ft-- five feet over flood stage.
The Russian River is at 48 ft-- sixteen feet over flood stage.

I email my friend, Dan. "Ya wanna drive out to the coast and watch the waves crashing high over the rocks?!? We can take your 4-wheel drive truck through Guerneville and watch the flooding Russian River!" I try and sound convincing.

He is hesitant, fearing we'll get stuck.

"Ohh that's the best part!" I thought, instantly recognizing I'm obviously suffering from temporary insanity.

The idea of getting stuck in the high waters and being rescued by helicopters throwing ropes down to us, standing on the roof of his truck, actually sounded thrilling to me.

That's when you know I've been indoors too long. Suffering a bit with cabin fever.

I email him back. "yeah, you're probably right. I guess I'll take my Christmas tree down instead." A much safer and smart choice.

I walk into my living room to start this chore I've been putting off, when he emails me back.

"I'm up for "testing the waters"! Ya wanna go for a drive?! I'll come pick you up now!"

I look back over at my Christmas tree. I decide it will be here when I return. "Yes! Come on over!" I tell him. "I'll go grab my raincoat!"

I'll see you in the new year!

Life on the Farm

I grew up on a farm.

Complete with geese, chickens, ducks, horses, sheep, a pig, goat, rabbits, dogs and cats, a guinea pig and a parakeet.

Such a huge delight for a girl who dressed up as a cowboy the first ten years of her life. But then. That all changed when we got our first horse.

My sister was the cowgirl of the farm.

She was involved in 4-H and raised rabbits and a pig. She barrel-raced in rodeos. She was involved in the Rincon Riders. She was the true cowgirl and no matter how often I dressed as one, it didn't make me one.

I learned that early on.

Especially when one afternoon, she and I rode the horses down to the Sonoma County fairgrounds and we galloped through the fields ... and I eventually got bucked off, flying through the air, head first burying neck deep into the ground. I thought I was going to die; suffocating myself in the mud.

"Show her you're the boss, Shawn!" Kelly would tell me. "Get back on! Show her you're not afraid!!!"

I rode the horse home with a swollen muddy check and bloodied lip, biting back the tears.

I really preferred buzzing around on our mini-bike around our farm and through nearby vineyards. A Honda-50. I pretended to be Evil Knievel and rode wheelies and jumped over angled boards. I felt more at ease. I wore a helmet that made me feel so powerful.

And then one day I convinced my friend Tony to sign up with me for 4-H, too. My sister made it sound so fun! I let him choose what we would get involved in.

He wanted to learn about wildlife.

Wildlife.

I hated camping.

The only time we camped was while sailing off the coast of Canada in August right after 6th grade .... through the San Juan Islands... and my dad decided to cook us breakfast in our tent since it was raining there on Jones Island. Some sort of spark lit my sleeping bag on fire as I slept. My sleeping bag combusted in flames! I awoke to my dad stomping on my legs and feet putting the fire out. Thank God I'm alive to write about these experiences.

My mom drove us to our first 4-H meeting at Mrs. Simmon's house up in the Bennett Valley hills.

I waited for the others to show up. My neck craning left and right.. watching for the others to arrive. It was just me and Tony.

I remember feeling that panic feeling. I sat on the couch with Tony beside me and I looked over my shoulder out the window behind me, often hoping they would just show up late.

Instead, I saw my mother's Ford Galaxy 500 still parked there in the same spot she dropped us off. This time, the hood was lifted. A neighbor had walked across the street to help her out.

We always had car trouble. I grew up with the belief.. "never drive farther than you can walk back".

I remember that first 4-H meeting. She talked of deer prints. I could barely listen to her constant droning chatter about making a plaster cast of deer prints. I was so nervous and concerned for my dear mother.

Eventually, the tow truck came. Hauled the green Galaxy 500 Ford Sedan away just in time for Tony's mother to arrive in the same spot out in front to pick us up in their blue chevy station wagon, to take us home. Such a narrow escape.

But despite all that, I loved those plaid plants, and as long as I was wearing them... whether riding the horse, the minibike or doing the farm chores ... well, life was pretty good back then!

(pictured left to right: My sister, our beloved dog, Patches, my brother, our beloved collie, Lacey, and me in my favorite plaid pants).

Imagine

Driving through the neighborhood, I can't help but notice every home seems to have an inflatable Santa or Snowman or Reindeer just laying down on the grass flat as a pancake. It's kinda sad in a way, but I slow down and imagine, anyway, what they would look like if they were filled with air. "Oooooooh, pretty!" I whisper outloud.

Steaming Hot Popcorn

I was feeling hungry.

On the front seat next to me, was a steaming hot microwave popcorn bag just waiting to be opened. I pulled into the gas station, and stepped out of my car, when a man approached me.

"Maam? Can you spare some money for my kids? We have car trouble and we're driving down to L.A. for the holidays and my kids are hungry."

I didn't have any cash, but I happily offered him my untouched bag of popcorn.

He leaned over and punched the bag out of my hand. The popcorn exploded in every direction.

"I asked for money!" he shouted as he rushed away disappearing behind cars.

I stood there for a moment. Shivering.

With him disappeared something else -- my trust.

I got back into my car and as I drove off, I felt sad and confused.

This man has made it difficult for me to want to help a stranger again in the future. It's hard to trust fire once it's burned you. I wonder if I will always remain skeptical. Will it always just linger there under the surface with me? Will I always second-guess someone with needs?

I laid in bed that night, thinking of him, still shivering from the cold.

Surprise!

You know how it is when you're a kid sitting in the backseat traveling for hours without air conditioning and you think you're actually sweating to death and dying of thirst so you beg your parents to stop so you can have a coke, and they say, "when we get to our destination, you can have a glass of water."

It was one of those vacations.

"I have to go to the bathroom."
"You should have gone when we stopped for gas three hours ago! You will just have to hold it."

It was in the middle of July. We were driving across country from California to North Carolina. We had no air conditioning and it was HOT.

"Can we get a motel with a pool?" we'd beg.
"We'll get the motel that we get".

I'll never forget how wide my smile felt on my face, when we pulled into a motel with a pool!

"I love you Pool! I love you Pool!" I sang over and over again. I couldn't have been happier! I snapped open my suitcase, threw on my bathing suit, and within moments, I was on the diving board hopping UP and down and UP and down preparing for my plunge into that glorious refreshing swimming pool... when I noticed ... something ... terribly strange.

It took a long time for me to shake the shock from my eyes and realize that I was actually staring down into a giant waterless hole in the ground. That stupid pool I was singing love songs to, was shut down for repair!

I cried enough tears that afternoon to nearly fill that pool back up. My mom said all my tears still wasn't quite deep enough to wade in, so we cooled down by drinking a coke with ice from the motel ice bucket.

And that night before I fell asleep, I followed the road map with my finger to see how far we had traveled. We were getting closer, but we still needed to check in one more night in a motel before we reached Swansboro.

I got giddy with excitement. I couldn't help but believe we would finally get our motel with a pool. And it would be worth it.

Remembering Dad

Fifteen years ago from today, my father died.

He was sick in the hospital for nearly three weeks, hooked up to a life support respirator dying from bacterial pneumonia.

He was 59.

My mother, sister, brother and I would spend hours and hours with him. Even though visiting hours were very limited and were only allowed two visitors at a time, the nurses let that rule slide for us.

They became our friends, knew us by our first name and later attended my father's funeral.

I always felt that my dad loved my sister more because she was his first born and he adored my brother more because he was his only son.

I was the inbetweener. The middle child. I felt at times invisible and insignificant. Yet, during those final days, whenever I would walk into his room, the numbers on his monitors changed positively.

The nurses affectionately called me "the healer".

When my father's health started to fail, they called me at home on two separate occasions and asked me to come in to the hospital. As soon as I entered the room, the stats on his monitor would level out and return to a safe condition.

It was healing for me, too. For the first time, I felt significant to my dad. That I mattered and was important to him.

One night, the nurses called my family together and told us they they were surprised my father was still holding on. And that, perhaps, we needed to give him permission to die.

I will never forget that night in early December.

My mom spoke first. She held my father's hand and thanked him for his life. And for all the wonderful things he did as a husband and as a father to his children. She told him family stories. I listened as best as I could over the shaking in my skin and over my racing beating heart. I fought back tears. The lump in my throat felt like I was trying to swallow a ball made of velcro.

My mom kissed my dad and then it was my sister's turn taking my dad's hand. She sounded as articulate and passionate as my mother did. So clear-headed. I was so nervous, I felt I was about to vomit. I don't remember a word of what I spoke. I do remember staring so intently into his face and recognizing my nose as his nose.

After my brother had his moment with Dad... we just sat back in our chairs and looked at him. I knew that any moment, he would leave this world and enter into the next. What a perfect ending. We gave him permission, expressed our love and kissed him on his way.

I just stared. I held my breath. I waited.



Ten days later, my father died on December 10, 1990.


I went to work that morning. I was in the cafeteria ordering cinnamon toast and coffee when my co-worker and dear friend, Nikki, came running in to tell me that the hospital called and my dad was dying. I was to go immediately to the hospital.

Driving to the hospital on that sunny morning felt as though I was driving through sludge. It was the hardest drive in my life. When I got there and ran down the hall that was so familiar to me by then, I saw my sister and her three young babies under the age of four. She was crying.

"I tried to get here in time! I hurried as fast as I could! I wanted to be there for him! I wanted to hold his haaand!" she sobbed.

My mom and I arrived around the same time. And then my brother quickly on our heels.

He had already died.

I just stared at him for the longest time. And I will never forget.

Walking back down the long hallway alone toward my car, I was horrified to see everyone still going on with their business as though nothing so remarkable had just happened.

I was taken back by the girls in the parking lot laughing themselves silly! "How dare you laugh!" is what I wanted to shout. How could my grief, so unbearably thick weigh less than even the quietest whisper to the rest of the world?

Feeling lost and absent, we all headed for breakfast at a nearby restaurant called Lyons. Everything seemed dull and numb and in slow-motion.

Eleven-month-old Courtney was unwrapping the fake gifts under the Christmas tree near our table and we didn't even notice.

Several days later, I'm visiting my sister at her home and preparing for Dad's memorial service when we notice there is a new gift bag sitting on her dining room table. We walk over to it and she lifts it up and shakes it. Hands it to me and I shake it, too.

It is heavy. We both smile. She can't imagine who it came from. Who left this Christmas gift? I'm happy for her as well. We both are giddy with excitement.

Forgetting her husband went to pick up our father's remains in the crematorium, we both reach over to read the gift tag that simply says: Santa Rosa Memorial Park.

"It's Daaad!" we both replied.

The ironic thing was that he really was a gift to us.
I will never forget you Dad. I love and miss you.
See you on the other side.