November 9th, 2007


(no subject)

I dreamed last night that I rescued the Pope from drowning.

He wasn't grateful.

Disgusted, I retired to my apartment and smoked a bowl with one of Gandhi's acolytes. Then his mother called and he had to act sober to talk to her. Apparently enlightenment does not spare one certain indignities.

I woke up to discover that my relentlessly cheerful brain was making up new lyrics to "That's Amore," of which the only one I remember (because I was singing it when I woke up) was "When your heart turns to ice, just like frozen fried rice, that's amoreaaaaaaaaaaaayyy..."

And now, to work! Or at least errands, and then work!


So today I went out to the "Art of the Carolinas" art trade show (which is running all weekend at the North Raleigh Hilton, and you should go if you're local and arty.)

My plan was simple. I would get frames with which to outfit the Bathroom of Monochromatic Lust. They would be on sale, and since I need many frames, this was the most cost-efficient way to do it. I would look neither right nor left, as I do not need more art supplies. I would not browse. I would go and get frames, and then I would leave.

Doubtless when Odysseus left Ithica, he told Penelope that he was just going out for a beer with the guys and he'd be back in time for Telemachus's piano recital.

I walked in, and immediately ran into my old manager from the art store, Tom (of "Zion!" fame) who said "My god! Ursula!? I almost didn't recognize you! You look amazing! Err--will you carry this?" and then of course my convention reflexes took over, and I instinctively grabbed the stack of posterboard he needed grabbed and fell in behind.

"You want a job?" he asked, as I lugged. "Come by the store, we'll take care of you." (I don't know if I want the job or not--I could do two days a week, maybe, but anything else I start to lose money by going to work. Still...)

Well, so much for my plan of not looking anywhere. He had to drop off fliers at all the tables, and thus my fate was sealed. Cheap Golden fluid acrylics! Richeson brushes! Inks! Canvas!

And then I saw it.

A sign with the three most beautiful words in the English language.

No, not "I love you," or "Take me now," or even "The check cleared."

Half-Price Clayboard.

Had Liam Neeson, Alan Rickman, and Vin Diesel all appeared before me at that moment, naked except for strategically placed whipped cream, it is unlikely that I would have noticed.

I fell upon the booth, making a noise that several gentleman of my past acquaintance would recognize, although they generally had to put in some pretty solid work in order to hear it.

They had sizes I'd never SEEN. I gibbered. I grabbed one of the staff and began to point. "That one. And that one. And that one. And--hell, you only live once, that one--"

A woman came up to me, extended her hand, and introduced herself as the founder of the company. I gabbled something about crack dealers and being hooked and thank you so much oh god, the clayboard, the gessoboard, the glory--

"Are you an artist?" she asked. "Do you teach? Do demos? We're looking for someone in the area to demo the clayboard and the gessoboard--we're happy to do trades, or custom sizes for artists--"

I gibbered a bit more, scrawled down my name and website, laughed maniacally, and went off to give Tom his posterboard.

So I got my frames and I got a lot of gessoboard, and I won't even tell you what that did to my credit card, but what the hell. It's a tax write-off anyway. I left the show forty-five minutes later, still feeling a warm glow.

It died somewhat when I discovered just how much a month of Effexor XR costs out of pocket (my insurance company is not gonna cover my meds, the bastards) but was restored when the clerk of my favorite used book store, a charmingly bitter fellow from Queens, waxed enthusiastic over my fuzzy socks. Then I went off to my postal office, and one of the locals there said "Ursula?! I hardly recognized you! You've lost a lot of weight!"

"Forty-five pounds..." I said, pleased.

"It looks great!"

So yes, I hemorrhaged money today, but has been a good day.

(no subject)

It's done.
The Bathroom of Monochromatic Lust is--heh heh--hung.

I am a happy squid.

It contains five frog couples, one pair of dung beetles, one pair of bunnies, and a coupla humans, just so nobody thinks I'm, y'know, weird.

Believe it or not, this is good feng shui. I am deeply skeptical that it'll actually do anything, but that's the "relationship" section of the apartment, according to the compass, and should be hung with images of happy couples, and also I'm supposed to keep the toilet seat down. Which I would have done anyway.

The skeptic in me will allow that some feng shui is based on solid practical psychology--thou shalt not have thy back to the door, lest one grow twitchy and paranoid while working, for example, and thou shalt have wide enough walkways not to knock crap over by accident, and I'll even allow that having the bed wedged into a corner with only one approach is probably less than welcoming for potential visitors to said bed.

However, I do not particularly buy that filling the upper right quadrant (aligned from the front door) with peonies and romantic imagery will have a mystical effect. There are limits. Thus, frog sex and heavily tattooed bald men embracing. That's as close to romantic imagery as I'm getting. (Hey, the tattooed guys are oddly sweet.)

On the other hand, if I now meet a nice man who says "Hey baby...wanna engage in amplexus with me?"* I will have no one to blame but myself.

*...and I would be so impressed that he knew what amplexus was that I would at least let him buy me a drink and plead his case.