Ramona, The Housewife From Hell

Halloween has got to be one of the best days around for a person with an alter ego. So when I went to school today dressed as Ramona, and the junior students asked who I was, I was almost offended. Who is Ramona?! Are you kidding me?! Ramona has been such an integral part of my life for the last fifteen years that it seemed ridiculous to have to explain myself...er...herself. Ok, so I smiled and thought to myself, they're young and it's time they learned about alter egos. I said, "Do you want to hear the story of who Ramona is?" and they listened with looks of confusion and fascination as the woman in front of them, dressed in a purple polyester dress, with a white floral apron, and a feathered hat (with a birdie on top), slowly released what they most likely considered an insane story of a woman that went over the edge. Well, you can't say they didn't have anything to discuss with their family at the dinner table tonight. This is not exactly what I shared with them (because I do want to stay employed as a teacher for a while); I give you the extenda-version....

Ramona is a married, stay-at-home mom with a teenage son. For the longest time, she was extremely proud of her position as a "domestic engineer". Not a curtain was ruffled, not a dust ball could be found, not a crumb could be found on the counter. She had created a utopian kitchen and a fantastically obsessive compulsive domesticated routine. Ramona figured that if she was going to stay at home, she was going to do her job to the best of her abilities. But as is the case with most people when left to their own devices for too long without company (because 9 to 5 is actually a pretty substantial amount of time to be left alone on a daily basis) Ramona became a bit "quirky"...yeah, that's what we'll call it, because this was just the beginning.

She went out and bought herself a pair of silver slippers. You know, the ones with the heel and the fuzzy top that looks like a dead rodent just went through the dryer on a high temperature for 50 minutes? She bought them after her son muttered something under his breath about her being so "bleep"ing anal all the time, just before he slammed his bedroom door in her face. She didn't exactly know what he meant by that, but it didn't sound good and she figured it meant she needed to loosen up a bit. Perhaps her husband would notice her a little more if she wore those silver heels and painted her toe nails a hot, hot red. Who can resist hot red toe nails?

Then she started to fantasize. What if Julio Iglesias came to the house for shake-and-bake pork chops one night? And he sat right beside me and commented on my hot, red toe nails. And my husband became excruciatingly jealous and they arm wrestled right there at the table, pushing the jellied cranberry sauce and green bean casserole to the side? So any time the phone rang, Ramona made sure to answer the phone in less than three rings, because you never know. You just never know who it could be. And people always hang up after three rings. And if Tom Cruise can call people on the Oprah show, then who's to say that Julio wouldn't call Ramona? And these thoughts weren't hurting anyone, until that fateful day when there was a combination of spray starch, silver slippers and a ringing phone.

Have you ever used spray starch before? For those of you that haven't, it's actually an interesting scientific experiment on how to make a skating rink on linoleum or laminate flooring. Just a fine dusting of spray starch is all you need to turn your floor into a potential killer. Ramona was in her kitchen ironing her husband's underwear. They don't call them "tighty whiteys" for nothing....That's when it happened. The phone rang. This is it, she thought. This time it's Julio. Perhaps she was just having a passionate moment, holding that underwear, thinking of Julio, the steamy heat of the iron....it was all too much for Ramona's silver slippers to handle as she tried to run over the spray starched floor. KONK! She's lucky there aren't any scars from the iron hitting her on the side of the head as she went down. She lay on the floor, completely dazed, listening to the phone ring and ring, and ring, unable to move.

Things changed after that day. They were subtle changes that the rest of the family didn't notice for some time but Ramona noticed them within herself. They just started with altered thoughts; what would happen if I washed my feet half way through washing these dishes? Nobody would know. Absolutely nobody would know. I've always wanted to go downtown to that little lounge and sing, "Killing Me Softly" in that karaoke machine. Who gives a shit if I sit down for a couple minutes this afternoon and watch a little bit of wrestling on TV in my underwear? She was at the mercy of her mind, and allowed these new thoughts to consume her. But then her husband noticed that their room smelled funny…different…Ramona had stuffed her pillowcase full of marshmallows. She explained that they helped get rid of her migraines and that she was forever cured by the science of marshmallows. Her son found the red toe nail clippings all epoxied together into an odd, dome like sculpture under the bathroom cupboard. Dust bunnies floated by the dinner table while Ramona served up a mean batch of macaroni and cheese put into fried bologna bowls. Just like Dorothy once said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto!”

And that’s the Ramona that I like. The Ramona that is a bit rebellious to the monotony of domestication. She’ll still do it, but only if she wants to. She knows that there are jobs to do, but she’s going to make them a bit juicier, a bit spicier than they were before. That iron-laden konk to the pumpkin was exactly what Ramona needed to feel free and show a bit more of her true self. Ramona does things her own way.

And so today, Ramona decided to free herself of the stress and worries of life, and chose to dance to a “How to Disco” K-tel record for a half an hour in the art room. Some of the students got up and joined, “weird Ms. Bobinski” for a while before they sat down. Some just sat in their seats in awe, practically dying of embarrassment for me. But Ramona didn’t care. She just wanted to dance for a while before getting back to doing what she has to do.

Gotta love Ramona.

Passionate Path?

The topic of passionate employment has been on my mind for a couple of years now (yes...years). As I quickly zoom my way towards forty, I contemplate whether I am truly following my life's path as a high school Visual Arts teacher. There are so many derogatory comments that go along with being a Visual Arts teacher; something about if you can't make it in the art world, you become a teacher, or something like that. Comments like that make me consider my life path and how I got to be where I am today. If I had really tried to get my Masters degree instead of dragging my heels into the Education Faculty, what would I be doing today? If I had dropped out of the Education Faculty when I wanted to (oh so desperately wanted to....) what would I be doing instead? Would I be waitressing at the Lakeview? Would I be living in Paris and taking sketching classes at the Louvre? Would I be living on the West coast and harassing Nick Bantock on a daily basis? Would I be running my own art shop or studio? Would I be a city girl or a small town girl? Or would I still be exactly where I am today?

This made me reflect on my first job. I was twelve years old, and my best friend Tina and I decided we needed some extra cash. (What the heck we needed money for, God only knows... New jelly shoes? New lipgloss? It wasn't until much later that we had to support our smoking and coffee drinking habit.)
So we started asking all of the businesses around town if they were hiring. We were a team, and as such, we had to work together. This was mandatory. Well, The Red Dog Motel and Restaurant didn't discriminate, and we were both given employment. Our job? Picking garbage in the parking lot for $2.00 a garbage bag and a free meal in the restaurant. (It's pretty hard to pick a full bag of garbage when you're basically picking up cigarette butts, so we would resort to taking garbage from in and around the dumpster out back. Brilliant!) I remember once walking home with $7.00 in my pocket and a hamburger in my belly. I learned a lot from that experience. The first one was that both Tina and I had to grow our hair long, because our boss thought that we were boys, and I think even referred to us as brothers once. Yeesh, talk about a blow to a flat chested, straight hipped Grade 6 girl's ego. But the main lesson I learned was that this job sucked really bad, and I didn't want to spend the rest of my life picking up other people's cigarette butts for a living.

I also had a job at a sporting goods store that consisted of dusting trophies. I don't know why the magical transformation of a dull, fuzzy figurine of a lady in a frozen bowling stance into a gleam of gold didn't whet my willie. But it didn't, so again, I moved on to another job. I remember the boss saying, "That's too bad. I was about to show you how to etch names on plaques for trophies." Whoopie. (As a side note, I think everyone should experience at least one crappy job in their life. I like to say to my students, "Do you want to be the one taking a crap on the toilet, or do you want to be the one cleaning the crap off the toilet?" I know it's a gross analogy, but it hits home. Then I tell them to get to work. It helps to put their education in perspective.)



It wasn't until I started working at a local framing shop in town in my high school years that I really felt that I was working somewhere that interested me. I was being immersed in the visual art of the area, constantly looking at the collection of original Woodland art that was in our small gallery. I remember we had an oversized Norval Morrisseau painting up on the wall for a while and I was in shock that it was painted on meat wrapping paper. It made me realize that art could be created on anything if you need to create. You didn't have to wait for a canvas. If the urge was there, you use what you have, and that's what he had. I learned about how to use a camera every time the boss was out of town by taking photos with the cameras we had in stock. Many photographers came in to the store and talked about their art, their process, and their inspiration. To this day,  I still talk to some of these people about photography. I was forced to listen to CBC radio (which at the time made me secretly curse my boss's name, but am so thankful for now). I learned how to frame art work and became a really good matt cutter, making v-lined matts, keystone corners, triple matts, inlayed matts, the works. I was a matting fanatic and filled the walls of the store with my creations. It was great. I was given carte blanche to frame whatever I wanted. I even made a matt with bevelled edges that looked like the edges of a stamp. It took me all day. But that's the thing....you know you're in your niche, that you've found something that you're passionate about if you're willing to spend all day doing it.

When I went off to university, my boss hooked me up with a framing store in the city. It was a disaster. I went from being a creative framer in my own right to an assembly line worker. I was cleaning sheet after sheet of glass. I would spend six hours straight just cutting foam core. Nobody would talk to me. They didn't listen to CBC radio. The boss's son would sometimes just stand there and stare at me in a really uncomfortable creepy way. They would make me throw the garbage in the dumpster, but they wouldn't put anything in garbage bags so I had to get really close to the dumpster just in ensure that the garbage wouldn't scatter all over the alley. The business next door was a bakery and they used to dump their grease straight into the dumpster, so I always walked back in to the framing shop coated in old bakery grease. I remember the boss telling me that they were going to "put me on the floor" and have me start selling framing to customers, but I didn't "dress appropriately" to be up front. I had resorted to wearing my shabbiest clothes to work because they were all coated in oil by the time I went home. I quit that job and moved on.

Then I started waitressing in the summers instead of going back to the framing shop. The pay was much better and I was able to pay my tuition on tip money alone! I did that for four summers and loved it. I thoroughly enjoyed the social aspects of it. I loved having to be on my toes, thinking about six things at once. Waitressing is an amazingly choreographed dance. I smirk at city waitresses that are alloted 4 or 5 tables for their shift. They have no idea. Some times I was the only waitress on the coffee shop side of the restaurant and another waitress worked the dining room side, and it would be FULL of demanding tourists wondering if we used "American style cheese" and what the hell did you put gravy on my french fries for? And we weren't just taking orders and serving meals. We also cleaned the tables, set the tables, moved the dishes to the kitchen, ran the till...the whole nine yards. I learned about tolerance and stamina as a waitress.

But nothing prepared me for my job as a teacher; convincing students of the importance of the Visual Arts, convincing other teachers of the importance of the Visual Arts, trying to persuade students to come to school, trying to get students to stop swearing like banshees, dealing with tumultuous emotions, calling parents that don't really care to be called, marking for hours and hours and hours, perpetual meetings, assessment coming out of the ying yang, stacks of papers that don't really fit into any labelled file folder. WHY AM I DOING THIS AGAIN?

It comes down to this. When you push all of that crap to the side, what you're left with is people that are given a different perspective that they perhaps may not have thought of before. I revel in hearing statements like, "I can't believe I just created that! I didn't think I could do it." I really cherish seeing a student drag their friends in to the art room to show off what they created. And on top of it, they take the time to tell their friends how they the created their art. And I love the conversations that I get to have with students about art, and music and creation. Teenagers are much more knowledgeable then we sometimes give them credit for, and I am inspired on a daily basis by my students. (I think the trick is to listen to them instead of telling them what they should be saying and/or thinking all the time. Then they start to tell you what they are truly about.)

And with my job, I am still given opportunity and freedom to be my own artist and be involved with art in the community. I get harassed on a regular basis for getting "summer's off". MUST BE NICE, is one of the comments I hear on a regular basis, but I know a lot of people that get 10 weeks off on holidays per year. My holidays just happen to be condensed into one well needed long duration of time. After 10 months of teaching teenagers, you don't start gaining your sanity back until about three weeks into your holiday time.

But am I passionate about being a teacher? That's a question I still mull over. I think I'm finding balance as I get older and perhaps a bit wiser? Hmmmmm. I am learning that being a teacher is my job, not my life, yet, I am fortunate to be teaching a subject that I am truly passionate about. There is a good mixture of give and take where I am able to share my artistic experiences with my students and also learn from their perspective of the artistic world. I am thankful for a lot of them, for sure. One of my favourite experiences as a teacher was when I had students create musical instruments out of found objects. One student, Adam, created a stand up bass out of a wash tub and painted folk fest pictures around the base of it, (including a painting of my son as a baby at one of many festivals). Adam had a spare during my prep time, and used to do extra work on his art in the art department during that time. One day I was listening to Norah Jones and marking, and Adam just decided to play his washtub base to the tempo of her music. He's a phenomenal musician and I just felt completely lucky to have that opportunity unfold in front of me. It was a perfect balance between being an artist, being a teacher, and being appreciative of what a student has to offer me.

It feels good to not wake up in the morning groaning, wishing that I didn't have to leave my bed. I'm glad that after 12 years, my job is not that much of a cumbersome chore. Kudos to the person that is willing to dust trophies because there is something else in that job that they find fulfilling. Kudos to the person that can enthusiastically pick up cigarette butts without feeling resentment or animosity. That's what it's about....following that passion in whatever form it may be. Ask yourself whether you've found that balance, and if you haven't, maybe it's time to weigh your options and start looking for your passionate path.

Rhonda Bobinski's Visual Arts Page on Facebook

Unintended Purposes

Last night Alexander and I had a conversation that focused on the concept of objects not being used for their intended purpose. This is a somewhat normal behavior in our home, considering that I have used suitcases as canvases, like to paint with coffee, and clean my teeth with steak knives. I don't eat steak so I might as well use them for something, I figure.

But the conversation actually started as I reflected on my experiences as a child, and told Alexander about my first school detention. I was in Grade 2 and Miss Lindell gave me a detention for talking too much during class time (*sigh*...the story of my life....). My detention consisted of sitting at my desk with my head resting in my folded arms, face down. I don't know why we always had to do this in school, but I remember having to have my face close to the surface of the desk throughout my school years on quite a regular basis. The aroma of eraser shavings and glue still lingers in my olfactory memory bank. So there I was, head down, pouting, when a cleaning lady came in to start cleaning the surface of the desks. I sat at a desk with three other students, in a cluster of two on two desks, symmetrically facing each other. A kid named David sat right across from me, and boy, would I love to say his whole name right now, because it always sounds more venomous and distinct and laden with disgust when you say a person's complete name. (Such as, "Ooooh. That Rhonda Bobinski is a nasty little vermin!" Doesn't that sound so much more venomous and distinct and disgust laden?) Well, David was a pretty gross kid by my standards, and the cleaning lady's following actions solidified that thought. It is a moment in time that I will never forget. She pulled out a window ice scraper from her apron, and commenced to scraping the dried snot that had glazed the surface of David's desk. One shocked, agape eye creeped over the edge of my frozen arms in horror. Am I truly seeing what I think I'm seeing!? Flakes of snot lightly, oh so gingerly speckled my arms. I still shudder when I think about it, and get a rancid taste in the back of my throat.

Yet, in retrospect, the use of a window ice scraping tool to take the snot off of David's desk is actually ingenious. Brilliant. Definitely not what it was intended for, but did a phenomenal job in dealing with something that was of similar consistency to a thin sheet of slippery ice. Kudos to that cleaning lady.

That's what made Alexander and I think about other objects that aren't used for their intended purposes. We really reflected on the quick and efficient beauty of using a sock as a mop. You just can't go wrong using a sock as a mop. And as an inventor, Alexander is constantly coming up with new and mind boggling ways to use a dishsoap container, barbecue skewers and a roll of duct tape. I even painted the quote, "To invent, you need a good imagination and a pile of junk" (Thomas Edison) on the wall of his studio. The kid gets it...objects can definitely be used for other purposes beyond their intended purposes. He knows how to think outside of the box, and that may help him to get out of many a tricky situation somewhere down the line. And if not, at least he'll be a phenomenal recycler (or a hoarder, but I'm working on that with him.)

So the day that we decided to use Mentos and diet cola for purposes beyond their intention, things went a bit askew. Alexander was quite satisfied for a long time just making little vinegar and baking soda bombs....small little "pops" that made us giddy and the dog run away in sheer dread. But then one of my friends (we'll call him "Frank" for the sake of saving his identity) suggested that we try a different container; a film canister works well. You just have to wrap the baking soda in paper towel and then put it in the film canister with a bit of vinegar, close the lid and it will pop right off. So then our yard was filled with soggy, powdery paper towel blobs. Oh, and Alexander decided to try this experiment out at his buddy's house too, so their yard was also filled with soggy blobs. Then this concept started escalading, and Alexander wanted to try the diet coke and Mentos trick. It looked intriguing, I'll admit. We checked out some of the extreme measures that were taken with these rockets on good ol' youtube, and I definitely got the rocket fever. I announced a rocket launching at Laverty Park, and even invited "Frank" to take part on the action. We bought 5 two litre containers of diet cola and 5 packages of Mentos. We were ready for some action.

In theory, you are supposed to drop the Mentos, still wrapped in the aluminum foil, but not the paper, in the two litre bottle, quickly put on the lid, let the pressure build, release a bit of the pressure, then slam the container against a hard surface and watch it rocket hundreds of meters into the air. But I was unsuccessful. I guess I wasn't strong enough, because the bottle just kind of spiraled off the surface and quickly fizzled into nothing spectacular at all. This is where young, strapping "Frank" would be handy because he could use his strength to really smash that bottle against the surface.

Who knew that the rocket would not reach its potential destination as it was rudely interrupted by the presence of Frank's crotch? Who but his dear friends and their children and some passer-by spectators would witness a massive cola explosion on Frank's pants?  I guess Mentos are just meant to be mints and diet cola is meant to just be a crappy excuse for thirst satisfaction. On a plus side, my friend's heroic actions have saved my son from going down the seedy, dangerous road of becoming a mad, bomb creator. Alexander became painfully aware of the consequences of a botched science experiment and has not mentioned rocket launching since. Thank you, "Frank", for being such a great sport.

And you know, there are shows made on television that focus solely on the idea of objects being used for unintended purposes. Ever hear of "America's Funniest Home Videos"? Supposedly they are in their 20th season of taking advantage of peoples' ludicrous uses of objects. I don't think pogo sticks were meant to be used for getting a cat off of a roof and I don't think trampolines are meant to be coated in butter. And I don't think that Frank intended on smashing two litres of a ricocheted soda bottle at full throttle towards his jewels, but we got it on video anyway.

Mentos and Diet Cola Youtube Inspiration

Happy Facebook Bubble World

I just finished watching two hours of TV. That would make it precisely two hours and twenty minutes that I have watched television in the last month, and every time I do, I remember why. Since I flipped the switch to "power on" I have been bombarded with suicide, alcoholism, physical violence, sodomy, cults, nightmares, mass murder, throat slicing, the disposal of young bodies....I have been given horrific visual information that my mind is supposed to absorb, filter and dispose. Wash, rinse, and start again tomorrow. I don't think so.

I'll whole heartedly admit that I'm hyper-sensitive to what is shown on television. I can't even watch CBC's The National without having a panic attack in the middle of the night and having to do a crossword puzzle or brush my dog before I can get back to sleep. I should teach my dog how to play Scrabble. Or maybe I can teach her to roll the dice for me and we can play a biased game of Yahtzee at 3am. You're probably sitting there thinking, holy crap, Rhonda...take a Valium and deal with reality already. We all need to know what's going on in the world. We all need to be realistic about what is occurring in our lives on a daily basis. And I agree, we do, to a degree. But I really, really didn't need to know that a psychotic man went on a killing rampage and raped and slaughtered his own family members. That information truly doesn't help me to become an informed citizen. It's not enlightening.

I have had several friends comment on the television I own. I have a Baycrest television, which was a brand that the Hudson's Bay Company used to sell. It has "The Bay" logo on it which I've always thought was a super cool design. I have tried to Google an image of my Baycrest beast to show you what one looks like, but they're so obsure and obsolete that I can't find one. It still has tubes in it, and whenever a night scene is shown, my television screen goes completely black. When Alexander plays Wii Ski he can't put it on the night setting because then he perpetually smashes in to snow drifts and ends up going down icy caverns on his Wii Ski ass. The dusty VCR that sits on top of it has not had a VCR tape in it for years, but it houses all of the cords and plugs that regularly would go into a modern television. I hope that VCR never caffs because then I'm up shit creek without a Wii paddle. (As a side story, we watched a bit of a children's movie at my sister's house last week and I asked if it was a different version to Kung Fu Panda because I didn't recognize some of the scenes. Then I stopped myself and thought, Oh. The movie's the same. It's the tv.The difference is that I can actually see it. haha)

But the point is that I don't want to get a new television for two reasons. The first one is that my sister gave me that television when I started university. It was on its way to a garage sale, but "it just needed a new tube" as my dad put it, and lo and behold it was an awesome set. And the remote? Wow, it's hardcore retro and really, I could probably sell this television on eBay or to a set design company that focuses on the early 80's for a lot of money. (You might also want to check out my blog about objects of desire, and you may start to see a pattern forming...) But the main reason that I haven't broken down and spent the big bucks is because I don't want to watch the shit that oozes out of that darkened, shadowy, orange-faced screen. It's poisonous, and if I make the choice to turn on that television, it's like having a loaded gun pointed right at my brain, because in a split second I can be blasted with an atrocious image that will forever scar my mind; imprinted in the grey matter that is just supposed to suck it up and move on. Channel surfing is Russian roulette, especially if my child is with me. It was 8pm when I watched that horrific show (thankfully alone). It was a 20/20 documentary. My son could have very easily been beside me watching it. 8pm is not late for a nine year old boy. That would not be good, even if I had just been cruising by....

So, instead I live in a more controlled happy Facebook bubble world, where I learn everything that I need to know through the links, blogs, postings, and groups that others choose to share with me. But the difference is that I make the choices as to whether I want to accept their generousity or not. To date, I have not randomly come across a gruesome visual that has traumatized me or my son on Facebook or the other links that I have chosen to add to my favourites. Instead, my son and I laugh at the flatulence of Powdered Toast Man, and type "dogs that drag their butts" in the youtube search engine. I download CBC's DNTO podcasts and listen to them on weekends, and scan CBC online to see how much of an asshole our politicians were today. I also get to talk to many friends regularly, and keep up with positive things that are occurring in their lives on a daily basis. We talk about music, and art, and our children. I once commented that sometimes it feels like I'm back in high school, sitting at the cafeteria table chatting with all of my friends before period 3. So, I chose to keep my brain as worry free as possible in this helter skelter chaotic world, because you know, I don't think my dog is going to be too impressed with me if I keep on demanding games of Yahtzee at 3am.

And by the way, my computer monitor and speaker system is pretty pimpin'.

CBC Radio's Definitely Not the Opera link

My big meanie of a sister

My sister filed an official complaint a couple of days ago, in regards to my blogging ways. She said that I make her sound like a "big meanie", like she's "the bad one". I sat in stunned silence for a minute and then lightly chuckled, hoping that the moment would vanish and we could just pretend that wasn’t just said. La-la-la…I can’t hear you….

Because in all reality, (from my perspective), as a child growing up, my sister WAS a big meanie. She is my older sister, and as such, it is part of her JOB to be that way, isn’t it? You ask any younger sibling what their relationship was like with their older sibling and you’ll get at least one horror story. I have had friends locked in closets, attacked with pressurized whipped cream when they’ve innocently walked into their kitchen, given noogies until they’ve given up their allowance, connived into doing extra chores under threat of telling the parents of something or another that they may or may not have done. We have all survived those moments of torment. Sure, we can forgive, but….

Ok, so let’s put it into perspective so that there is a bit of understanding here. My sister had almost four years to herself before I came along. That’s four long years of good ol’ one-on-one with mom and dad. Then all of a sudden, this helpless, immobile, drooling, poop machine comes along and the older sibling has to get diapers, and grab the bottle and stop making so much noise. I think it might be handy if mothers and fathers from now on, as soon as the second child is born, say to the older sibling, “You’re right. This new baby is a complete pain in the ass and you are stuck dealing with the consequences of our night of reckless fornicating.” That way, if that is said, then there might not be as much animosity towards the fresh little gas-making monster. There might not be this innate desire and yearning to get revenge and spend the rest of their lives making the younger sibling’s existence feel like it was all just a big, big mistake. Uh, can I get a return ticket back into my mother’s uterus please? I’ll come back out when the chances of having to drink toilet water are next to nil. Thanks.

But I think in my case, it was a bit more than that. I have thought long and hard about big events that have happened in my life, and for every single one of them, my sister was there, right beside me whether she wanted to be or not. Before I was attacked by that big Irish wolf hound, it was my sister that was holding my hand, encouraging me to not be afraid while we walked towards the bus stop. When we were chased by a bear, I was with my sister. (She still teases me to this day about saying, “Wait for meeeeeee!”). When I cut my heel off of my foot in a bike spoke, I was with Teresa. It was Teresa that taught me how to ride the big purple Harley bike. Teresa was with when we came face to face with a wolf. We were walking back from Brownies. Teresa stood up for me when Baba wanted me to eat my oatmeal (…it was yucky, homemade by Baba-oatmeal, not the good stuff full of sugar and raisins and cinnamon. She probably put cod liver oil in it for crying out loud.) But Teresa told Baba that I was allergic to oatmeal and kinda smiled a bit while she said it. When our babysitter went AWOL, Teresa grabbed me and locked us both in the bathroom until our parents came home. We both ran around the yard together, talking to cows and horses, trying to figure out what the heck was wrong with us when an auntie “accidentally” gave us “chocolate milk” (AKA Kahlua and milk). Wow! We had our first drunken experience together! Where ever Teresa went, whatever she was doing, I was with her. I was ALWAYS WITH HER.

So, I have to give her a break. This poor girl didn’t have a lot of opportunities to have an identity of her own after I came along.

And I certainly wasn’t innocent either. I annoyed the shit out of her. I ate her lip gloss. Let me tell you, there is a huge difference between the taste and smell of Avon strawberry bubblegum lip gloss. I killed her tadpoles, days before they turned into frogs. I thought they would like to smell nice, so I put Avon’s “Sweet Honesty” perfume in their water. With another batch or tadpoles, I wanted to see what they would look like swimming on cement. Fortunately, those ones made it back in to the bucket unscathed. I would borrow things and not put them back in exactly the right spot. How was I to know she was OCD about the order of her clothing in her closet? I scratched her 45 records. I bent the pages of her Archie comic books. I ate the last something or another because I wasn’t capable of reading her mind and knowing that she was going to have that as a snack before bed that night. I copied her all the time. Everything she did, I did. If she wore stripes, I wore stripes. If she permed her hair, I permed my hair. (Oh man, did I ever perm my hair.)

For the most part, I look back on our times together under the same roof and I laugh. I remember when Teresa braided my whole head of hair into small thin braids and then we waited until the next day to take them out and I had the best Rasta hair any little Bob Marley wannabe could ask for. There was the time we spent the day sweeping off a frozen pond so that we could go skating in the middle of the woods in the evening. There was the time the motor on the boat kicked out on my parents and they had to paddle all the way back to the camp sight, and Teresa and I kept them entertained with our amazing ability to create entertaining songs instantaneously, and sing them really, really loud. Can you believe that we made a song up where the only words are “Oooon-ya”? I can still sing it to this day. Along with the “Where’s my elastic?” song and “Wanna buy some girl guide cookies” song. We used to sit up in the livingroom until all hours of the night tape recording ourselves. We’d make up goofy interview scenarios, or completely annihilate soap operas and other shows that were on the air in the 80’s. I still have those tapes somewhere. And we danced, and danced, and danced to the records my dad used to buy and I would watch Teresa’s long brown hair sway to Donna Summers or Anita Ward and wish I was her. I adored her. I idolized her. I wanted to be just like her. Isn’t that what younger siblings do?

And look at us now. We certainly have our differences of opinions, and definitely live different lifestyles. And even though we grew up in the same home, we have a different outlook on those events. No amount of persuasion or discussion is going to change the fact that Teresa had no choice but to torment me, and I had no choice but to take it. We’re sisters and that’s what sisters do, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I love you, Teresa.
Psst. Hey Teres, remember this one?
“HEY, EVERYBODY! IT’S THE SOUPY-ROCK SHOW!” hahahaha

Consciously Connecting the Dots

We are all given big messages in our life, but they're usually sent to us indirectly, sometimes quietly, in the small things such as the words of a song, a conversation over coffee, a random action or reaction, statements "twitted" on Facebook..... Small actions all accumulate into a bigger message, but only if you listen to those signs and start to play connect-the-dots with those suspended thoughts. The sum of those moments of time become bigger than the whole; gestalt equals epiphanies. I payed attention to the dots and connected them this weekend and realize that I am trying desperately hard to protect my son from this cruel world in a strange and creative and hopefully beneficial way.

I get jabbed a lot, most of the time in good fun, for my "eccentricities". I admit it. My behavior and actions may be considered bizarre and even disgusting to some. I'm a garbage collector and have been seen actually jumping up and down with like minded friends when a big truck load of stuff gets dropped off while we're scavenging. Sometimes my son and I come home literally reeking like bear shit and old garbage.  I'm a recycler and seem to perpetually have plastic baggies drying somewhere in my house (Why don't I see that at other peoples' houses?) and my son gets in to trouble at least once a year for bringing his food to school in glass containers. I'm a composter and like to keep a big container of worms in my basement munching away on my orange rinds and onion skins. I'm a biker and that in itself seems to be a novel thing in Red Lake (refer to my blog called "Incriminating Headphones" written in September). To me, these behaviours don't seem that strange but to others it seems to warrant pokes.

My friend's husband was scoffing at me the other day, basically saying that I'm a hypocrite, touting recycling and hug-a-tree and all of that save-the-earth stuff when I have two vehicles parked in my driveway. True. I do have two vehicles in my driveway. I also have a home that uses oil heating. I also have a lawn mower emits intoxicating amounts of pollution into the air. I am certainly not perfect nor have I claimed to be. The important part is being conscious of that, and using that awareness to make choices in other parts of my life so that there is some balance and a bit less excess. And it's really easy to point fingers at other people before a finger gets pointed back at you. It gives you that much more time to not think about your actions, or connect those dots.

The final picture came together when I was at the dump two weekends ago with my son and a friend, and we came across two garbage bags full of "gooooood stuff"....unbelieveable what was actually in those bags: a brand new woolen scarf that still had the plastic tag on it, children's stickers, alphabet beads, boy's pants in mint condition, boys shoes that look like they hadn't even been worn, children's books, a toy that was still in the package (which my son has had a great time playing with) stuffies (that Sandy now carries around in the yard with her). Every item in those bags could have been taken to our local second hand store, Junk n' Java, where they could have been re-sold. Or, the clothing and books could have been taken to the shelter, for others to use. Or, as my friend suggested, the warm clothes could have been taken to the school, so that if a child comes to school with inappropriate clothes on, they at least have something warm to go home in. Or the person that threw all of those perfectly good items away could have at least listed the items on "freecycle" on the internet or "buy and sell" on Facebook. There are so many alternatives to throwing stuff away, if you are a conscious person.

I have really benefitted from people's unconsciousness over the years. I have a violin that is still in it's case. It's fixable, and way cheaper than buying a new one. I have a good dolly for moving heavy things around my yard. I have a bench on my deck that just needed to be painted and given a cushion. I sleep on it all the time in the summer and almost had to arm wrestle another lady for it (at the dump). I have an old fashioned wooden school desk that has an ink well holder. It's an antique and Alexander loves to do art work there. I was able to clean up a dresser and give it to a friend as a gift. She loved it. I have a steamer trunk. I have copious amounts of funky garden ornaments. I have frames that were in their original packaging. I have books coming out of the ying yang. A teacher threw away really funky posters that look like they were made in the 50's. Alexander has a great one hanging up in his room that amplifies the activity on the streets of New York on a hot summer day. Right in front of that poster is a big metal shelf from the dump that we painted lime green. It holds Alexander's library of books. I have an old retro Eaton's bicycle strapped to my deck like a gem. I collected a whole bag of nails last week that are going to be put to use when I put my siding on my shed. My friend found a whole set of golf clubs once, in their original bag...perfectly good. I know somebody that built a whole shed at his cabin out of scrap wood from the dump. I have a neat old fashioned medicine cabinet from the dump. Such incredible finds....

And because of these finds, I have been able to apply my money in other areas. It has allowed me to travel and see the world, enjoy festivals, and build a house of my own. The stuff that gets thrown away literally becomes money in my pocket. Once I found $50 at the dump. People have also thrown away gift cards that are still good. And I used scrap wood from the dump (along with left overs from my house building) to build a fort for my son. And the whole outside of the fort is covered in old road signs that, yes, you got it, I got at the dump! (The inside of the fort is furnished with furniture from the dump, and wallpapered with milk cartons for insulation.)

So I guess I don't mind being jabbed, and poked and called a hypocrite. I don't really care because I'm not doing this for myself. I have figured out that really, I'm doing this for my baby boy, because I want him to not have to worry about crap like melting iceburgs, and all of the snow being gone from Mount Kilimanjaro, and smog index warnings. I want him to go outside and take in deep, fresh breaths of air and feel lucky to live in such a beautiful country. And then we can get on with our day and go have some fun scavenging at the dump. But you know, I am actually looking forward to the day when I go to the dump and don't find any good stuff at all. That will be a good day.

****
In good consciousness, here are some links:
Red Lake Buy and Sell group on Facebook
"Awesome Dump Finds" group on Facebook
Red Lake's Freecycle Group

Objects of Desire

Today in the staff room a bunch of us ladies were sitting around the table having a good chat about everything under the sun, when one woman began talking about pop, of all things (Hey, it was Friday and we were all fried out from having our teacher hat on all week....). Then we all started giving our point of view about pop from our dislikes, to the amount of sugar in one can, and so forth. Then one woman said, "Except for cream soda...I love cream soda," and suddenly I was not in the staff room anymore, but instantaneously transported back in time.

Here I am with the thought of cream soda in my mind and I am a nine year old girl, barfing cream soda all over the back alleys of Winnipeg outside of an upholstery shop while my sister screams, "STOP WALKING WHILE YOUR PUKING!" as I ping ponged from garbage can to garbage can, spreading my wealth. I was a perpetual embarrassment to my older sister. But why on earth did I end up in such a predicament in the first place, you wonder? (Well, just pretend that you are in a state of wonderment, if you're not. Humour me...)

Let me explain. The whole family had travelled down to Winnipeg to get our couch re-upholstered. It had lived past its days as a turquoise flower-impressioned sofa beast and was being updated to the 80's with something that didn't necessarily scream at you, "I AM A COUCH!" every time you walked into the livingroom. (Personally, I miss that coloured couch and almost started crying last year when I found a purse made out of almost the exact same coloured and printed material.) It was summer time when we were on this trip, and it was hot, hot, hot. And we were in a small, non-air conditioned upholstery shop; probably one of the most boring places in the world for a nine year old to be. My dad made a suggestion that we go and get some drinks at the 7/11, so I jumped at the opportunity to get the hell outta there and help him carry drinks back. For a small town girl from Ignace, going to a 7/11 was a really big deal. We just didn't have convenience stores like this where I came from. I wasn't used to variety. In small towns, your choices are made for you, and that's what they consider "convenient". So there it was...the big pop dispensing machine with a variety of cups sitting on top of it; small, medium, large and what's this?!?! A Big Gulp? I had never seen anything so massive in my life! I had never seen something so amazing in my life! A waxed cardboard cup that was so gargantuan in size that it couldn't possibly be used for human consumption. Now, this is where the freaky little arty kid that I was comes in, because I wasn't thinking in my mind, "I'm thirsty, and that will satisfy my thirst", or "I love cream soda so that will satiate my craving for cream soda". No, I was thinking, "That cup is perfect for holding my paint brushes!" I'm not kidding. That is exactly what I was thinking. So it was a double whammy of goodness when I filled it up with delicious cream soda. Talk about your two for one deal when you're a nine year old small town girl!

No, I did not drink the pop slowly. No, I did not consider that it was two quarts of red sugar. No, I did not consider that it was hot outside and that I was most likely dehydrated. No, I did not consider that my boredom would lead to quick consumption of the whole Big Gulp in record time. I didn't consider any of that until it was too late. My sister should have warned me since she seemed quite aware of what the results were going to be. I can still hear her voice saying, "I knew you were going to puke! I knew you were drinking it too fast!" And I can still remember promising myself that I would never, ever touch a cream soda pop ever again in my entire life.

That whole story was ejected from my cluttered brain in that quick instant in the staff room. Object association is a phenomenal thing. That Big Gulp cup is more than a Big Gulp cup. It is a symbol of a tenacious little girl who had a big idea and the determination to follow through, even if it made her puke.

It's amazing how an inanimate object, with no thoughts of its own, can have such substantial impact on a person's life. There are even television shows to prove it, from "Clean Sweep" to "Hoarders". People get so dangerously connected to objects because of the memories connected to them that sometimes they have difficulty letting those things go. I have often wondered why the councillors and therapists involved in these shows don't suggest that these people take photographs of what it is they're having difficulty throwing away, so that they still have the object, per se, but it's a bit more containable (in an album or scrapbook or computer file). It just seems so simple to me, but perhaps it's the tactile quality of the object as well? I am not sure. But it would just seem like such a burden to have to have yourself surrounded by objects in order to have reflective moments with good memories. I was lucky to have that experience just through conversation, I guess.

But just in case you're curious, I still have that cup, and it definitely has paint brushes in it.

Enamored Polygamist

I just learned a wonderfully curio-laden word today: polyandry. Polyandry in layman's terms is when a woman has more than one husband. There is certainly something to be said about polygamy.....

Ok, I'll say it.

I think I could warm up to the idea of being a polyandrist (if that's how you say it/spell it?). What a wonderful existence we could have if we did not have to make one choice and supposedly live with that choice for the rest of our lives, (are we loons?) day in and day out, day in and day out, same person, same habits, same...well, you get what I mean. Being a polyandrist would tap in to my ADHRD (otherwise known as Attention Deficit Hyperactive Relationship Disorder). I guess if you're a creature of habit you should probably stop reading this blog right now and wait for me to write about tofu or something. Oh yeah, I already wrote that one....

So, this is why I think polyandry is for me.... (doesn't that sound like a wonderful jingle?) First of all, let's consider the different types of men that may or may not have come into my life at some point. In other words, let's consider the stereotypes of men, if you will. (You could imagine the angry emails that would be sent if the shoe was on the other foot and I was a man writing about stereotypical women. I KNOW that I am being a shithead so you don't have to call me on it. Let me have my day of fun before I have to go back to being politically correct.) So, there's a) the tough, manly bush guy that can cut trees down with his teeth. He's definitely worth having around, especially if a saw isn't handy. Then there's b) the active guy who likes to exercise just because it's "what he does". He's simply eye candy and fabulous to look at. He's the one that makes you say stupid words like "Guhhhh...." and walk in to posts and trees. Then there is c) the artistic one, that wants to paint your portrait, late at night by candlelight and cries with you when watching The Bicycle Thief together. Then there's d) the home keeper that puts on a crockpot of stew and has the laundry folded AND put away when you get home from a long day of work. (Yeah, supposedly he exists somewhere.) Then there's e) the guy that doesn't have any of the laundry done but he's naked under the pile of laundry that is piled up on the bed, and he's been waiting for you to get home. Yahoo! There's f) the guy that doesn't care if you go out with your girlfriends and get wasted at the bar, so long as you know where home is at the end of the night. You're not exactly sure why you're with this guy, but he's nice to you. There's g) the smart guy, h) the techie, i) the musician, j) the nomad that keeps on coming back to you, k) the guy that likes to go shopping....there's a whole alphabet of selection. The choices...the possibilities....

And I know that some of you are sitting at home right now reading this and saying, "Oh, I'm sooo lucky! My man is ALL of those things." To that I say, sure, you keep telling yourself that, Sister. And then I'll ask for a swab of the lining of his cheek so that we can clone him because he truly is a supernatural being. To this you're probably saying, "Yes! He really is!"  And some of you are probably saying, "Well, you can't have it all, Rhonda. You have to take the good with the bad" to which I say, been there, done that. Now I'm ready to just take the good from a plethora of many. Is that so wrong?

Think about it, when you want your plumbing fixed (please don't add any Freudian connotations to that one, I'm seriously just talking about plumbing), you really don't want to be with an arty guy. I could see myself yelling, "Stop waxing poetic and just fix the damn leak! I don't care that the flowing water reminds you of a dismal day you once experienced when aimlessly roaming the streets of London in a fog after being dumped." And you don't want the healthy, active guy around when you feel like sitting in front of your tv naked with a honkin' sized bag of dill pickled chips and a vat o' dip. And wouldn't you start questioning a guy that ALWAYS is willing to go shopping for a new pair of shoes? Are you willing to put up with the super sexy guy if you've seen his tossed underwear stuck to his bedpost for over a week and perpetually refers to you as his "sweet piece of ass". (He may have genuinely, honestly forgotten your name.)

If you go back and reflect on past relationships, I'm sure that each and every one of you can say, "You know, he was a really great guy, BUT...." There's always a "but" in that sentence that gets in the way. Too bad we couldn't just take all of the "great guy" stuff and package it together into one superhuman robo-man. What's going on with natural selection anyway?

*Sigh* Ok, I know that men are not dispensable, and don't come in a vending machine, and don't come with a manual on how to satisfy my every whimsical need. I know that. I know that men, with all of their quirks and wonky traits are just who they are, and deserved to not be judged, and bashed and labelled and compartmentalized. I know that very well and I love them for that. I truly do. So it will be so very nice when that day arrives where that thought is completely reciprocated....that women are also not being judged, and bashed and labelled and compartmentalized. (Try walking in the Red Light District in Amsterdam in the morning and you'll get a really fresh, blatant idea of what it's like to be a labelled, compartmentalized woman.) It is only then, when that reciprocated understanding is there, that balance will truly be found in this world. Then I won't have to continue to be a facetious schmuck using the message of polygamy to get a point across about acceptance.

Toe Thumbs Unite!

I grew up sort of feeling like an outcast; not because I had a huge gap between my front teeth (I could whistle with my mouth closed), and not because I was the weird little arty kid that took three hours to get home on rainy days (because I had the gargantuan chore of saving every earthworm that was going to meet its fate on the road after the storm passed). I was born with what is called "toe thumbs" and every time someone noticed my toes, er, I mean thumbs, they would make a really, really, really big fuss about it. And it is/was usually a statement like, "Oh my God! Look at your thumbs! They're soooo weird! They look like toes! Have they always been like that?"  (No, one night I took a magic pill that I found under a spotted mushroom and when I woke, not only did I discover that I could yodel in German, but I also aquired toes for thumbs.)You could imagine the humiliation and embarrassment when it would draw the attention of passer byers who needed to see this anomoly.  I actually got to a point where I had forgotten what my thumbs looked like because I kept them neatly tucked in my hands, hiding behind my folded fingers. I think now a days, therapists call this "disassociation". Whatever. It was a shameful waste of energy. If only I had known that I would grow to be absolutely proud of my "toe thumbs" and will show them off to anyone willing to take the risk and look. Go ahead and have a whole hearted look.

To add fuel to the fire, I also was a thumb sucker when I was a child, and am adament that it is a genetic trait that runs on my father's side of the family. When my son was 5 months old, he decided to not only wean himself from breast feeding, but become a thumb sucker on the same day. Oh yeah, and he also got a bunch of new teeth that day, and all of this occurred while on a short holiday in Winnipeg in a hotel. Nice. There we were with a screaming baby with raw gums, and a mother with engorged, time-bomb breasts in a hotel room. In retrospect, I feel really bad for whoever was in the next room. (In retrospect, I feel bad for whoever was in the same room with my son and I.) When I got home from that trip I went to visit my parents and asked which of them sucked their thumb when they were a baby and my father sheepishly admitted to the habit as a boy. I knew it. Thumb sucking genetics. So, my son sucked his thumb for years, and I let him. I knew how comforting it was, but I didn't want him to be one of those kids that sucks his thumb in school. I never did. I was a closet thumb sucker but I wasn't sure whether Alexander would be able to handle that. So I pulled out the big guns, that being my toe thumbs. I told Alexander that my thumbs didn't always look the way they do; that they actually got smaller and smaller from years of thumb sucking. It worked. He stopped; cold turkey.

Fortunately, Alexander forgot about that fable because I had another one that I had told him, and this one has seemed to stick. Or at least I'm still sticking to the belief that Alexander still believes this to be the truth....perhaps he's humouring me. I told Alexander that I was born without thumbs at all, that I just had four fingers on each hand. I said that in the same hospital where I was born, someone else was born with an extra set of "big toes" on their feet, resulting in that child having12 digits. It was easy math for the doctors, who immediately gave me the extra toes on my thumbs and all families were satisfied. He really takes a good long hard look at my thumbs sometimes. I think he's checking for scars from stitching.....

So, I have grown to love my stubby little toe thumbs. And interestingly enough, one of my dearest friends, who is also an artist, has the exact same thumbs as me. And when I was in the Fine Arts Faculty in university, I saw many, many toe thumbs. Perhaps having toe thumbs is an art thing. I jokingly say that ballet dancers have ugly feet and artists have ugly hands, but maybe there's a bit of truth to that. I wonder what da Vinci's thumbs looked like, or van Gogh's, or Heironymous Bosch's! I bet you any money Heironymous Bosch had toe thumbs!  I'll never know, but I know that my toe thumbs are here to stay, so I might as well love 'em 'cause they're all I've got.

And if you want to stop me on the street to see my thumbs, I don't mind, but be prepared, because I might ask to see one of your body parts.

Hallucinogenic Artistry

I'm at home today with the flu, and in between bouts of sweating, and narcoleptic naps, I'm actually feeling extremely creative. What's up with that? I wish I had a bit more of a scientific/biological understanding of the brain, because I wonder if something happens to the mind when one is ill that can be found in the same section of the brain that is connected to creativity. It's an interesting theory if you think about it a bit and think about the stereotype that is connected to being an artist....that "crazy" stereotype of being a bit off kilter, a bit on the coo-coo, loopy, wacko, mentally ill side if you are an artist.  I can't help but thing of van Gogh (yet again) who brandished a razor at his buddy Gauguin, then turned around, went home and choppy-choppied his own ear LOBE (not his whole ear, as is the popular belief), wrapped it up, gave it to a prostitute, bled a bit and painted portraits of himself with a bandaged ear. His altered state induced a creative purge. (Please note that I do not endorse ear chopping to stimulate artistic endeavors in any way.)

I remember once in university I was brutally sick with some kind of flu bug, and a friend swung by with a can of chicken soup and to see how I was doing. By then I had completely overdosed on cough medication, and stood at the door blubbering in my housecoat. She immediately dragged me to her and her husband's house to take care of me (and make sure I didn't drink any more cough syrup). That night, they woke up to the sound of me roaming deliriously in their livingroom, cackling at something or another. They told me to go to bed, and I guess I did. I have no recollection of that moment in the middle of the night, but I had an amazing dream that night which I immediately painted when I got home. I dreamt that I was in a brilliant field of flowery, low rolling hills. But I wasn't me, I was a pixie. To be specific, I was the little Brownie pixie pin that I used to wear on my Brownie outfit when I was a kid. Seriously. I was a small, golden leaping pixie pin in a field, having a hell of a good time bouncing around on those hills. I gave the painting to my caregivers as a thank you gift. Hey, I was very poor and very young and really thought that was a nice gift to give someone. The point is, I would have never had that imagery come in to my mind if I hadn't been in an altered state. I just don't think of weird shit like that when I'm just being me. You do have to be a bit loopy to think of stuff like that.

I've had many dream induced moments since then, that have literally driven me from my bed to my studio in the middle of the night in a manic state. My mind is literally screaming, "WRITE THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW! PAINT THAT IMAGE RIGHT NOW!" and I can't rest until I do. And I certainly don't feel "like myself" when I'm doing this. A little part in the back of my mind is saying, "What the heck are you doing? Get back to bed you Nutball!" So maybe I don't have to be sick at all in order to have these imaginative rendezvous. Perhaps I just need to not be in a completely conscious state. Maybe that's what it is...

Let's look at my sister as an example; she has her own baking business. She is called, "The Midnight Baker" and she suits the title perfectly....she is baking at midnight, almost every single night. Sometimes I'll talk to her the next day and she'll say things like, "I got 3 hours of sleep last night! You should see the cake I made!" So, I'll go on Facebook and check out what she has made and HOLY CRAP! She has created sculptural masterpieces out of flour, sugar, milk and eggs. It really is insane. Hmmmmm...........is it really a form of insanity? My sister and I are molded from the same cloth. Maybe nobody else is like this at all and it's just me, my sister and van Gogh. hahaha No, I don't think so. I think we just take advantage of that mania and do something with it when that buzzing, frenetic energy seems to take over our mind and our hands. We create. We manically create. That's not such a bad thing.