I left my sea legs in my other pair of pants.

This Saturday, with the help of my good friend, Ann, we busted serious ass in the community garden. With the recruitment of Ann, who is a seasoned gardener and ferociously hard-working, we were able to get a lot more accomplished than we would have on our own. After turning our soil into "chocolate cake," we had enough energy to stick a tiny tomato plant in the ground. 4 hours of shoveling, sifting rocks and mixing compost had me beat. But it felt good to work that hard, and I like the idea that some day I might have a muscle.

Needless to say, on Sunday I was ready for a long day of relaxation. But Ann and her dear husband decided it would be a great idea to go on a whale-watching expedition on a boat, and would I like to join them? Their treat? If I was smart, I would have said "no." I was tired. But it seemed like the kind of thing only a lazy nerd would turn down, and Ann assured me we'd only be gone a couple of hours. So I said, "Sure, I'd love to go."

They got me a ticket and we drove down to the bay that afternoon. I took one look at the boat and said, "Uh oh. Is this going to make me throw up?"
"Nah, you won't get sick on a boat this big," was the reply.

So we got on board and wandered around. I amused myself taking tons of pictures and tried not to choke on the thick exhaust fumes from the boat. Then the captain made his welcoming speech, mentioning that we'd be going out to sea for 3 and a half hours. My stomach sank. I looked at Ann and said, "Three and a half hours?" She shrugged. Everyone knows that a "three hour tour" always ends badly. My first instinct was to get the hell off the boat and take a cab home, but I stuck it out. It was a beautiful day.


The first hour was fun enough. I managed to take some cool pictures of seagulls hovering overhead. As the waves got bigger and walking became difficult, Ann got the giggles and we teetered around like drunks, laughing.








But that was where the fun ended and the nausea kicked in. I spent the next three hours trying desperately not to throw up, clutching one of the "seasickness bags" that were kindly provided on every railing.


This bag should obviously say "Chunk Blower." As my stomach tried to shove itself out of my mouth, my inner dialog went something like this:

I hate the ocean. I've never cared less about whales in my life. I'll never step foot on another boat again as long as I live. Damn you Ann. Wait, I should be meditating. What is my mantra? All is well in my world. All is well in my world. *burp* Please don't throw up in front of these people. All is well in my world. This is what hell is like. I hate you, mother nature.

When I went on deck to get fresh air, the arctic cold penetrated my ski jacket. When I went in the dining area to warm up, it was impossible not to inhale exhaust fumes. The experience sucked on so many levels, I was surprised to see only half of the boat's occupants puking and looking as miserable as I did. At one point, when I saw just how far away we were from land, I found a nice quiet corner to hide in and wept. It was pathetic.

Ann, who was impervious to the rocky ride (she said it was like being rocked in a cradle) felt pretty bad about it. Between her husband and I, she had her hands full of sick people. By the time a whale made an appearance, I was too green to walk to the other side of the boat to witness it.

When it was all over, we hugged and laughed and made fun of ourselves. But like I told Carly the next day, if a whale had jumped out of the water, into my lap, and read me a poem, it would not have been worth that trip. But that's not entirely true. If you ever see me on a boat again, it will be because I'm on my way to see snuggly whales who talk.

I Heart My Monkey

I am learning a little more about photography all the time (mostly from my friend Anthony, who works with Tom at Velo Cult.) Thanks to digital technology, I'm able to take hundreds of terrible photos without wasting any film (or money.) But regardless of how they come out, I love taking pictures. And every now and then, I get one that makes me really happy.







Speaking of awesome photos that make me happy, this one is from photographer Erin Tyner.



A few days ago I discovered her Etsy shop, and these brilliant images inspired me so much, I haven't stopped thinking about them. I love tiny things, and taking pictures of tiny things. So I started thinking about the kind of stuff I can make to take pictures of, and it gave me new motivation to work on my people sculptures.


So I better get to it.

The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves. — Carl Jung

A thousand words.

In the world of Etsy, they say your blog is the gateway to better business. And because my Etsy shop is like a ghost town where not even a ghost lives, I decided to put a little more energy into my blogging efforts.

But I'm not real chatty lately. My brain hurts. I'm like a ghost town where not even a ghost lives.

I've been taking some pictures, however, and you know what they say about those.

These are from a Saturday walk with Miss Cooper.







Until words return to me, stay tuned for more pictures of Cooper and flowers. :)

Starting from Scratch

This Saturday I attended my first community garden meeting. There were a lot of nice folks, sitting around in a circle, talking about garden stuff. I tried to be attentive while keeping Cooper, who was sitting on my lap, from barking, whining or wandering off. As much as I want her by my side, I don't think she'll be a popular visitor in the community garden. She's like a little Godzilla, trampling over everyone's carefully planted little vegetable villages. I apologize for that, and I'll be leaving Coop at home until I can get her to understand plot boundaries.

In the mean time, we've made some small progress. Carly, impressing me with her strength and determination, spent the last two days digging through infinite rocks and stubborn roots in preparation for laying down the gopher wire. I helped a little, and when we were done today, she looked at the impressive pile of dirt and said, "I think I dug too deep. I'm a lunatic." But then reminded herself that you reap what you sow, and determined we were going to sow something immaculate.



And speaking of growing stuff, check out the new art for my Etsy store:



I showed this to my mom, and she said, "That's nice, dear." When I asked her why she wasn't more impressed (because I was mightily impressed with myself) she said, "You drew that? Oh, I thought you stole it off the internet. Kudos!" Thanks Mom. Anyway, stay tuned for more new art and new shop stuff.

Cooper the Great

Today I taught Cooper to fetch my car keys, which will come in handy on a daily basis, as I am always looking for them. We've been working on this one for a while, and it was an awesome feat for her. We were both really excited.

There is nothing like that moment when you and your dog completely understand each other. It's like cracking open a safe, or solving a puzzle. A brilliant, fuzzy puzzle.


Now if she'd just get a job.

Community Gardening

My good friend Carly called me the other day to say that, after a year and a half on a waiting list, she was finally called about an available plot in the Golden Hill community garden, and did I want to participate. I said "yes, please." It's high time I learned about growing stuff. Here is a photomentary of our first introduction to communal gardening.


I drove to pick her up on a rainy Saturday morning.


The area surrounding the garden is beautiful, especially in the rain.


We wait to meet Dave, the garden's curator, to let us in and show us our plot.


Dave arrives and shows us around, along with a couple who are also getting their share of dirt. We discuss the perils of attracting ground hogs. Everyone is real nice.


The place is very tidy. I let Cooper run around and sniff things. She was really into eating grass that day. It'd be cool if she ate only weeds. Like a little cow.




Everyone has a crafty sign to mark their plot. I've been assigned to come up with something for ours. A pirate flag comes to mind. Something bloody, with skulls, to scare off the ground hogs.








Carly signs the papers and makes it official. She says it's a monumental occasion, like the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

We can't wait to grow stuff, and then eat it. Check back for more community garden updates!

Viva La Resolutions

I have the classic collection of new year's resolutions: get in shape, stop eating junk food, be less of a dick, etc. But I still feel compelled to list precisely what I want to accomplish in the new year, and maybe give my goals a little more substance.

1. Ride my bike more

Tommy G built me a really beautiful bike, and if I don't ride it, I am both flabby and a dick. So in riding my bike, I kill two birds with one stone. More importantly though, is the magic perspective you get of the world from the seat of a bicycle. It is a very worthy endeavor.

2. Understand the mechanics of taking a decent photo

Tommy G also enabled me to purchase a camera for Christmas (generous soul.) The Nikon D70 is at last in my possession. You don't need to know a lot for this camera to take a fine photo. Nevertheless, my goal this year is to take great pictures because I actually know what I am doing.

3. Kick the sugar habit

This needs no explanation. Sugar is the devil.

4. Get more exercise

This goes along with riding my bike, but bears repeating. I have a box in storage labeled "skinny pants" that contains just that. I would like very much to fit into those pants in the near future.

5. Sharpen my entrepreneurial skills

Graphic design and I are getting a divorce, but not until I find another way to feed myself. It's time to throw some enterprising veggies in my capitalist crock pot and see what kind of stew I get.

That was a pretty corny metaphor. I must be hungry.

I'm off to eat something lean and sugarless. Happy new year!

I got a Nikon camera, I love to take a photograph.

I finally got the camera I was lusting after (thank you Tommy G), and I am celebrating by taking copious amounts of Cooper photos. Look at her. She is so damn pretty.



Merry Christmukkah.

Pretty. Shiny.

I don't know what happened, but this year I realized I was a girl. I also realized that I like girly things. They don't have to be expensive, just as long as they mesmerize me with that special, magic sparkle. Seriously, it's like I'm having a late puberty. About 20 years late.

Anyway, I'm experimenting with the creation of such items, such as this, one of my newest glass pendants.



I haven't really been selling them (although I now offer a couple in my Etsy shop.) Mostly I've been wearing them. They look nice with everything. And they're shiny. I like shiny things.

Nintendo - nurturing addictive behavior since 1985.

If you've seen the commercials lately, you may have noticed that Nintendo is trying to turn girls into "gamers". When I happened to look through my junk email and found an invitation to host a Nintendo party for ladies only, I was intrigued. When they mentioned that it included free electronics for me and all my friends, I didn't hesitate.

Dangling the proverbial electronic carrot was a marketing firm (www.brandabouttown.com) who had read my blog and decided I was the perfect demographic for this marketing experiment.

Their invitation stroked my ego gently, applauding my coolness, and suggesting that I must have a wide range of influence over my friends. Because a party sounded like fun to me, I did not correct them.

I must start out by saying that, once upon a time, I gave 2 years of my life to a dark world of Super Mario Brothers, Tetris, and speed. Imagine a young me, living at home, an unemployed, unshowered tweaker on a 3-day Mario bender. Not unlike this:


On one such day, my sister walked into my room and quietly observed me playing my one-hundred-thousandth game of Tetris. I was doing that weird thing that people on drugs do with their mouths (we called it 'eating invisible sandwiches') and thumbing the controller violently. Scrutinizing my deranged state, my sister said simply, "Are you serious?"

Not too long after that, my mother hid the controllers from me (only back then they were called "paddles") and demanded that I get a job. With that, my extended bout of loserdom came to an end.

Today, I am a model citizen. I haven't done drugs in many, many years, and my Nintendo habit has long been kicked. Until now.

So my job as party hostess was to gather up to 30 of my closest female friends and invite them to my 'Girlfriends Guide to Gaming' party. I had to employ the assistance of my friend Tawnia to round up some bodies, because, contrary to what I let the marketing folks believe, I have only a handful of girlfriends. And like me, they are all agoraphobic. But between Tawnia and myself, we were able to round up a very nice bunch of ladies, all lured by the promise of a free Nintendo DS.


The event was held in a cool little loft-type space downtown, which was thoughtfully decorated and stocked with ample food and beverages. Upon walking through the door, each guest was provided with a gold charm bracelet. The room was divided into 4 stations, each featuring a different Nintendo DS game. We were instructed by the lovely assistants how to play each game, and upon completing a round or two at each station, you were given a charm. Once you had collected all four charms, a shiny, new Nintendo DS was yours to take home. Make no mistake about it, it is their hope to turn all of us women into video game addicts. Fait accompli.

It was a lovely, stress-free soiree, completely planned and orchestrated by the Nintendo/marketing reps. So pleasant was my party, that I won't even begrudge them the fact that this happened downtown during a bloody Padres game, and the traffic made me want to go home and hide under the bed.

I am not under any obligation to promote or blog about Nintendo, but I am now considered an "enthusiast." And as an enthusiast, I do hope I get more free gadgets and accessories sent to me. Otherwise I'll have to score them on the streets.

To see all the pictures from the party, click here.

Lifting the Curse

As long as I can remember, I've wanted a tattoo, but kids with protective Jewish mothers typically don't get them. My mother told me specifically, "If you get a tattoo, it will kill me." I am grateful now, as I would have been covered in bad, homemade tattoos by the age of 15 had I not respected her wishes. But I still want one.

Recently, my mother made a friend at her knitting group who is adorned with many lovely tattoos. She talks about her friend's artwork with great admiration, so I asked her if it would still be traumatic to see her child's flesh marred with ink. She replied, "Go ahead and get one." And with those few words, the curse was lifted.

The trouble is, I am deeply ingrained with the notion that getting a tattoo will kill my mother. The only way I can get one now is if she draws it herself. That would be the ultimate blessing. So now I am waiting for her to actually complete the design I requested, or perhaps she will sneakily put it off until we are all dead, and then HA! She wins!

In the meantime, my talented mum has only recently begun to hit her stride as an artist. For example, this amazing tree she drew, which is now available for sale in my Etsy shop.


The tattoo I want will hopefully look something like this, if she in fact ever does it. To be fair, she will soon be too busy to do my artistic bidding, as she was recently asked to illustrate a book of Tibetan deities.

So, Mom, before you're neck deep in graphite dust, hurry up and draw me some trees. Quick, before I change my mind...

Inhuman Remains

I have always been a walker. I walk the dog, I walk to the store, I walk when I'm pissed off, and I walk when I'm cheerful. One day, many years ago, I noticed something that was consistently lying around in the suburban streets where I lived: doll parts.

G.I. Joe limbs, Barbie heads, tiny plastic shoes, arms and legs with bendable joints, small plastic fists that held nothing - all these things I have found while taking a neighborhood stroll.

I started keeping a collection of these wayward appendages in a glass jar. It was never a goal of mine to collect plastic body parts, but the proliferation of doll carnage made it a pretty easy hobby. (Not to mention the fact that early in my adolescence, I made it a habit to steal the hands off of mannequins at the mall, so this collection was only a natural progression.) Before long, finding a dismembered action hero or dirt-smudged Barbie arm became something of a huge score. My jar of parts overfloweth.

When you move a lot, as I do, you start to look at your stuff in terms of how easy it is to pack up and move, and how necessary it is to keep. During the last evaluation of my belongings and their importance, the jar of parts just didn't make the cut. It was time to pass it on.

Fortunately, I was able to find them a good home on a friend's shelf where they are quite happy. That was a few years ago, and I stopped finding doll parts after that. Until recently.

Several weeks ago, Cooper and I were out for a stroll when I saw this, lying innocently on the sidewalk:



Yup, that's a finger. And then, a few days later, down a different street, I stumbled upon this:



The fingers of mannequins were suddenly littering the streets where I live.

By force of habit I collected them and left myself a mental note to call The Keeper of the Jar. I was excited to have new items for the collection.

Then a week or so ago, Cooper and I were on one of our Saturday marathon walks, when we passed a sunny neighborhood alley many blocks from my house. Imagine my absolute shock and delight to see this:



The rightful owner of those fingers stared eerily at me as I stood there transfixed. But because of my rule regarding frivolous junk and the space required to store it, I walked away. This was unthinkable for me a few years ago, but alas, I guess that's what people mean when they say, "Grow up." It means you must resist the urge to take home creepy, mangled mannequins. Sigh.

But then! Later that week I remembered that I needed a nice, smooth neck upon which to model my new line of pendants. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!? I MUST GO BACK AND GET HER RIGHT NOW!

In a panic, I hopped in my car and sped to the alley where I'd seen her propped up against that fence. But sadly, she was gone. Someone got to her first. Damn my slow thinking.

But the story doesn't end there. Two days ago, Cooper and I perused the streets again, looking for a place to poop. No, not for me, silly. We turned down the alley behind my apartment, and Coop wandered into some weeds that run along the side of an empty building. There I saw a new wonder. Bones.



A big pile of them, bare and filthy and covered in dirt. Unbelievable! Is that a femur? An arm? Are those cow bones? Dog bones? PEOPLE BONES?!?! Then I saw a piece of skull and got ready to call the police. But I had to make sure what I was seeing was real, and bent down to pick up the piece of skull that for all I knew was once one of my neighbors.



Drat. It was light as a feather. Bones are heavy. Further inspection revealed the truth - the damn things were made of styrofoam. Who leaves a pile of styrofoam bones in an alley? I won't lie to you - I was terribly disappointed. I really wanted to be the walker that found the remains of a missing person. And no small jar would hold a collection of parts this big. I heaved a sigh and continued with my walk, wondering what on earth I might find next.

In My Uttermost Bones

"There will always be times when you feel discouraged. I too have felt despair many times in my life, but I do not keep a chair for it; I will not entertain it. It is not allowed to eat from my plate. The reason is this: In my uttermost bones I know something, as do you. It is that there can be no despair when you remember why you came to Earth, who you serve, and who sent you here."

Clarissa Pinkola Estes
American Author, Poet and Psychologist

Who do you serve?

...the tough get crafty.

A wonderful way to kill time when you suddenly have loads of it, is to make stuff. This I learned in kindergarten, from whence was born a slew of macaroni pictures and finger paintings.

I come from a family of women who, when the going gets tough, get crafty. Divorce, financial woe, misfortune of all kinds, is merely fodder for our creative juices. My grandmother, may she rest in peace, left behind a treasure trove of her creations and craft supplies. She was a brilliant seamstress, but her primary inspiration was hats and hat pins. An incredibly fashion-conscious woman (a trait I did not inherit), she loved all things sparkly and pretty. Her hats were big, glamorous fedoras and stetsons, extravagantly decorated with hundreds of tiny Swarovski crystals.




For a brief time, I worked with JR (we were not to call her "Grandma" but by her initials,) helping her to assemble these awesome hats. The thing I loved the most was using the small tweezers to delicately place the crystals on the hat brim with a dot of glue. I loved looking at JR's hands as she worked, her carefully manicured nails and fingers moving so expertly. I was always glad that I inherited, if not her sense of style, her small hands.

My sister, in addition to being talented musically, has always had a special genius for what I like to call "mental patient projects," such as making lamp shades out of chop sticks and drawing fairies. She also inherited the sewing gene, another attribute that passed me over. (Let us not forget that she was the only one in our family capable of programming a VCR.)

My mother has only recently realized her immense talents as an artist, and is in the process of putting together pieces for her first art show.




She recently drew a tree that is blowing everyone's mind, and it will soon be for sale in my Etsy shop, which brings me to my original point:

I have an Etsy shop! Etsy, for those of you who are not familiar, is basically a store front for artists and crafters. It's a venue for people to sell their hand-made goods, and the amount of talent showcased there is completely overwhelming.

My store, Legion Creative, features my latest creative distractions: polymer pendants, small heads, illustrated books and small 'zines. Over time I am going to feature my mother's art prints as well as other creative projects conjured up by the talented people I know and love. It's been a great excuse to use those tools that JR left behind.

Have a browse, drop me a note, get a gift for your sister or a pal who isn't speaking to you. And if you're feeling blue, go play with clay. It's pure therapy.

Fun with Mental Health

Remember that time my best friend stopped talking to me, my apartment flooded, I became homeless, and then my boyfriend and I broke up? That was, like, the most fun I've ever had.

Self pity is a marvelous luxury, one that I have indulged in often. Right now, I want to hide in bed (if I had access to my bed) and wallow in it, along with some chocolate ice cream. But it isn't productive, and it's just not as fun as it used to be.

When things fall apart, what do mature, well-balanced people do? I am now going to do my best imitation of one of those people. Just as soon as I'm done crying and breaking things.

The long dark hallway...

Sometimes when I walk into an unlit room, or when a room becomes abruptly dark, it fills me with the feeling of some "other" thing. I don't know what it is, but I like it. A long time ago I wrote a song about it called "Hallway."

Recently, my friend Michael Dunn needed music for a short film he created called The Bet. Considering that the entire film takes place in a hallway, I thought that song was the obvious choice. I had to twist it around a little to turn the song from intriguing-mysterious into dark-hopeless. This is a well-crafted but grim little movie.

When I revamped it, I asked my sister, Justine, to collaborate with me. I liked her voice more for this song, and I also needed her to help me with the overall composition and technical stuff. We fought bitterly through most of the process, because she says I am a "nazi" and there is no such thing as a "collaboration" with me. It's probably true, but shut up. She also complained that there was no reward for this kind of project, and in my annoying way I tried to convince her that art was it's own reward. As a participant in many thankless artistic endeavors, I can attest that I really believe in that little altruism.

Eventually we made it into the studio, Michael handled the post-production, and the end result is pretty cool. The accompanying video that Michael made to go along with the DVD is awesome. Justine had a lot of fun making it, and in the end I know she was glad to have been part of the project. I also think she has the face of a jerk.

Hallway

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Hopeless (Romantic)

I hope he finds her. I hope they fall madly in love and make many happy babies that grow up to be well-adjusted political activists who live on raw vegetables and save the world. I really do.



I hope that when they meet, they don't feel obligated to stay together because everyone has turned them into the poster children for romantic love, and that their few initial bouts of hot sex don't turn into mild annoyance and a mutual low-grade depression. I'm just saying.