Reflection

I had the misfortune of standing in front of a window, just at the right time of day where I could not see outdoors, but could see only my reflection. I watched myself don my coat. As I slightly arched my back to put my arm in the sleeve behind me, I saw it in the glass - that pesky sliver of bulbous belly flesh peeking from between a rising sweater and an exhausted waistband.

I had a flashback to about 2011, when I was putting on a coat in the lobby where Susie and I used to work. I was approaching my peak weight, and stood in her office saying goodbye for the day. Dr. Decker, a mousy, introverted PhD who had not seen me in two years, came out of the meeting room and saw me reach back for my coat sleeve. She smiled. "Ooooooh," she said as she reached toward my belly, "Is there a baby in there?"

I looked down, following the direction of her outstretched palm, and slid my arm into the coat. "No, but you can touch it if you want to," I replied with sincerity. She declined.

Hello again, Belly. It's been a while.

In 2014 I counted calories diligently and ran 3 times per week for 6 months. I lost 40 pounds. I dropped 3 pant sizes. I kept if off for 8 months. All of it. I felt fabulous and looked awesome, of course. Then I spent a month watching my dad die and lived on Emotional Eating. Mom and I cycled between anxious nausea killing our appetites at the hospital during the day, and starvation each evening as a result. Nightly, we returned from the hospital to eat ice cream while watching Downton Abbey. The daily routine was comfort - hospital, cry, ice cream, Lady Mary's social dilemmas. Repeat. I gained 5 pounds and an English accent that month. But all my clothes continued to fit.

In June, we convened as a family, in Pennsylvania wilderness. It rained the entire time, making for a whole lot of wet, cramped togetherness. During confinement, I gained 5 more pounds from a cocktail of Goldfish crackers, peanut M&Ms and 1,000 hands of Skip-Bo while sitting on my ass.

Now the holidays are here. I stopped getting on the scale. I am up a pant size - a size I purged from my closet in 2014, so I wear the same stretch denim skirt to work two or three times a week. I pondered this dilemma tonight over a 500-calorie serving of Ben & Jerry's Pistachio Pistachio. (That reminds me, I've been meaning to suggest to them Eggnog Cookie flavor.) I need to get out of this feeding frenzy. Ice cream is NOT my friend. NYPD Blue re-runs are not cardio-smart. I know better than this!! Why am I allowing this to happen? Complacency stops NOW (well, after the Pistachio Pistachio and Christmas cookies are gone). Strap on the running shoes, and unstrap the feedbag! Lady Mary would never stand for this - she and I have too much moxie to fail.

Lady Mary!  Lady Mary!  No more ICE CREAM for you!!!

12 Days of Catmas

To the Tune of "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

On the first day of Catmas, my felines shared with me...



Moby: #1,2,3,4,7,11,12.

1. Dehydrated constipation

2. Two enemas

3. Ketoacidosis

4. Four insulin units

5. Straaaaaaaaaaay cat won't leave my deck!

6. Broken leg two places

7. Shots shots and more shots

8. Parasitic treatments

9. Diarrhea daily

10. Antibiotics

11. Hissing at each other

12. Twelve million vet bills

I'll give you a break from cat posts for a while. Merry Christmas. 



Scram: #5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12.

The First Year

On the way home from work, I stopped at the Hallmark store in the strip mall. I headed straight for the fag section, because it was Cole's birthday. There's not really a fag section, of course, but there should be. I have often fantasized about all the cards I would make for my own card store. My Fag Section would be chockablock with glittery stereotypes and sassy, inappropriate one-liners. I would never want to leave that section. Other sections would include Celebration: "Congratulations on your raise! Maybe now you'll have money for orthodontia." And Relationships: "I hear you broke up - Good. He was an asshole." And the ever-popular Encouragement Section: "You are beautiful - I don't care what your mother says."  The card I chose for Cole was just the right blend of erectile dysfunction and bowel movement humor. Patricia shares Cole's birthday, so for her I selected a greeting that referenced a vibrating bicycle seat. Perfection times two.

Feeling pleased with myself and smug with my purchases, I exited the store. Someone in the distance was ringing a bell for Salvation Army. But what to my wondering eyes did appear? I stopped in my tracks. Feelings of loss and grief passed through me and took my breath away. It was Hickory Farms. The Hickory Farms store appears in the strip mall for two months each year, selling meats, sweets, and cheeses for the holidays. I shopped there nearly every year for Dad for Christmas. Dad is dead this Christmas. Dad is dead. For Christmas.

Others have warned me of this - of those moments that pop up from nowhere and overwhelm you. The aftershocks of the death of loved ones. The First Year is the hardest, they say: the first Father's Day, the first birthday, the first Christmas without him. And there I was, frozen by fear and welling up with tears on the sidewalk staring at a display of summer sausage and smoked cheddar.

To go from the joy of tacky greeting cards to complete grief in 15 seconds is hard to handle. A freefall. I hustled to the Honda before the sobbing started. Dad's dead at Christmas. Dad's dead at Christmas. My brain repeated this. I heard his voice. I saw him laughing in his chair by the fireplace. I saw him pull his pocket knife out and cut away the ribbon of a Christmas package - always the pocket knife. Usually I can shut it off, pull a mental switch, shove emotions away when they become inconvenient. But this time I let them go. I hoped nobody was watching, and I let them go. The First Year feels like it will never end.

Scram Gives Thanks

They call me Scrammie.  Or Scrammers or Scrambler. Dad calls me Noggin cuz he says I have a giant head. I don't know why he would think that.

Maybe I have grown into my head since I'm not starving any more. When they first brought me inside the house, I was very tired and full of medicine and slept so much that my new mom got worried. When the medicine stopped, I started to explore and find my place in the family.

I've lived here 3 months now. I don't remember anything about my life before this place. I get scratched and tickled all the time! At first I wasn't sure they were going to keep me cuz of all the skitters. I had a lot of spooky stuff in my belly, and even though they gave me special food and I put the skitters in the thing they call "litter," it was touch-and-go for a while. My crippled leg doesn't let me squat real good, so sometimes the skitters overshoot the target. But anyway, my leg will be crippled for always, but my skitters are gone. The lady in the lab coat says my leg is broken at the hip and something about my knee being torn in two. She told mom the leg it will heal a little over time, but at the wrong angles. The lady in the lab coat says she could break it again and make it heal right, but mom says since I am not in pain anymore, we should leave it alone. I am okay being gimp. The only problem is that I can't use my crippled leg to scratch my ear. When I try to scratch, my foot just flops around and scratches the air. That makes me crazy. But I can hop real good!!! I am fast when I chase the laser light, and I have real toys.

The other cat, Moby - he's okay. He is 16 and the lady in the lab coat said I am 4 or 5 years old. Anyway, I told Moby I was sorry for giving him some of my fleas. But the fleas are all fixed now. Mostly Moby ignores me but I try to cuddle sometimes.

Moby and I unite together when it comes to food. We scheme to look pathetic so we can get kibble. We like to get kibble any time we can, and we like to leave crumbs all over the kitchen floor. Moby is also helping me learn how to use the fancy little door cut into the big human door that leads to the litter, but I'm kind of scared of it. Mommy took the flappy thing off, so that helps me be brave. Moby is so fat he can barely squeeze through the little hole.

My favorite places to be are either on dad's side of the bed, or on mom's red reading chair. From the red chair, I can look out the high window at the bird feeders and see into the woods and be so thankful that I am safe inside and not out there in survival mode. I am thankful that I get tickled in places I can't scratch and thankful to be skitter-free. I am thankful for mom and dad. It's a season for thanks. I love it here!

Pantry Purge

I boasted to Food Safety Queen Kathleen that I was spending my Saturday cleaning the pantry. "Why bother?" she said. "You never throw expired food away."

I throw food away. Only when it's rotten. Since I don't believe in "expiration dates," it has to be moldy, rancid, soggy, or bug-infested. Regardless, the pantry was a mess. I can't find anything anymore.

I told Marty, "I have always hated theses wire shelves. I feel like they are going to collapse at any moment. I want real shelves, and maybe some drawers." He said, "That will be my Spring project. I'll start now, on Pinterest." I miss the days when home improvement started at the hardware store.

I decided to begin with the top shelf and work my way to the floor. Here was my first problem. I save plastic containers, just in case. Except just in case is never necessary. I save them from restaurant leftovers, Chinese take out, and grocery store deli items. Our city only recycles plastics #1 and #2. Since these are mostly #5, I just keep them. And they multiply. Saying a guilty prayer for the landfill, I tossed almost all of them.

I started grouping foods so I could put them back in an organized way. In doing this, I realized Marty has been collecting fish fry and hush puppy mixes. He bought a small deep fryer 2 years ago, and experimented with fish for a short period. Marty likes culinary experimentation, but when he experiments, although very tasty, it's usually intense and short-lived. Like the winter we ate nothing but paninis from our new panini maker and haven't eaten a panini since. In addition to the fry mixes, were 3 gallons of re-re-reused cooking oil. "Dump them," he advised, marking an overdue end to the fish fry phase.

I threw away 5 additional foods: (1) miniature marshmallows that over time became 1 giant marshmallow, (2) a small bit of crystallized honey, (3,4) rancid graham cracker and Oreo cookie crumbs. These crumbs were crust ingredients from Marty's cheesecake-making phase. They expired in 2008 and 2004; Marty's cheesecake phase expired in 2003. The last item to hit the trash was 15-year old baking soda. It was open, behind the cheesecake crumbs, and clearly forgotten.

I proudly told Kathleen that I thew away a few expired things (but left out that I was simultaneously making vegetable soup with freezer-burned veggies). She would choose starvation over surviving on the contents of my pantry and freezer for all the "food safety violations" therein. She was happy for me, but distracted with her own problem - hosting a slumber party involving children with a combination of food allergies, lactose intolerance, Celiac's disease, and vegetarianism. She was up to her eyeballs in gummy bears and gluten-free funfetti cake (whatever that is), hoping to make it 24 hours without anyone leading a rebellion or going to the emergency room.

Why do we have so many koozies? Do we need 4 kinds of hot sauce? No one should have this many canned beets. (I entertained the thought of making Kathleen a scrumptious beet cake with 15-year old baking soda and decorative miniature marshmallow amalgamations.) I stacked paper cups and plates, organized cans, lined up boxes, admired home preserves and felt satisfied.  Next, I am going to tackle THE FREEZER!

Parker

As a graduate student, I spent my hot Texas summers as a nanny. For nearly 11 hours a day, 5 days a week, I entertained, disciplined and fed two small girls. As much as possible, we spent time in the backyard. There was no yard, really, just a patio and a small pool landscaped with shady crepe myrtle trees. The scene was encircled by a 6-foot white privacy fence. Suburban Dallas is stitched together with never-ending privacy fences.

The girls were 4 and 8 years old, and relished darting between house, patio and pool totally naked, shouting and splashing and having a great time, as children will do. I kept my bathing suit on, and usually preferred dry land with my Michener novel. I enjoyed time with them in the water as well, but the excessive splashing was often a deterrent.

One day, their dad showed up unannounced around 11:30. "Get dressed, girls, I am taking you to lunch!" The girls squealed with delight and ran into the house for their clothes. I spoke to him. "Hey Jim, I am thinking of doing some skinny dipping myself. Do you mind calling when you head home so I can dress?"  He said, "Why don't I just keep them out until at least 1:00. Does that give you enough alone time?" Yes! Yes indeed!

When he backed down the drive with the girls, I locked the house. I took the cordless phone poolside, and locked both gates of the privacy fence. I positioned the chaise lounge in a place that would not be visible if someone were to peek over the gates. My plan was to swim for half the time, and sunbathe until 1:00. What a great plan!

I love to skinny dip. I can count on one hand how many times I have had the opportunity to do this, and it is SUCH a treat. Hallelujah for privacy fences! I stripped out of my bathing suit and dove into the water. It felt so good, engulfing me in the quiet of the backyard, under the blooming crepe myrtle trees and glorious blue sky. I bobbed and drifted from one end of the pool to the other, feeling buoyant and calm. With my eye on the time, I emerged from the water to lie naked under the sun.

The chaise was warm and my wet body began to dry quickly. I closed my eyes and the heat was therapeutic. I could feel the rays on my belly and ribs, my white skin saying, "Is that SUNSHINE? we never see the SUN!" As I relaxed in total silence, lightly dozing, the sun ducked behind a cloud. I waited a brief minute for the sun to reappear, and then I remembered there were no clouds that day. The sky had been perfectly blue. I opened my eyes, blinded by brightness. Still flat on my back, buck naked, I cupped my right hand into a visor and saw with disbelieving eyes what was blocking my rays.

There was a man on the roof of the house. As I squinted up at him, blinking with confusion from under my hand-visor, he said, "Mrs. Scott?"

WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING!!??

"No," was all I could muster. I sat up and wondered where on God's green earth I left my clothes.

He spoke again. "Hi, my name is Parker. I'm here to spray the trees."

WHERE IS MY GODFORSAKEN TOWEL?

"I knocked at the front door, and the gate is locked, so I thought I would spray them from the roof."

BECAUSE THAT IS LOGICAL.

I fumbled with knotting the towel around me. I think I said something like, "Mrs. Scott never mentioned a tree service. Go ahead."

I stumbled into the house, grabbing the cordless on my way, and locked myself in the bathroom hoping to regain some dignity. It didn't work. I will never regain that dignity, but I did find my clothes there. I dialed my friend Lisa, who could not withhold her delight in my predicament as I told her the story from my hiding place on the floor beside the toilet.

Just before 1:00, fully dressed, I meekly exited the bathroom. I tiptoed through the kitchen. I peeked out to the patio. Nobody there. I crossed to the front of the house, and from the window, did not spy a service truck parked on the street. Parker was gone. I unlocked the house, opened the gates, and settled into the chaise with Michener, adrenaline still racing through me. When Jim and the girls returned, the world seemed in its place. The only clue to my lunch hour was my bathing suit, still in a ball on the cement by the diving board.

State Fair

Every year, Patricia and I go to the NC State Fair in Raleigh. We’ve been doing this for a decade or more. We went on Sunday. It was PACKED!  We kept saying “Why aren’t these people in church?” Last year, Sunday morning was great to avoid the crowds - this is the Baptist Bible Belt after all. This year, pews must have been empty state-wide.

It was also 50 degrees. I was in a long-sleeved tee, a thermal pullover and capri pants. Patricia wore jeans over long johns, a long-sleeved tee, a thermal vest, a fleece pullover, wool socks and a hat. Her vest was battery-heated. I didn't know you could buy battery-heated clothes. “Patricia, we are at the fair, not an overnight trek up Everest.” She responded by spitefully snapping her vest on low.

We always follow the same routine. We park about the same place and follow the same route through the attractions. We know where all the best porta-potties are. Porta-potty visits took an extra 5 minutes this year, for Patricia to navigate all her layers and not electrocute herself.

In all our years to the fair, we have never had a deep fried novelty. No Twinkie, Reese’s cup, Snickers, Oreo. This year we decided to try one. How can we claim to be State Fair Buffs without doing this?  As we passed vendor after vendor, we thought about what we would be trying. I know the Twinkies are popular, but I don’t like regular Twinkies, so a deep fried one had no appeal. I knew I would have to select something chocolately, although deep fried melty chocolate also seems gross to me. I picked the deep fried Snickers thinking the peanuts would save me. Patricia chose the Twinkie.

We each passed $5 to the vendor and admired our purchases. They looked the same. They were dusted in powdered sugar and seemed harmless enough. Then I picked it up. It weighed a ton, and tried to slide off the stick because it was so gooey inside. My first bite was cautious, and my mouth filled with fried dough and sugar. YUM. The second bite was like a hot peanut brownie explosion and dough and sugar. Not that great. Not horrible, but not great. My taste buds were processing this hot mess, and I remembered why I don't like hot brownies.

Patricia shrugged her indifference at her Twinkie, and we both agreed that we don't understand the hype behind these fried items. $5 wasted. Leaving a bite or two in the trash, we wiped our mouths and walked off. Before long, I felt the hot snickers low in my belly, coating my duodenum. It was heavy. As though I drank a gallon of paint. And not the lead-free kind. After a swig of water, the belching started. It wasn't the good kind of playful, musical belching, but the deep, slow juicy kind of belching that moves up your gullet like a lava snake and stops in your sternum, requiring two or three serious fist-on-sternum thumps to urge it up and out. Patricia flicked her vest on medium and I wished for one if it aided digestion. Why was she not soaked with sweat?

We headed into the masses in the midway. Some years we ride something spinny-whirly, but not this year. Not the belching Snickers-Twinkie Duo. Instead we sought out Whack-A-Mole. I win every time, and refer to myself as Whack-A-Mole Champion. I love whacking the crap out of mechanical moles with that ridiculous mallet. I never feel badly for crushing the hopes of my adolescent opponents. Life is tough, kids. Let the middle aged people have their small triumphs.

I chose a Minion for my prize (last year I chose Hello Kitty). We stopped by the pottery tent, always wanting to buy more than we do. We watched a demonstration of a hoverboard, and then entered the Education Building. This building is full of vendors and prizewinning preserves and always the people with political stickers. Nooooo thanks. In the corner is the Caramel Apple Lady. Her wares are dipped/rolled in chocolate and nuts and marshmallows and M&Ms and all sorts of accessories. I was glad my urge to barf had passed, because it is a joy to see all the pretty apples and their ridiculous trappings. We made our purchases, and by way of the botanical gardens, returned to Patricia's car. When we got to my house, we both got out, waddling, complaining about our stiff hips after all those hours of walking. We need orthopedic vehicles on days like this, instead of our efficient two-seaters.

Later, I settled down with a paring knife and my "Nutty Buddy" apple. The trip to the fair is not complete until the apple is gone.

My last task of the evening was to box the Minion and address it to Mom. She had visited over Labor Day weekend and asked me to explain what a Minion was and why they are all the rage. We watched Despicable Me and then she understood a little better. It cost me $3 to win the Minion and $4 to ship it, but I think it was worth it.

Motherwell, Part 3

Ah, the last of my art classes this Fall. A month of Mark Rothko followed by a month of Robert Motherwell. I am now moderately educated about the mid-century Abstract Expressionist art movement, although my skills with a paintbrush need work. Tonight is the last class. Is my personal Renaissance over? After tonight's failure, maybe.

In his 50's and 60's, Motherwell painted his Open series. These appeal to me in their simplicity and depth of color. The color is broken by sparse, contrasting, angular lines.

Open No. 156. Robert Motherwell, 1970.

Premonition Open. Robert Motherwell, 1974.

Untitled (Ultramarine and Ochre) Open. Robert Motherwell, 1973.

Teacher explained that Motherwell was likely influenced by the open windows Matisse painted. Artists are almost always influenced by the styles of other artists.

Open Window, Collioure. Henri Matisse, 1905.

Now we were instructed to begin with automatic drawing, as we had done for the prior 3 classes. I chose a blue pencil for this. Then we were told to wash our canvas with color - translucent color.  I mixed green to cover my blue pencil scratches.

Blue and yellow make green.

My canvas with blue pencil sketching and green wash.

 Then we were told to be motivated by an open window. We were to keep color and balance in mind as we worked. I could not really get the feel for my project tonight. It evolved every 20 minutes, without real focus.

Didn't like the window. Added the fat black border.

Added thinner lines to draw the eye down from the ugly window.

Blacked out the window entirely.

I was sad on my final night of class that I just couldn't get into it. Last week was such a good time; this week felt like work.  When I flipped the canvas upside down for perspective, I saw the Star of Bethlehem and a black stable. I asked Teacher if I should paint a little Baby Jesus in the darkness. He said, "Motherwell's Open series is about depth and simplicity. There is nothing simple about Baby Jesus, so NO."

I decided the only part of my work I liked was the texture of the brush on the canvas, and the contrast of dark on light. I may take a scissors to it and end up with just the window itself.

A classmate, the guy who owned the shoe store, was really into it. His work didn't move me, but neither did my own so that's not saying much.

After class, I texted Jo a picture of my newest piece. She asked me if I was hanging my paintings throughout my house. "NO, are you kidding?" I said. "Half of them are already in the trash."

"That's too bad," she offered. "It would have been fun to give them to people as Christmas gifts and see their looks of horror when they opened them."

Nice, Jo. Real nice. Maybe SHE will be the recipient of them ALL!

Motherwell, Part 2

Last week, for my third Motherwell session, there was a nude drawing class in the room next door. Oddly, the adjoining door remained open. I couldn't help but to steal a glance from time to time. I only saw an elbow and leg, but wanted so badly to cross over and check out their scene. I thought about pretending I needed to borrow a stapler. The model was a nondescript young woman in striped socks. I saw her enter the classroom in a robe prior to class. I contemplated how desperate for spending money I would need to be in order to stand boldly naked in front of strangers in a drafty old warehouse.

Before our lesson, Teacher had us create another automatic drawing. Then we were told to use paint to create shapes from our drawings. There was no prelude to class, no lesson or chit chat. Okay then!

When we completed this assignment, Teacher told us about Motherwell's collages. Teacher said Motherwell was critical of one of his contemporaries (I think he said Jackson Pollock) for his practice of tearing paper and walking all over his canvases. Motherwell at first thought this disrepectful to art but soon saw things differently. His collages are about destroying and recreating. Motherwell said "Putting forth effort into destroying something can make you sensitive to its qualities just as much as one's love of it." This was the premise behind his collage-making. Teacher instructed us to cut up our paintings - cut them up and reconstruct them into collages.

The art of abstract expressionists expressed the angst and chaos of the times in their art. Atomic bombs, cold wars and destruction shaped their thinking. Cutting and tearing was an expression of the destruction the world and creation of new reality. What would my new reality be?

I spread out the black cut-outs I had made and looked at them. What a mess. Some of the pieces were angular like ribs; others were curved like kidneys. The pieces seemed to be forming a human figure right in front of me. I would make my own model not unlike the naked woman next door. Mine would not have socks on. Using glue sticks - I can't imagine that any great work of art was ever assembled with glue sticks - my Motherwell Man was born.

I used Teacher's stash of magazines to give my collage texture and color. I had a really good time! Next week is the last class - Booooo!!!

Midday Run

She popped into my office doorway at 9:00 a.m. "We are running at 11:00."

Wait, what?  Who is "we?"

It is common knowledge among colleagues in my department that I try to walk everyday for 30 minutes around lunchtime. Usually outdoors. They see me duck out in shorts and a t-shirt in all kinds of weather. This began last Spring when I started to lose an eventual 40 pounds. Gina's office is across the hall, and she knew I had a change of clothes and sneakers in my office for this purpose. She is training for her first 5K in three weeks, and was feeling insecure.

"Gina, I sweat. Badly. There's no way I can run in the middle of the day at work! Plus I don't have a sports bra handy. NO!"

"But you ran this race last year and you need to keep me on task. I only have 3 weeks left to train."

"True, but not my problem."

"How about we just do 10 minute spurts? Please?"

I looked at her. She is 7 years my junior, long and lean. She probably weighs 115 pounds after bearing 3 children. She waited. She was adorable. I couldn't say no.

"Okay, but just this once because it's a Friday and I don't have any afternoon meetings." By her reaction, you would have thought I told her it was Christmas.

11:45 rolled around and we finally got out the door. She had one of those training apps on her phone, so I followed her lead when to run and when to walk. Running in tandem with someone was odd for me. When I run with Marty, we run at our own paces. "Don't let me hold you back," I said when it became evident that my breathing was labored and hers was not." She breezily replied, "No worries," with the healthy breath of a thin person. She was able to hold a conversation with herself while we ran. I was wheezing and gasping for air like a drowning person. She asked me if I was alright. I nodded. She said her legs burned. I didn't believe her.

We stumbled back into the office. She was not visibly sweating. I was drenched. I was also late for my lunch date with Susie. I thought of just dashing off to her office in my shorts, but then I remembered she was filling in for someone else in a location visible by one or more Deans. I quickly emailed her that I would be there in 10 minutes, and closing my office door, I flung aside my running gear, pulled on my jeans (casual Friday) and blouse. The jeans clung to my still-sweating body, heat was radiating from my face, and sweat was dripping down my spine. My hair? I felt like I was wearing a wool turban.

I quickly made my way to Susie's office. She looked up as I rounded the corner. "What happened to YOU?" she asked.

"Give me a fan," I demanded, "Quick!" She passed me a file folder. I couldn't fan my face fast enough. I told her my story. When I was done, she remarked that my run was ridiculous and that she needed a sandwich. Susie McTurkin is unflappable. Her dry humor and practical sense are magnificent. We have been friends for almost 15 years, despite my sincere suggestion - my insistence - that she name her son Gherkin McTurkin. Who doesn't love a Baby Gherkin? To my disappointment, they opted for a name much less exciting.

We ate together and enjoyed each other's company. A brief moment of nausea passed over me. I made a mental note not to scarf down a 6-inch Italian sub 10 minutes after a run. As I stood to leave, I saw that the creases in my jeans were damp from sweat, leaving a wet V from hips to crotch. Nice touch.

"No one will really notice it," Susie assured. "It kind of blends with the dye of the denim."

"Good.  How do I look otherwise?"

"Red," she said. "Wet."

"Can we call it a luminous flush?"

"No. You look ill." You can always trust Susie to say it like it is.

I navigated the hallways back to my office, bedraggled, thinking, "Please don't run into anyone you know please don't run into anyone you know..."  My wish came true until I rounded the last bend.

"Oh, hi!" my colleague said, "Did you just shower? Why is your hair wet?"

To make things better, back in my office I saw an email for an impromptu 2:00 meeting. I had 30 minutes to get my act together. I had an orchestra of rowdy wet curls to tame, a crotch-V to dry, and I could now smell myself. It was not BO, but the musky sour-sweet smell of rotting cleavage. Boob sweat was trapped in its polyester casing with no chance of drying out before Saturday. I marched into Gina's office - she looked as fresh as a daisy - and told her she had doomed me. She smiled and said she had a ton of energy and felt great, didn't I feel great?

"Do I LOOK like I feel great?"

Our eyes locked. Gina paused before answering. "Yes?  But you might want to wear a hat to your meeting."

Keeping one of these in my office might not be a bad idea.

Motherwell, Part 1

Another art class! My foray into abstract expressionism and the Mimicking the Masters Series continues with Robert Motherwell. Who dat? Motherwell was a younger contemporary of Mark Rothko. They were both primary figures in abstract expressionism, an American-born movement in art.

NIGHT #1:  There were five of us in the class. When we introduced ourselves, I learned that I am the one with the least amount of artistic training. This means I will probably have the most fun. The room itself was inspiring tonight! The Center for the Arts is a nonprofit community-based art school. The building was built in 1911 and used to be a factory. Who doesn't love an old factory?

Blinded by inspiration and solar rays.

Abstract expression is important to America because until that point (the 1940's) "art" was mostly happening in Europe. Abstract expressionists were not interested in painting landscapes or forms. They wanted to create new post-war mid-century realities. Abstract art was focused more on emotion than form. Unlike Rothko, Motherwell often started with sketches, "gesture drawings" or "automatism". These are fancy words for doodlin' and scribblin' - drawing without intention. Then he would interpret his drawings with paint and color.

Our task in class was to explore surrealist automatism - scribble our asses off - then step back and interpret our doodles. We were told to scribble 3 times: one with our right hand, one with our left hand, and one with simultaneous hands. Most of the background scribbles are hard to see in these photos because they are pencil lines but you get the idea.

Circles and squiggles with my right hand...

...interpreted as a cup of tea, teaspoon, and lemon slices.

...interpreted as a man playing a French horn.

My left hand, squiggles and shapes...

Both hands, which operated like windshield wipers...

...now it's Abe Lincoln. Or a hatless Amish guy.

NIGHT 2: The following week, Teacher taught us about Motherwell's famous series called Elegy to the Spanish Republic. There are over 150 huge canvas paintings in this series, but most of them look like this:

Elegy to the Spanish Republic, 54.

Elegy to the Spanish Republic, 110.

In abstract expressionist style, the painting as a whole is meant to evoke emotion or feeling. This registered with me when Teacher said the works in this series were meant to invoke the disappointment and oppression of war, and rhythm like a drum beat or march. Motherwell chose black and white for drama in this series, but he used color in many of his paintings. Elegy to the Spanish Republic was our inspiration for the evening. We were tasked to do some automatism scribbles, interpret our scribbles, and use black and white paint to express the emotion of our piece. I could not find the black paint, so I used blue. Blue ended up working my favor.

My sketch. In it, I saw a sailboat in dangerous waters.

So I painted a sailboat with blobs like Motherwell's example.

I completed the task. A sailboat tipping on the sea. Done. then I looked at my watch. There was still an hour left in class. Everyone else was quietly and diligently painting. In black and white. Where did they find the black paint?!?  Anyway, then I looked at Teacher's work and I knew somehow I had missed the mark. Big time.

Teacher's canvas.

"Hey Teacher, can you come here for a sec?"  He did. "I think I've lost my purpose here. Tell me again what we are supposed to do?"  Teacher explained. "You sketched, interpreted a sailboat and you painted a sailboat. But there's no emotion here. Where is the turbulent water and the movement of the sea?"

Hmmm. "Okay Teacher, thanks."  So I squiggled the turbulent sea. I love to squiggle.

Sailboat + Turbulent Sea.

Done. I looked at my watch. There were still 50 minutes left in class. "Hey Teacher, can you come here for a sec?"  He was a good sport and came over. I said, "I'm not feelin' it tonight."

"Well, I see the boat. I see the water. But I can't feel it. Motherwell said 'I have painted many mistakes but I have never painted a lie.' You need to paint emotion. This sailboat is a lie until you do."

Seriously? "But Teacher, I don't understand what emotion a sailboat should have."

"Maybe your painting is not about the sailboat. Maybe it's about the sea. Paint what it feels like to go under. Paint the force of the waves and the voice of the storm."

Good grief. "I'll think about that, but this looks less and less like Motherwell's Spanish Republic series. Aren't I supposed to 'Mimic the Master'?"

"Definitely mimic him - his process, his technique, his expression, but not his paintings. That would be forgery." With a smile, chucking at his own cuteness, he dismissed himself to wander the class and consult with the others.

I stared at my squiggled mess. Paint what it feels like to go under? Panic. I'll show you panic, you stupid sailboat, cuz you about to go under, baby...

Voice of the Storm, 2015.