My Worst Mother's Day

Don’t got no mother.


She went and died. Just when I was starting to really like her.


It took me from age 26 to 38 to learn anything. I was a mother, too, then. I was a mother at age 22 and eleven twelfths. But everyone knows age one to three is easy, right?


Don’t get me wrong. My mother didn’t like me either. She was mean. I don’t know why.
She clawed my face once with her fingernails and when worry set in, she told me to tell my teacher the dog did it.


She hit me on top of my head once with a hard hairbrush, and I remember my dad telling her to stop.


That’s about all I remember about him. Unfortunately.


I remember my mother used to go to work at 4 p.m., even though I would cry and beg her not to go.


She left me alone with my father. He was about 50 and slept all evening, starting at 4 p.m. Sometimes he made me Kraft Macaroni & Cheese dinner. Sometimes I don’t remember.


I got a Poodle, Pepe, when I was eight. I don’t remember if he was for me or my mother. They said me. But my dad gave away my dog, Shag, when my mother insisted upon a poodle. Maybe Shag got hit or had cancer or something, and they just didn’t want to tell me. They said I saw my cocker spaniel, Muggs, get hit when I was three, but I don’t remember it.


I don’t remember my mother ever cooking supper. Or baking cookies. Or baking anything.


Once I covered the kitchen floor with pieces of wax paper while she was on the telephone, and I got in trouble. We had a dishwasher, but either it never worked or she refused to use it. I don’t know which.


I ran through the back storm door once when the lights went out. I was scared. I was eleven. My dad called the neighbor lady because I cut my hand. She put a Kotex pad on it, and told my dad to take me to the emergency room. He asked me why I ran through the door. I was scared I’d get in trouble when my mom got home.


She did come home, and she made me a grilled cheese even though it was late. I remember us both saying we were sorry. I don’t remember why I was sorry. But my mom hugged me. It is the only hug I remember until age 29.


My dad couldn’t play with me because he had a bad heart. But he could drive me places when my mom was at work. One night he forgot to pick me up. And he was dead.
My mom didn’t tell me for the longest time. I didn’t know what was wrong with her. When she told me I screamed.


I didn’t want the policeman to leave me alone with her. I was scared. I had to call my adult brothers. I was still eleven. I couldn’t find one of them.


When my mom would get mad, she would yell and say I killed my father because I made him play with me and drive me places when she was at work.


After my dad died, my mom didn’t go to work much. But if I missed the bus (once, because I usually had perfect attendance), she would not take me to school. Or let me walk. We lived two blocks away, and I was still eleven.


When my mom did go to work, she left me with a mean, bug-eyed babysitter. And I was eleven! I didn’t need no babysitter. I was a good girl and a straight A student. I stayed in my room and read and made up school assignments to stay busy.


She got rid of that babysitter and hired one who brought special orange juice in a big pitcher that I couldn’t have. Sometimes my mom didn’t come home until 4 a.m., even though she got done working at 1 a.m.


Sometimes she came home and had orange juice with the babysitter.


Pretty soon I was hiding from my mother until she would pass out.


But then sometimes, I had to call my brothers because I thought she was dead. Especially when she would fall down. Or take a bunch of “nerve pills.” She told me I was the cause of the nerve pills, too.


I hid from my mother until I went to college. She hid in the garage once and waited for me when I came home from a date. I was 16 or 18. She tried to strangle me outside and broke my necklace instead. I liked boys. They were not mean. Usually. I liked my teachers. They were not mean. Although three different ones kissed me, starting in eighth grade. I didn’t mind, I guess.


My mom called the boy I liked most in the world in 11th grade and yelled at him for not taking me to a dance. I wanted to die. He was gay, and he did die at age 48. I didn’t figure out he was gay until we were 40. I always wondered why he never kissed me the entire prom weekend. I thought I had bad breath for twenty years. Or was ugly. But I wasn’t. I was a pretty girl. But no one ever told me. So I didn’t know in time to enjoy it.


She called to yell at the boy because I had rear-ended some lady, and I said it was because I was upset about the dance. Really I was upset because I was scared to tell my mom I had a wreck. It messed up my thirteen-year-old rusty car and broke the lights. I don’t think it hurt the lady’s car. But I was scared. It was my first wreck.


My mom wouldn’t let me live at college. I don’t know why. I had all A’s but feel lucky to have gone to college. I don’t even know how I got there. I had to drive back and forth, and then hide from my mom and her special-orange-juice-which-had graduated-to-wine at night.


Finally, someone convinced her to let me move on campus. But then she would call at 4 a.m. and say she was killing herself. And I would have to hang up so my roommate could sleep.


Then I didn’t speak to my mom for six or seven years. I didn’t speak to her at my father’s mother’s funeral. My dad was long dead. My grandmother wasn’t presently speaking to me because I had borrowed $500 to get divorced and hadn’t paid her back yet. (She had given me all cash from a box in her closet where she kept many hundreds more). She was the only grandparent living when I was born. She liked my older brothers better because they were adults I guess.


I don’t remember what it was exactly that made me speak to my mother again. By then my childhood home (age three to nineteen to not speaking) was gone. My Barbies were gone. Pepe was gone. She said he froze to death solid outside. Who puts a poodle outside? A poodle with registration papers.


My mom stopped drinking, I think. So we could speak. And I had two children and a husband. And she had a strange, sickly but kind of nice and funny man who lived with her. I never knew what to make of him. And then he got crazy. And then he died. And she didn’t even go to the funeral, I don’t think.


But my mom didn’t start drinking again. Although she was depressed and lonely. And then she moved even farther away. She had a dog she kept in the laundry room. I would let it out when we visited. It was fat as a sheep.


She needed lots of help. She didn’t have any money. She had a stroke. She had cataracts. She had slightly dishonest sons, all three of them. They took valuables from her before and after she died. But they tried to help her, too, I guess.


Then she up and died. Got hit by a train. When I get really mad and lonely, I sometimes (just to myself) blame my brother, because he was driving her to a casino he wanted to play and she had no money. He ran over the tracks without stopping. But they had no warning arms.


And then he died later anyway. Found him at the cemetery, with a plaque and everything. Three relatives all in a row. And six lots left to me by my mom that I didn’t want. Don’t still. The lots, that is. I guess she thought I’d need them. Another brother died, but he had his own lot somewhere else. Her dog died later too, another cocker spaniel, the one from the laundry room, but my ex-sister-in-law took care of that. When my cat died, I got her an engraved headstone.


So my mother and I were just starting to get along. We liked some of the same things. A mother is the only one who knows you. I think she was sorry for being mean and drinking, although she never said. She liked my kids and my husband. I think they all kind of liked her, grandparents and in-laws being in short supply.


She (my mom) was supposed to go on vacation with us once. I wanted to take her to the beach. She never went anywhere. Ever. We had plans. She turned us down when we stopped to pick her up. I was really disappointed. It was going to be fun. So I took the afghan her sister had made when I was eight and used it in the car. But I never returned it. I think she had made it for me anyway. I still have it. Sort of.


So she died 13 years ago. There was a lot unsaid. But I’m not very good at saying stuff either. And maybe that’s the reason I find myself all alone on Mother’s Day.

My latest gig

Dusting off my meager childhood embroidery skills and practicing new stitches so I can make something pretty. Freeform stitches here from Aimee Ray's Doodle Stitching. I am awaiting her second book, The Motif Collection.

I was inspired to try embroidery again by my sweet and talented art friend, Bryanna, who has dome some wonderful stitching herself, among other things, and by the Flickr 39 Squares group, which I joined only as a voyeur until now.

Patience can be a virtue...when you don't know you're waiting

I was pleasantly surprised to receive a notice in the mail that I had been published in Stampington and Co's summer 2011 Catch Up issue. But then I wracked my brain trying to remember what I had submitted. I didn't remember submitting any cards, and Catch Up is strictly for rubber stamping.

Turns out my memory was fairly accurate, because the card that appears on p. 56 in the new issue was submitted at least two years ago, if not longer. In fact, it might have been in a batch of beach cards I sent in 2007.

Nonetheless, I am always thrilled to have something published. When I started this blog four years ago, getting published was only a dream. Something I wished very hard for, and worked very hard for, until it came true. The thrill and honor are always the same, maybe more so when it is a surprise.

More, more, more in my Etsy shop, including handmade items by me

I added a couple of my Marie Antoinette figures to my Etsy shop, and lots more vintage goodness! Check it out.

Head 'em up and Move 'em out and Let's get some New Inspiration!

After nearly 18 months of struggling with an absent muse, an ailing body, a mixed-up mind, a stressed heart, a busy job, the combination of Too Much Stuff and The Tax Man Cometh made me finally sort through my vintage goodness and start listing some items in my Etsy shop again.
The above pictures are just a sampling, and to the right is a live link to my Etsy shop and a preview of some other things. I finally decided if these items weren't inspiring me to create, it's time to move them on and possibly find some new inspiration. I hardly ever keep anything very long, unless it has personal meaning. These are all vintage finds I had been saving for my next great mixed media or altered art project which, sadly, hasn't been forthcoming.
You may remember I blogged about lack of inspiration here. Well, a lot of that STUFF you see will soon be available in my little shoppe. My frustration is your Aha Moment perhaps. Even my Etsy shop has been neglected, with the same sad four handmade items sitting there for a year. Sheesh.
I've also gotten busy and sorted through my vintage Barbie stash and listed nearly three dozen items on Ebay here. Maybe it is "out with the old, in with the older." Or perhaps less clutter (can an OCD person even have clutter?) will inspire me. What do you think? Is it hard to part with treasures you "might" use or might "need" some day?

I actually drew something again!

Don't worry. This isn't supposed to be a human. It's my Blythe Phoebe on the beach in her vintage Skipper swimsuit. You can hop on over to my Blythe blog to see the real Phoebe and decide if this sketch is any good.

My View of the World

This is the view from my beach chair, April 2, about noon, North Myrtle Beach, SC. Obviously, it is a little deserted. And I am fine with that. Trying to learn to relax. So far, so good.

If I have all this inspiration, why am I not inspired?

Here's my little art nook in my kitchen: the desk where I usually sit and blog from my laptop or stare at Ebay for hours. Rubber stamps? Check. Acrylics, watercolors, canvasses, frisket, brushes? Check. Paper scraps, punches, glitter, ribbon? Check. Even a soldering iron and drill. Beads, wire and clasps? Yep. Mod podge, gel medium, Fixatif, glues and Gesso? Yes, yes, yes and yesso!

As you can see, I have so many supplies, my shelves are bending uder the weight. And this doesn't even show my yarn stash, spray paints, embroidery floss, portfolios of paper, vintage and antique trinkets, piles of magazines and craft books, birds' nests, dollheads...you get the idea.

So what is wrong with me? I have barely created anything in months. I feel bored and say I can't think of anything to do or to make. And yet, in the first two or so years of this blog, 2007-2009, I created with wild abandon and posted pics to Flickr, participated in swaps, sent stuff for publication, and just generally was on a tear. And now I am just...stuck.

Can someone un-stick me?

More Mermaid Love

I've always liked mermaid images. I doodled this one in my journal over the weekend. It's not the greatest, but I only had limited supplies since I was on a trip. I drew her with a graphite pencil and then colored in with watercolor crayons. I brushed over parts with a wet brush, which works great over watercolor crayons or pencils.

You can see some other mermaids I've made here, here and here. As you can see, I like mermaids, whether painted or drawn, flat or 3D, rendered in jewelry, ATCs, collage, shadowboxes or really any medium. I even have mermaid costumes for my Blythe dolls. But I would call this just a fondness or attraction, not an obsession. An obsession with mermaids would probably involve an adult size costume, and I can safely say I do not have one. What is your "almost-obsession"?

Scrapbooks and journals, oh my!

Besides my February table above, I wanted to show some pictures of the outstanding fabric journal my niece Abby, 13, made and sent to me. When I was at her house last fall, I noticed her busily sewing scraps of fabric together, and she showed me the darling journal cover she was making for one of the art journals I had given her.

Knowing my terrible sewing skills, which usually end up being solved by fabric glue, I asked her if she would make me a journal cover, and when she came to visit I sent her home with a bunch of flannel and other swatches.

A few days ago a fat package arrived, and in it was not only the wonderful journal cover above, but also the teeniest, tiniest one-inch journal with paper inside- perfect for my Blythes and their dollhouse! (I wonder what they'll write in it?!)

Meanwhile, I have been printing color photos of my Blythe dolls for about six months, fully intending to put them in a scrapbook, so I could remember the dolls I've bought and sold. I finally got that going this month. As you can see in the top photo, I had an interloper inspecting my work during the photo session. More pictures on my Blythe blog here.

Snow Days and Cat Play

The new ruler of the household, Tinkerbelle Louise, has prevented art or any other hobbies from occuring, just because of her darned cuteness! No time to read or paint! It's time to play with the cat, pet the cat, feed the cat, snuggle with the cat. And watch the snowstorm rage outside. In one day about 10 inches did more traffic damage than last year's 53 inches in one week. Never a dull moment.

A new journal for a new year

I hoard journals. I love all sizes and types, from purse-size Moleskine to hand-made and hand-bound journals, board books, bound pages, whatever. I treasure journals I have received as gifts. I have a gorgeous handmade one from Laurie Blau-Marshall. I have a beautifully-covered one from Michelle Geller. My great-niece just gave me a pretty one for my birthday. I just bought one on clearance at Pier 1.

So what is the problem, you ask? I don't ever seem to write in them. I have journals with watercolor paper, lined pages, blank pages, pages made from maps and cool ephemera. I love to look at them, and I love knowing I have them in case inspiration strikes. But I couldn't seem to make a mark.

I guess I felt I'd be ruining the beauty of the journal somehow, which I know is dumb, especially because I actually drool over examples of others' filled journals. Even my great-niece has a totally cool journal she writes and doodles in and add mementos. She even stitched herself a fabric cover for it. I bought her Dawn DeVries Sokol's Doodle Diary to keep her inspired.
And she did just that.

Meanwhile, I would buy Stampington's Art Journaling magazine. I would stare for hours on end at cool blogs, especially work by Pam Garrison and Pam Carriker. I even advanced to tearing out magazine pages and pieces of magazine pages that inspired me. In fact, I have baggies of paper bits just waiting for a place to call home.

Finally, I decided the new year and new month are a very good reason to start a journal. That, and the fact that I had been itching to paint, draw, make collages, doodle, draw zentangles, do Zettiology-like art, and what better place to do everything, than in a journal. When I mentally commited, I was so excited, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday and started right in preparing pages.

I am using a plain, 9" x 12" *ish* journal by Canson with watercolor paper pages. I collaged several pages with my paper stash. I was further inspired by a "supply swap" I had just done with Jade Adams, and could hardly wait to use the goodies she sent. I also have a ton of new rubber stamps from Unity and their kit-of-the-month club, as well as Unity Stamps by Suzi Blu, all of which I want to play with.

After I collaged a few pages, I realized I hadn't left myself any room for the "dreaded" writing down of thoughts. Intentional? Maybe. Or maybe just inexperience. So I painted the back side of the pages with watercolors, and ended up making color-theme spreads, each with a blank page for my thoughts.....if I happen to have any.