The Birds, The Bees and Brenna

I was taking a book out of my métro survival kit (which includes newspapers I've only read parts of, a couple of books, my sketchbook, wikipedia pages of information, my writing notebook, my umbrella, my cell phone charger, my makeup kit, a plastic fan for when the métro is unbearably hot and lots and lots of pens, pencils and erasers) when Brenna noticed the tampon.

"What's this Maman?"

"That's a thing for girls. I'll tell you all about it." I meant in a couple of years time.

She interpreted it differently: "OK. When you put me to bed. Put Kilian to bed first so we can have a nice long chat." Then she scurried upstairs to prepare for our talk.

Hoolah. I don't think I've ever seen her run that fast to go to bed.

I put Kilian to bed and then went into Brenna's room.

She immediately scuttled over to her bed, threw herself in, turned, sat upright and crossed her legs. She was leaning forward and raptly attentive. Her mouth slightly open. Waiting.

I suddenly felt like I should be doing an experimental dance routine or launch into song as the honoured entertainer in a king's court. The feeling of being so closely observed was phenomenal.

Where to start?

...

Are you people paying attention? Let my awkwardness help you out here. Get a pen!

...

I sat down on her bed.

I had no idea where to start. I was wrestling with how much to tell her.

"That thing that you found in my bag? It's called a tampon and it's for when a girl has what's called her period. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes. My teacher mentioned it at school during a history lesson. The period means that a woman can enfanter (have children - for the love of god, there is an actual verb in this country)."

"Right. So a woman can enfanter because she has a period. Every month a woman's body collects blood in a special place and if no baby is planted there, then that blood comes out."

"Where does it come out?"

"Of a girl's zezette (vagina)."

"GROSS!"

"Yes. But don't worry. You have at least three years before you have to worry about any of that."

"Cool."

"So that's what tampons are for. To collect the blood so that it doesn't stain your clothes and embarrass you." I don't mention the weird way tampon commercials associate women with horses. It's too disturbing for adults to handle.

"WAIT A MINUTE! YOU PUT THE WHOLE THING IN?" She looks as though her brain will explode with the idea.

I have to keep from laughing, "Nah. Just part of it. The other part helps to put it in place."

"Oh. So it's like a bum candy! (bonbon des fesses = suppository)"

"Yes. Any other questions?"

"How does the baby get planted in the maman?"

Feck.

Literally. But I could hardly tell her that.

"Um. Right. So in the maman are eggs. Right now, in your tummy, you've got eggs."

"Eggs? Like chickens?" She looks at me like I'm totally pulling her leg.

"Sorta. And in the papa there are...." Dammit. Aren't they sort of eggs too? "...Tadpoles."

"Tadpoles? [WTF?]"

"Well not really tadpoles, but they sort of look like tadpoles. They've got a head and a tail. They're called spermatazoids and they're in the papa's zizi (penis)."

Brenna thinks this is hilarious. It is. Sorta. What's really hilarious is how my brain is racing to tell it like it is so that she'll understand. "Titeuf! He's always talking about spermatazoids! I just didn't know what it meant!" (Thank heaven! A cartoon that paves the way!)

"So then, when the maman's egg and the papa's tadpole meet, they get together and form a baby. And the maman carries it for nine months until it has to come out. Do you know where it comes out?"

"Nooooo...." Brenna is enjoying herself. She is spellbound.

"The zezette!"

"OMFG!"

"And it hurts. A lot. A baby is easy to get in, but holy hell is it ever hard to get out. Imagine doing a caca as big as a watermelon!"

"You're kidding me." Brenna is pale like a ghost.

"Nope." Now I'm enjoying myself. We are now on to what maman's do best: Scaring the shit out their children! RIGHT ON!

"And do you know how the tadpole and the egg meet up and where? In the Maman which means that the papa's zizi has to go into the maman's zezette"

"Stop. You're making this up."

"Nope. Which means that later on, when you're a teenager and a boy wants to put his zizi in your zezette, what are you going to say?"

"Well, if he's cute, I'll probably say yes."

My jaw totally fell off my face.

Brenna burst out laughing. Then I did too.

"WHAT?! Are you telling me that you want to have a baby when you are a teenager? Are you saying that you want the responsability of taking care of someone when you're that young?"

"Not really. I guess I'll tell the cute boy that it would be better if we just shook hands."

...

And yes.

Those last two things? SHE TOTALLY SAID THAT!

That kid is awesome.

The Truth About the Marriage Bed

Safely ensconced in their bed, Mr and Mrs C were each on their respective sides however, one of them was decidedly closer to the middle.

And that person had hairy elbows. Sharp hair elbows.

Now, seeing as if you were to compare Mr C to a machine, he would be one of those tarmack roller thingies and the fact that Mrs C refuses to be rolled over and speaks her mind, this is the exchange that happened:

Mrs C: "For the LOVE OF GOD! Could you please MOVE OVER? You're hogging the bed!"

Mr C: "But darling.... I just want to be closer to you......."

...

Fuck. I never win.

New Work Monday #17

Flirting with the Dark Side
Acrylic on Gallery Canvas
20cm x 20cm x 4cm

It occured to me, after painting this, that my Dad (who was colour blind) wouldn't be able to see this painting. At all.

Which is sort of a neat idea.


View from the window in the staircase. Prison bars = Sexy.



Hawt!

'Ze Junkie

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that I'm taking "happy" pills. I started taking them around the start of April when I was very doomsy. The doctor looked at me with tears running down my face and shaking hands, looked at my children who were bashing each other and then wrote out the prescription.

Easy. What the hell was I playing the martyr for?

So anyway, the first couple of days were weird.

Day 1: I couldn't eat.

Day 2: Same. I was sort of hoping that this adjustment period would last forever and that I would suddenly be a slimmed down babe with a gorgeous butt.

Day 3: I ate a house. So.

Day 4-5: Wooziness. Which was kind of awesome. Unfortunately, my boss picked these days for me to write complicated letters in French. My colleagues seriously saved my ass.

And then poof! Like magic, I started to feel "normal". Except that I can only imagine what normal felt like since I'd been a basket case for what seemed like years (suddenly this blog's archives are embarrassing). Moaning and moaning about my lot in life.

Woe woe whoa.

What I mean about normal is that I felt calm. Finally I didn't feel tired or chained to the earth with heavy heavy shackles. And painting? I was motivated. I felt good. Happy. Loving. Determined. Not a loser. Strong.

Mr C was not necessarily pleased with the drugs. His logic is that happy pills are wrong because a family member of his has been taking them for close to 30 years. And not necessarily very successfully.

I told him that he had a right to his opinion and that I wouldn't stop taking them unless the doctor told me I should. My health and my body were my problem. His issues were his own.

So a month of drugs ran its course and then, a Wednesday, my prescription ran out.

The doctor I had seen took appointments on Saturdays. Naively, I told myself that I could wait. No problem.

That was three really long fucking days.

By the end of Thursday, I started to feel blue and bored with very little motivation.

Uh.

Oh.

Friday was a living hell. Blueness. Boredom and something new: a weird knot in my throat. Also? Tears. Boo hoo. Boo hoo. Bah.

Saturday morning that knot started to feel slightly choking. And it got worse as my children argued and bickered as they grudgingly put on their coats so we could leave the house. They were not pleased that morning cartoons were effectively nixed by this little visit.

And then in the pharmacy, I became a raging fury when my adorable son wouldn't stop fucking around already! Stop touching shit or I will cutchew!



I felt better when I took the first pill. Almost instantly. As though just taking that pill was an instant pain reliever since I hadn't had a hit in three days. Which was unnerving.

I don't want to take these things forever. I have a feeling that I know why I need them right now and that is because I'm gearing up for a change professionally and I need to feel strong to get me through this stage of my life. It'll pass and then my doctor will reduce dosages and then I'll be off this coping crutch.

Mr C came across my new prescription and grumbled about what a quack my doctor is. He still harboured doubts. He's not okay with his wife being on meds. When talking about it with a friend, she said, "He's worried. Maybe he thinks you're on meds because of something he did. Maybe he thinks that he's to blame for the family member of his being on meds for so long..."

"...Maybe," I hadn't thought of that. "However, he's confusing my histoire with this other person's. We're not the same. Our reasons for medication are not the same. And it most certainly isn't his fault.

"I guess I should tell him that."

I will.

But one thing I will not do, is let my prescription lapse like that ever again.




...image is from my only nice beaver comic which I hope to do more of sometime soon...

New Work Monday #16

Now with.... No new work! Go me!

But seriously. This post is brought to you by the Letter C (Miss Chris) who said, and I quote: "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

So here we go. I'm getting nekid for everybody...



Sketchbook Page...

What I've written:

Rosetta Stones is done! Hurray.

***

Bottle bunny. Looks like he's been hitting it too much.

Do raccoons get cartoon akshun? A zorro type!

Are raccoons really the mean bastards that they're meant to be? Could they just not be misunderstood? [A double negative? I have no idea what I mean]

***

[Blank looking space with faint drawing of keys in my car's ignition]

Bloody hell. Waiting for a call while in the car and drawing car keys? STOP!

***

Are birds allowed to have belly buttons?




Sketchbook Page...

What I've written:

Illustrator's International panel (notes from Bologna Conference)

- Do not adapt your work to the market (necessarily) because as an international you are different to the habitual.

***

Check out Mohammed burning in Bologna church

***

One of the strangest door knobs I've ever seen. And in Italy of all places

[Knob has a button that you push in to open door. It doesn't turn.]

***

Mulling blog button advertising banner design services: "Lick your banner into shape!" Too many words. Link where?




Sketchbook Page...

What I've written:

[From trip to Egypt in March 2008]

Wings and serpent blazen above main entrance to Temple Koh Ombo (Golden Hill)

The hut is a guard lookout. You can see a ghost of a guard dog off to the left.

***

The penis hieroglyph meant fertility. (Go figure).

***

The hieroglyph with the person with arms stretched out and weird thing under her is the verb for birth.

***

Under that there's a boat on the Nile (I can't remember the name of the boat)...

***

A built into the hill structure overlooking the Nile (noble tombs).

***

A citadel overlooking the Nile and an Egyptian hand drum.




Sketchbook Page...

What I've written:

[A quick sketch of the camel I rode in the dunes of Aswan (BTW: I was directly behind the guide who had a machine gun looking thing strapped to his saddle and I remember looking at the empty desert surrounding us and thinking how perfect it was for ambushing. See? EGYPT = CREEPY!]

Camels have hairy ears.

My camel's name was LOLO.

***

Woman hailing a cab in Aswan.


___________________________

In other news, today is the 4 month mark of New Work Monday. I feel that it has had a tremendous influence on me. I wonder if this is something that other artist types would find useful? Maybe it needs a social community ning or something?

Subterfugical Machine

I was downstairs getting ready for work the other day (in the shower which yes, is in the basement. This is Europe) when Brenna called down to me:

"Maman?"

"Yes?"

"I'm just going outside to put the garbage out. Which bin do I put it in?"

"The brown one."

"OK. Thanks"

I heard the door open, her struggle to get the bag down the steps and out the door and then the click of the door when it closed. I doused my head with more water.

Then it occured to me. The shampoo must have worked as a conduit to my lizard survival functions.

I didn't ask her to take the garbage out.

I've never asked her to take the garbage out. I ask her to take out the recycling.

Which means that if she's doing chores without me telling her to do them... Which, by the way, usually ends with her whining and lying on the floor in a doorway to make her point like the little terrorist that she is.... then she's probably got something to hide.

I made a mental note to go through the garbage.

Joy.

I can positively feel the magic of the next few years as her mother.

Thinking Out Loud

So I've been thinking.

About stuff.

I've expressed it before, this finding the way to do this art thang a little more consistently. A little less as an afterthought. A little more. Period.

What that would entail and how it could be done.

I sort of have a plan. It's so simply devious that I'm quite proud of myself for having pulled the plan together (and a thousand thanks to all the people who've given me advice).

A plan that I'm sure will work.

It may be because I'm on the happy pills. I'm better able to think without those annoying bouts of fatigue-instigated despair.

I'd even sort of fumbled together a non-selfish rationale for this idea of working closer to home if not in the house itself and expressed this rationale to some people I know and they all agreed that it made perfect sense.

I told them the selfish reasons after. They still agreed it was a good idea.

But something that I came across recently made me realise that maybe my rationale isn't so stupid and far-fetched after all. Maybe it's actually a sound idea and that by putting it in place, I'm not putting my family in danger to fulfill my own selfish needs, but actually protecting it?

Wouldn't that be gratifying?

The post that made me think some more on the subject was this one by A Free Man. To wit, it is a rant towards a Stay at Home Mom who had the verve to question his family's lifestyle because he and his wife work despite the fact that they have (a) small child(ren) and that their reasons for working were selfish.

Um. Wha? They're scientists! Could you imagine the fallout if one of them decided not to work for an extended period of time? What century is this again?...

Now, I'll admit that what I got out of that rant isn't very logical. And writing my thoughts here is not an essay claiming that I've understood my own thought processes (which would actually be hilarious). In fact, today, in writing things out here, I'm more interested in ordering my thoughts better.

Forgives if I go awry or my writing is disjointed. Kay?

I won't go into the substance of the post since I want to talk about my own experiences (but do go read it. It's fiery. Then come back).

In regards to my own experiences, when my children were young and especially when there was the two of them, when my maternity time was up, I was GLAD to go back to work. I was glad of the respite. I was thrilled to escape the mauling.

Is that unnatural?

I remember the day after Brenna was born and the nurse was blah blah blah about breastfeeding (because I wanted her to bring me a bottle) and I was all, "I don't wanna." (Truth be told, I had toyed with the idea of BFing while pregs but Brenna's fish mouth scared me. She looked scarily needy). When I was told that BFing was better for the baby, I replied that what was better for the baby was a mother who had personal space and didn't resent being clung to.

I got a bottle.

That was pretty selfish and to that I say: So what? I was what... 26? And at that exact second I knew that I was right and that maybe if I had been unselfish, I would have passed that resentment on. I have never regretted that act of "selfishness."

This is all to say that everyone's comfort zone of what is "right" and what is "wrong", especially when raising their own children is subjective and that the only people that matter are the family members concerned. So those people who do what they do and then claim that what others do is wrong and "selfish" really picks my brain.

An aside: Why is "selfishness" wrong? Rather we should think of this as rational self-interest (à la Ayn Rand).

So anyway, I went back to work and was glad. Glad I tell you, despite the fact that it was hard and that some days I would have loved to be run over by a bus. I had at least 8 hours a day of not being so needed. So clung to. So desperately necessary for every god-damn thing. Also? Crying brings out my crazy.

That's just the way I roll. I can't be any different so there you go. Some women love that being needed, center of the universe thing. Me? No. Way.

But, you see, there's the rub. Society has decided that, as a woman, I had stuff that I needed to do in order to be a respected member of society. I needed to graduate from high school. Get a high profile degree. Get a high profile, high paying job/career. Get married. Procreate. And then? Sacrifice everything I'd worked for to raise the children... Or, failing that, drive myself crazy with trying to juggle it all!

Sounds wonderful. Sign me up.

I went the crazy route because I didn't have the choice financially and Mr C wasn't about to leave work to take care of the kids fulltime (BTW, for some reason if a man decides to continue working, this isn't "selfish." Just a thought.) AND there was the "batshit insane" factor if I had had the means to stay home. I knew that I would have a hard time with the coccoony nurturing, what with all the mauling and demands for my attention.

But that brings up another thing: Why is staying at home when children are babies so gosh-darn important? Is it all the firsts? The first words, the first poo in the potty? Is it the bonding? Because if you ask me, this staying at home when children are young is a bit off the mark.

Which brings this post back on track and the "non-selfish" reason mentioned above for figuring out how to bring myself closer to being a Work At Home Mom (or as near to as possible).

But first a story:

I have a friend who is a single mom.

Of course, she works. She has to.

But lo' her son gets older every year and lo' he falls into a VERY BAD CROWD and pretty soon, she's getting calls from neighbors because there is a smell of marijuana coming out of her place and then she starts getting calls from the school because her son never shows up and then there those run-ins with the police.

She is distraught. She doesn't know what to do.

She tries everything and even moves to a new suburb to get her son away from the nasty crowd.

All for nothing, he finds new hoodlums.

So finally, being an expat from an English speaking African territory, she ships him away to her sister and lo' with a constant eye on his errant ass, he's taking his future seriously again...

Wow. This is a saga I've been following with a watchful eye for a couple of years now because my own children are starting to get up there in age.

If you ask me, the time that a child needs his parents to be physically around isn't when that child is young. A young child needs love and affection. Those things are pretty easy because hell, small kids are cute. They're easy to love and will most often be loved by anyone they come into contact with.

Older kids and teenagers? It seems to me that they are the forgotten breed and yet everyone complains about their wayward ways. How they skulk and lurk. Get into trouble as means to be cool or to get their parents attention (oh how it used to be easier, pooing in the potty got you rewards! Now? Nuffin). Drugs! Sex! Rock n' Roll!

Do they get the attention they need anymore? I read somewhere that a child's brain doesn't stop developing until the age of 18. Many episodes during the teen years are vital and yet we assume that they can take care of themselves and are "old enough" to handle anything that comes their way.

Including philosophy in high school.

So yes, I think that I should be more accessible to my children as they drift into adulthood. Where, as they walk the more ignoble corridors of latter childhood they're likely to have their respective wills tested more than once and the outcome of which could have serious repercussions on their lives as adults.

In the immortal words of the abstract Belgian thinker Jean-Claude Van Damme, I want to "be aware" of this phase of their lives (If anyone has the link for the video, I would love it if you could put it in the comments. Sorry to the non-French speakers, it's in French and is hi.lar.i.ous).

To me, it's important. I don't want them to be latchkey kids. I want them to have a safe haven to come home to when the world outside seems fucked up and I want to be around when they need to talk. And of course I want to be able to monitor things so that I can guide them as best I can as they travel through the troubled water of adolescence.

As I was sitting in the bus that was taking me to the train that would take me to another train that would get me into work yesterday, I reminded myself that I'm lucky. I need to be home to further my own so-called "selfish" (scoff) career and endeavors. In my family, everybody wins.

Hopefully, the most important winners will be my children.

New Work Monday #15

Snooze
Oil on Canvas
50 cm x 40 cm

OK. Not one of my best from the archives. In fact, it's downright bizarre. Same technique as the Miffed Magpie, this one sort of came out funny. The explanation? I didn't realise that my reference photo was squiffy until I tried to do the other paw. The photo also lacked ears but I added them in (which probably didn't help things much).

Well. They can't all be weiners. It's probably just as important that I show my unsuccesses (to prove to myself that it's OK for a drawing (or painting) to suck).

In fact, according to some philosophers, "There are no mistakes".

Whatever the hell that means.

Though if I were to think about it, I think I would probably claim that a piece of work that suffers from suckage isn't a huge mess of a mistake if I learned something from it via the creative process.

Hmm.

You buying any of this?

Interviewed

Back when the world was young, Angel at Passionate Chaos, via the re-animation of Citizen of the Month's Great Interview Experiment by A Free Man, interviewed me.

Sorta.

She asked me questions that I started to respond to and then I got sidetracked by a little bit of dust on my sleeve and sort of shelved it when I didn't get back to it right away.

That is a lesson to me. When I start something, I better bloody well finish it.

That goes for that knitting project that is preventing me from starting the other sweaters that I've promised to knit, that story that I started to write, the illustrations and paintings that I've started and then set aside, the huge "womb" painting for my living room, the blog header that I promised to Erin (Hello! Not forgotten!), that pamphlet for the association, 50 stories to read and judge for the association-run writing contest (written by anglo kids), wanting to write another nice beaver comic but having no idea whatsoever on where I would take that script... I mean, how many sexual innuendos is it possible to make without going over the top?

And that's just today.

I'm not complaining. I sort of revel in having so much stuff to do but this explains why I forget to pay bills. And make important phone calls. And feed my children.

So.

1.) When did you KNOW you wanted to leave Canada and settle somewhere else?

I have this distinct memory of feeling like the air had been knocked out of me, of my sitting miserably on my bed in the house that I was sharing with two other Alberta College of Art grads, staring out the window (I didn't have curtains) and watching the tall trees in the backyard bend with the winter wind. The day was shuffling on towards winter twilight (which means that it was darker grey than high noon grey outside) and I remember wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life as a Jewellery and Metal arts graduate in the middle of nowhere Canada. Should I accept the full-time job in the accessories department at the luxury department store? If I don't take it, what'll I do?

And then it hit me. The epiphany. And it wasn't that painful. I could do anything I wanted to do really. At this point, I had discovered that through my Dad I had British nationality and so I decided that before deciding anything, I should discover Europe. Live there for awhile. I turned down the full-time job, got myself hired on at a couple of different places (temp by day, barista by night: I WAS A MACHINE! I even worked as a shooter girl during the Calgary Stampede in a country bar. Go me. Trading my Doc Martens for cowboy boots) and saved all of my money. All of the money that I didn't need for rent or food (I mostly ate pasta those months) went into my bank account and I can't even describe the joy in putting the money into my account and having the bank teller print up my bank book (this was a long time ago by today's standards…) and seeing how my hard work was paying off.

While saving and planning for my European adventure, I even considered going back to school in England and getting a more "socially accepted" degree (like Engineering, no lie) but wanted to keep my options open and anyway, I needed to live in England for 3 years before being eligible for their education system. Which was my "plan". As it turns out, I only stayed in England a couple of weeks before leaving my cousin's place to travel around Europe.

I think that a part of me knew that I was saving up for the rest of my life. If ever there was a turning point in my life, a period of time that feels like one big hinge, that was it.

2.) What was the biggest thing that made Paris your final destination?

Probably the sex. No. Seriously. I met a guy in a bar and he made me feel good, pretty and special. And even now, 12 years later, when that same guy tries to put his fingers in my nose, or his feet in my face, I can't help but feel like we were tailor made to drive each other completely potty.

3.) Plan to spend the rest of your life there?

As of today? Yes. I don't have any plans to leave the country though Mr C and I talked about leaving France for Canada last year. Leaving Paris is on my deffo to-do list. I just don't know when.

4.) What percentage, break it down for us, do you feel your painting is talent and learned technique?

This is a tough one. Measuring my learned skill against my natural ability? I'm not sure that I can quantify that. I've been drawing for so long, is it talent that got me so far, or the practice? I'm not sure if one can be disassociated from the other.

Drawing and painting can be learned by anybody. The hard part is the effort of putting your pencil to paper. A simple and innocuous act, really! It's the turning of a half baked idea in your head into something on paper that exists in its own right. It's the taking of the eraser to a line (or shudder, a whole bunch of them) that doesn't look right and trying over again. Again and again. Until your eye tells you that you've gotten it right.

I'm not very good at this part yet since I've always sort of been a "copier". I kicked ass during still life and figure drawing classes because I've always been able to draw what's in front of me. Using my imagination's figures? Tougher. I need to crack open my sketchbook more often and doodle more.

5.) Has your education in Jewellery and Tapestry weaving as well as your painting made you a crafty person around the house?

And how! I kid. I'm notoriously lazy around the house. There's just too much that needs doing that doesn't involve everyday chores (that I'm not that good at taking seriously either). We have actually been hiring people to do the dirty work for us. Which explains why I haven't had a proper bathroom since July 2008.

That being said, I did hang 6 of the light fixtures by myself. I only juiced myself twice. I am so intelligent that it didn't occur to me to turn the electricity off after drilling a hole in the ceiling for the ceiling hook. Go me!

6.) Did you take a class to learn the French language?

I did. With the Mairie de Paris. Though I've learned most of my French off the cuff and at work. One of my first jobs in France was in a money change office and I spent most of my time speaking lousy French to the tourists so that they wouldn't complain to me when I ripped them off. They would still try and I would smile at them, blink and say "je ne comprends pas" (I don't understand) until they went away. Of course, when that Russian couple called the cops on me, I had a bit more explaining to do...

I also watched a lot of television. See? TV is totally good.

7.) Go ten years down the road; where do you see yourself, doing what?

I skip down the street a lot. I must be happy. I have faith that I'll figure out how to find that road.

8.) Go ten years in the past. Change one thing. What is it?

I wouldn't have taken that job as a bilingual secretary in that itty bitty French law firm, that's for dang sure. That was a bad move and it was a hard lesson in reality. But when you're three months pregnant, beggars can't be choosers before the evidence starts showing.

9.) Do you want more children?

I have been hemming and hawing on this one for years. My husband and I thought that it would happen once we found the perfect house. Since then, we have been dealing with the disaster of living in a house that needs too much work done to it at once and as the years go by, I have a hard time imagining myself losing the freedom that I feel that I've been finally gaining back without losing my ever-effing mind.

But babies still give me that "I want one" gooey feeling. And then I remember the crying and I cringe a little on the inside. I guess what it boils down to, is that I'm not sure. I certainly don't think that I would want another one if I have the commute I have at the moment.

10.) Name a place you haven't been that you still want to see in your lifetime.

The Maldives. I've only seen snippets on television and I wonder what is real and what has been doctored up for my viewing consumption. I hear their garbage heaps are a sight to be reckoned with.

11.) This would normally be a lame question, but I really want to know since you paint, etc. What's your favorite color?

I am inexplicably and irrevocably attracted to bluey greens.

12.) Have any guilty pleasures? If so, name one or two.

Ice cream. In disgusting flavours like Caramel biscuit (Speculoos) & Cream and Apple Crumble.

13.) Have a favorite artist besides yourself? Who is it?

I can hardly claim myself as a favourite. I like Schele for his deranged colour. Hopper for his moody simplicity. Klimt for his obsessive compulsive texturing. Rockwell for his realism. Magritte for his WTF. This list could get quite long, really…

14.) What/who influences your art the most?

I suppose it is not fair of me to say everything?

15.) Tapestry weaving... for real?? How do you even begin to decide that's the major for you??

Yup. In art school, there is always a foundation year where you get to test out all sorts of different disciplines. At the end of the first year, you choose your major and for me it was a toss up, Metal or Fibre arts? I didn't realise I regretted my choice until the start of 3rd year, when I started taking weaving classes. At the same time, I didn't want to start over because I didn't want to spend any more time in college than I had to. God that sounds lame. So I gave myself over to the weaving classes and arranged to do a Special Projects class in Tapestry weaving. I'm really good at doing repetitive tasks when the final payoff is [hopefully] pretty cool. This explains my drawings with cross-hatching and dots. And my patience with Mr C.

16.) Let's pretend I'm going to visit Paris really soon. Give me 2 or 3 must see places that aren't popular tourist spots.

It may seem like sacrilege, but you really must do Saturday night mass at Notre Dame de Paris. The organs! The choir! The lights! It's beatific. Really. But I suppose that one doesn't count since it's technically touristic.

The Sainte Chapelle is also touristicky, but gads! Go!

Paris is a city that merits your hiking shoes. Keep walking with senses open. Try and find Space Invaders.

I've also heard that there's a pet cemetary in Asnières that's worth visiting. I keep meaning to check out the Egouts (Sewer system?), The Catacombs here are awesome. Much better than in Rome. I also really liked the Gobelins Tapestry Factory. But their tours are only in French. I had to wait a loooooong time before I could go visit that one...

17.) Are Frenchmen really as romantic as the world believes? (no offense meant)

Um. My Frenchman regularly sticks his socks in my face. I think I thought he was romantic at the beginning but now I see him as an adorable crabby old codger. I don't suppose that helps any...

18.) Are Frenchwomen really as snotty as the world believes? (no offense meant)

French women are reserved. They aren't snotty. Stick a couple of glasses of red wine in them and you've got panties on the floor. Seriously. Also? Keep them away from the Karaoke machine!

19.) If you could interview a famous person, who would it be?

Dunno really. That would mean coherent sentences and not having my face destroyed by blushing. I would probably also break out in a heat rash on my neck. So. Is there someone famous out there that is worth that pain? Maybe. Probably. I'll have to think about it some more though and I've already waited long enough before publishing this!

20.) What is your absolute favorite website? (website, not blog... I'm sure it would be just too hard to choose that!)

I love trolling around artist websites. There's so much humbling and awesome stuff out there. OK. I'm lying. That stuff usually depresses the hell out of me, because it's all so awesome. But then there are times when I'll come across some work that I think is pretty yuck, but at the same time it makes me feel hopeful because if stuff that bad got paid for, well then there's hope yet.

But this may be me thinking about the old wallpaper in my room and not a specific website. That wallpaper was grey with giant pink cabbagey things on it and I marveled that someone got paid to design it and somebody paid to buy it.

So.

I'll shut up now. You all have suffered enough.

Thank you Angel for your patience. I'm sorry it took so long.

Sycophanting Around Da House!

Dear Mr. Gaiman,

You're awesome. Really.

I spent 1 hour in line last night for your lightning book signing and I'm glad I did.

I never thought I would say it, since, you know, you have these sinister sort of gothy photos floating around the internet, but you look much nicer in person. Much more approachable and relaxed.

Were you wearing makeup?

I think you twittered that you were interviewed earlier in the day.

I was one of the last people to get to the top of the line last night and when you saw me, you smiled and you cooed your thanks for waiting so long.

You freaking cooed.

I. Fell. In. Love. Then.

Don't get me wrong. It would never work between us: two creatives and all that. Neither one of us would remember to do practical things like taking out the garbage, or do laundry, or do dishes, or make dinner.

Those are all things that I'm very bad at doing so I imagine that all creatives are like that.

Or maybe all creatives aren't like that and I'm just a bad apple.

Also? Married.

Anyway: No. It wasn't not that kind of instant love.

It was pretty close to raving groupie gurl luv but it wasn't that either. You can start breathing again.

Maybe it was borne of respect. A respect for you in that, despite the fact that you were rushed (technically) to get out the door for your Eurostar train, you still cooed your appreciation for me and TOOK THE TIME to draw a little headstone onto my copy of The Graveyard Book.

And can I just say KIZMIT?

On my way to the signing, I distinctly recall saying to myself that I would say my name was "Jennifer. Classical spelling." And then my brain rambled on to a daydream where I would laugh glitteringly and say "but then, you aren't from India or the Middle East so you aren't likely to stick a PH in my name..."

I'm so "witty" and personable in my reveries.

So when you did ask my name and I said "Jennifer", you finished by asking "Classical spelling, right?" and I was STRUCK DUMB!

And though people were practically jumping up and down and waving their arms in frustration at THE TIME! THE TIME! THE TIME! (seriously? Apoplexy loomed) you were unhurried. You drew me a lovely little illo of my own eternal resting place (thx for not including a date, BTW). Signed with a loop, a flourish and a smile and then I was off.

It was after I left the line that I realised that I probably could have given you my illo business card with information on the back about that little association of anglo writers and illustrators that I hang with. How I would love to figure out a way to get you to talk to us one evening if ever you've got a free evening in Paris (though I imagine that this would be never).

Then again, it would probably not have been a good idea to be responsible for a writer missing his outgoing train. I can promise you though, that as I waited in line, weighing the yays and the nays on whether I would chicken out because of your impending train or make a nuisance of myself, the balance yawned only slightly towards reason.

I'm not sure which one of us is luckier.

So.

Thank you. Thank you for reminding me that in the writer/reader game, both of us are of equal importance. Yes, you're the one who makes your living writing, but it's people like me that make your lifestyle possible. And you know it and know how to show it. Thank you for that.

Best,

Jennifer
Classical spelling

BTW: I started The Graveyard Book last night. Love. This morning, when I was commuting, I couldn't help but feel sad that I wasn't reading it in a darkened room with a single lamp over the page. It also made me glad because I was wondering about spooky books for children [did they exist?] because I have a couple of ideas...

New Work Monday #14

Hoo's There?
India Ink on Watercolour Board

Some work from the archives since I've a commission underway....

... and a "meet & greet" show coming up in June in the Middle of Nowhere, France that I'm preparing for. I think I'm supposed to actually talk. In front of people. About my work of all things. In coherent sentences as though I'm some kind of success or know what I'm doing rather than just flying by the seat of my pants.

I'm doomed.

But it should be fun because I'm good at making a complete eejit out of myself in public.

Have you seen my tweets lately?

I tried sweet-talking Neil Gaiman in less than 140 characters. Why? To see if he wouldn't come and talk to the lovely members of SCBWI France Europe (Society of Children's Book Writers & Illustrators) about his special voodoo. It felt weird twittering to him, as though I was being a bothersome and pathetic hanger-on groupie fan girl.

It wasn't pretty. Beer courage and twitter do not mix.

Let that be a lesson to you all.

However, I am totally willing to sacrifice my self respect for the greater good of the group.

Ahem.