Well, here's some more about my cat. It's a preview of what Kristin and I hope will be a successful and well-received art exhibit in the new house, called "Maxi sitting in boxes (and other tight spaces)". Because seriously, this cat is BANANAS for boxes.
Shoebox. Tight fit.
rest your weary head, little one.
Pizza box on my bed cuz I'm grody
Each time a new box enters the household, she has to break it in by sitting motionless in or on it for like 3 hours.
Maxi II, on August 15, 2007 you came into this world along with your brother who later died and maybe some other cat siblings, born to a single mother in someone's laundry room or stairwell, and 8 weeks from that day when I got you off craigslist (for free) and some girl handed me a teeny version of you, with no accessories, in a parking lot off of Pine street, I knew my life would never be the same. I'm so glad to live in a small enclosed space with you, where we have grown together into a pair of fat lazy whiners. Thank you for the love and affection you've given me, and for never eating anything poisonous. Thank you for understanding that it makes me kind of uncomfortable when you try to snuggle up with me when I'm sleeping naked. Someday Mommy will get you a house with a backyard, princess. Someday.
I found this sweet ring, which is of a screaming eagle face, while rummaging through my parents' giant coffee can full of loose change on a search for quarters that would allow me to do laundry and play skee-ball. Can't wait to shine 'er up. Jealous?
We're trying to ease ourselves back into the creative, selfabsorbed mindspace that has generated the majority of SP posts and kept our loyal readership of 3 riveted. It might take us some time, but we just had a pretty serious gmail chat about reviving this precious piece of the internet.
Today I'd like to share a piece of poetry I wrote when I was 8. It's entirely possible I've written an entire post about this subject before, because I have like 4 stories that I interchange, but this time there's photographic evidence.
So I went to a "Gifted and Talented" school from 1st through 5th grade... ironic because I had already finished 1st grade in another state but was judged to be not quite mature enough for 2nd grade in my new school. The first appearance of a common theme in my life.
My mother became what you might call an academic stage mother, which is super bogus because if she had just invested the time and energy spent making me read books and quizzing me on Great Women In History flashcards (Seriously. Seriously, I had those) into something worthwhile, like infant beauty pageants or a desperate quest for child stardom complete with a U-Haul journey to a long-term stay motel in LA where I would go on audition after audition, smiling a wide gummy smile under fluorescent lighing (gives gifted children headaches, BTW) while reciting stale copy designed to convince an endless, indistinguishable calvalcade of balding disinterested producers that I loved Polly Pocket, I loved her SO BAD, while my mother chain smoked outside mentally calculating the number of extra shifts she'd have to pick up at Denny's in order to make the weekly rent, IF that had happened instead, we'd all have a lot more to show for it, but I guess that ship sailed as soon as I got my very first pair of thick plastic glasses at age 6, with an asexual bowl cut to match. So it looked like I would have to be smart.
(Please note that this was an excellent preview for what I would find are the 3 generic marginalizations that most extremely tall girls get .. "You must play basketball" "Wow you're tall. You should..... uh...model..."(said insincerely) or "Jesus, you're tall... like a dude.")
OK, so all that setup is just to explain that my mother decided she was going to force me to live up to the moniker Gifted and Talented and therefore made me enter any and all writing or art-based competitions within the great state of Indiana. And then it happened.... I won BIG.
let me transcribe, because a phone camera picture of a ditto sheet from 1992 is not the best way to preserve such a worth relic of my past. Unfortunately, there's no way to recreate the sheer awesomeness of the clip art used to illustrate.
Maria's poem "Rain" won first place in the 3rd and 4th grade Poetry Division in the Creative Writing Contest sponsored by the Indianapolis- Marion County Public Library Foundation.
Maria's poem was one of 1,162 entries received in her division. Congratulations to Maria for her outstanding wirting!
(Maria is a 3rd grade student in Mrs. Hyatt's class)
Heavenly tears from the skies.
As it cries. As it cries.
Drizzling lakes, pouring seas
Puddles up to the knees
It is truly a wonderous time
When the rain will fall and the sun ceases to shine
Oh, Mother Nature!
You have given us a gift!
Noone else but you could creat rain
So soft, so swift.
Oh, what a thing you are. Rain!
Trickling down the window pane.
I could not have peace without you.
Dang, move over Maya Angelou, am I right? Also, the fact that there were 1,161 poems deemed WORSE than this cloying verse that I probably plagiarized is depressing. I'm glad my lack of any kind of religious upbringing led me to call upon "Mother Nature" instead of "Jesus" or "Heavenly Father". I was basically destined to be an Orkila camp counselor and praise "Earth" before every meal.
The winning of this competition is, for real, the best thing I've ever done in my mother's eyes. Until the day at age like, 20 that I finally begged her to stop and never ever ever mention that goddamn fucking "Rain" poem again, she would bring this up as evidence of my creative genius and thusly my entitlement to success at some sort.
MARIA, AGE 17: I didn't get into NYU and I'm too fat for my prom dress and it looks like I have a hickey on my neck but really it's just a big zit because I've never even kissed a boy and I don't have cute shoes because my feet are too big and I hate everything, everything in the world.
MOM: Baby, look at all you've done in your life already. Remember "Rain"?
That's all I have for today. Welcome back, Stag Party!
Those who call into commercial radio stations at peak rush hour traffic times and attempt to be sassy/cute/flirty/familiar with the DJ, who is, himself, one of the saddest people. Sad if callers are aged fifteen or younger; tragic if they're older.
Since Maria's busy handing out tote bags and getting plowed on the company dime at Something Boring About Construction Software Annual Conference Ought-Nine, and I'm balls-deep in a high-stakes game of Minesweeper, Stag Party is going to do something it has not done before: encourage you to peek the work of our dear friend, Nicole Laverty, for no immediate ego-boosting/self-deprecating/monetary return-- basking in the delight of this naked buffalo lady, painted with whiskey and truffle oil, is reward enough:
And you should totes follow Nicole's blog, butterme, baby, 'cause shit's about to blow up quicker than these sweet, sweet pixelated mines I be sweepin.'