Bellport Lane

Bellport Lane by Shu Nung Lee

I’ve been thinking about writing about Bellport since I started blogging in September. The whole endeavor was supposed to be this Salon Des Arts. A place where people would share their art: writing, painting, photography, videos...anything lovely....think on these things. My only willing participant (not cajoled and wheedled) was my friend Shu who sent me two of his oeuvres. His first piece, “Hong Kong Nights”, debuted at Night of Grace in October. At the time, he sent me another piece with the note:

Hey,

Got another one. save it for when you have severe writer's block.
Cheers,

Shu.

It is entitled “Bellport Lane”.

I don’t necessarily have writer’s block, per se. It’s more like I have writer’s angst. Or writer’s self loathing. Or blogger’s distaste for the whole idea of blogging. I saw Julie and Julia the other day. Have you seen it? It was great: food, adoring husbands, writing, blogging, triumph...what’s not to like? One itty bitty caveat: the whole movie was set in 2002. It made me realize I had jumped on the blogging train a decade late and many dollars short. Also, Julie’s commitment to single minded self-centeredness made me wonder if I have the qualities it takes to see this thing through. Don’t get me wrong, I can be as self-centered as the next guy. It’s the single mindedness that concerns me. That and the complete lack of participation in the Salon...except for you Shu...and you Mai.

All these worries aside, I got a macbook PRO for Christmas. It says PRO right there in front me, so I guess I am going to try to live up to the billing and see this blog thing through. Armed with my PRO and Shu Nung’s “Bellport Lane”, I will write my last blog of the year 2009 about my beloved Bellport.

Bellport is the town that I grew up in. It is a lovely, sleepy harbor town located on the south shore of Long Island. The streets are lined with fluffy-tailed reed beds, honeysuckle bushes and mullberry trees. The flora alone could nourish and entertain a child between the lazy hours of a summer afternoon....I should know. Situated on the Great South Bay, the bay breeze permeates the air, leaving its salty sweet tang on the skin and soul, kissing it to God. In my memory, most the inhabitants of Bellport are sailors; sailing lessons come as naturally as learning to ride a bike(not to me). All streets lead to the bay. Every one of those streets is embellished with a gracious archway of tree arms: leaves green and cooling in the humid summers, fiery bejeweled in a myriad of impossible colors in the fall, stripped and architectural in the winter...bleak and stark enough to make a girl cry against the grey dullness of the coldest season’s cruel frown.

This crying is the part of the story that has kept me from blogging about Bellport in the first place. Every time I start to wax sentimental about the cozy little burg I grew up in, I start to remember the pieces that made me want to escape. Bellport is filled with perfect snapshots: the buttered yellow comfort of Mary Immaculate, the Catholic church on Brown’s Lane, The Bellport Ferry, shuttling eager and then exhausted and brined beachgoers back and forth across the sparkling bay, that same bay frozen and bedecked with brightly colored ice boats, Bellport Lane with a herd of runners beating a path to the finish of the Clipper Classic 5K race or packed with artists on Fourth of July and villagers admiring the local art. Check out the Bellport.com website, the Photography Gallery is spectacular. For every pile of perfect snapshots there is one torn and fray-edged picture that lies at the bottom, well worn and tear stained, regarded in the secret reaches of the night. These flawed pictures don’t have a physical subject, how do you take a picture of an idea?

While I loved the warm embrace of the Bellport’s intimacy, part of me grew to hate the confining nature of those arms that just wouldn’t let go. As I grew, I couldn’t breath; the closeness was, at times, claustrophobic. In a small town, everybody knows everybody else’s business...that can be cloying. Because of this proximity, I couldn’t help but know the town’s business too–each ugly mark, every flaw, the marring blemish on the soft fleshy underarm of the town. Everything is flawed–right? You just live with it. Until you can’t live with it any more.

So what was the flaw that made me want to run? What tipped Bellport’s scales from comfortable womb to suffocating burlap sack? What has kept me from raving about the undeniablly idyllic perfection of my hometown? Let me tell you a story. Maybe not a story so much as a series of incidents: My brother died around New Year’s 1989. This soured Bellport for me considerably. Through no fault of its own, it became the venue where I first understood the finality and wretched tearing hole of death. To my surprise, life goes on. In 1990 I met my husband-to-be at Stonybrook. I was overwhelmed with renewed life and the excitement of promise. I brought him to my hometown to introduce two of my favorite things to each other. At first they hit it off. Everybody in my family loved him...nobody doesn’t love him. I thought.

Things started to take a strange turn when I announced our engagement. Somebody asked me, “Does he need a green card?” I thought it an odd thing to say but chalked it up to the pop influence of a recent movie featuring Andi MacDowell and Gerard Depardieu called “Green Card”. Soon after that, at the restaurant I worked, a guy pulled me aside and said, “Are you sure you want to marry him?” What??? Yes, I’m sure. And by the way, I hardly even know you, why are you asking me this question? What I said was, “What?” He felt he needed to explain, all the while holding my elbow in a very firm grip. “Well, he’s just so short.” I looked up at him incredulously. Like many tall men, I gathered he was under the impression that height makes right. I was about to brush off his grip when he continued. “ And he’s so, so...so....Mexican.” To be fair, this guy was pretty drunk, as usual. The restaurant was also a local haunt for professional drinkers. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if my eyes seemed to swell and flare out of their sockets, cartoon style. I was stunned. By the way, doofus, he’s Peruvian. Newsflash genius, there are actually 20-30 countries in Latin America depending one’s definition of country and dependency. I said none of that because I was absolutely speechless and walked away dumfounded. Soon after that, a woman asked my sister, “Why would she marry one of those?” "One of those?" my sister needed clarification. "One of those spanish speaking people." I can’t tell you what my response to that was because I have made a commitment not to use profanity in this blog. While discussing this lady's comment, somebody I thought I knew very well said, “Well, to be fair, it makes a difference that he is refined and well-educated. You wouldn’t be with one who wasn’t.” With one... again, totally flabbergasted. At this point I had furled myself into a cocoon of defensive anger. Did I really live in a town full of narrow-minded bigots?

Guilt quickly added itself to the mix, making me more confused. After all, I had easily turned a blind eye to the many practices of complacent racism within the confines of my life because they never affected me. Nobody ever stopped me from hooping the dock or crabbing by night simply by virtue of my skin color. I never even thought of bigotry because it didn’t affect me. Now that commentary was being made about the man I loved, I was awakened to these not-so-subtle nuances with a jolt and I was not happy. To be sure this wasn't Bellport's only flaw but it was the last flaw. The flaw that broke the camel's back. And it made me want to escape

Twenty years later, do I think that Bellport is a particular bastion of racism? No, now that I made my escape into the wider world, I realize it probably has the same ratio of prejudice to the general populace as any group, larger or smaller. The unfortunate part of this particular revelation was that I loved Bellport so much, irrationally and from childhood. It was like discovering that a trusted and revered parent is not as noble and faithful as the fairy tale image created in a child's mind . The discovery of truth is painful because of the illusion that had previously been established. That’s why they call it disillusionment I guess.

Okay, so I said it. The truth will set me free. Now I can refocus on the nostalgic ramblings my mind has been taking for the past year or so, wandering through the sun-dappled woods, sitting on the Concord grape laden arbor in the neighbor’s yard, popping the juicy fruit out of its dark purple leather while reading a book. I am free to revisit those places I loved, having acknowledged the offending flaw. Maybe I'll even be able to go back for that visit I've been planning. Until then, I will stroll down Bellport Lane with my friend as he leads me on the journey of his painting.

Finding Purpose

After a million failed recipes, I have finally found a useful purpose for the gift of abundant persimmons.

I heart love <3

I have a secret. Don’t tell anyone: I really believe in true love (aka 'to blave'). I believe, like a twelve year old girl, in The Last of the Mohicans kind of love that yells across a chasm “I will find you, no matter how long, now matter how far...I will find you.” I believe in the Princess Bride kind of love where true love speaks the dialogue of Wesley and Buttercup:

W: I told you I would always come for you. Why didn't you wait for me?

B: Well, you were dead

W: But death cannot stop true love...All it can do is delay it for a while.”

I believe in the Moulin Rouge! kind of love that sings to me, despite my worst flaws, “I will love you, until the end of time.”

Somebody please slap me...right? After all, I’m a forty year old woman. I should know better. Funny thing is, I’m not really alone in my love of love...have you seen the lines queuing up outside of New Moon? They’re just hoping to get a glancing brush up against that kind of love.

I always believed my parents had that kind of love. A love that turns a blind eye to the everyday pettiness of boorish behavior and failed expectations. A love that stands in the face of vicissitudes of nine kids, war and the death of a child. A love that would transcend death. I guess that’s why I kind of fell apart when my mom died and my father found comfort in the companionship of other women within two months of her death. This did not fit into my ideal of love. No matter how many people tried to explain, in logical, statistical, sociological terms, how this was a common occurrence among men who had enjoyed a healthy marriage, I just couldn’t hear it. My parents were different. They had the kind of love that comes along once in a lifetime. The kind of love I believe in.

I still couldn’t get used to it even eight months after her death. By then, he had already dated three different women. You’d think I would have pulled on my big girl pants and gotten over it. At the time, I went to the play Mama Mia! and my heart crumbled when Donna, played by Louise Pitre sang the song “The Winner Takes It All”. First of all, Ms. Pitre has this beautiful, deep, rich voice that reminded me of my mom’s singing voice. Earlier in the show, the writers had already set me up with the mother/daughter ballad of time lost, “Slipping Through My Fingers”, causing me to imprint on Donna as mother figure. So when they clobbered me with left hook of, “Tell me does she kiss you like I used to kiss you.” I couldn’t help feeling wounded for my mother. I imagined her asking that of my father. I couldn’t fathom how a love of such great consequence could have been so easily replaced. The loss of love had me weeping in the loge, grateful that it was dark in the theater.

I’ve had years to come to grips with my childish expectations of my parents and have done just that. But lately I’ve been having a few flashbacks. My friend has recently experienced the loss of the last bit of hope that she had for her marriage. Like me, she believes in love. She hoped, against all hope, that somehow the fairy tale would turn back on itself and erase years of hurt, misunderstanding, neglect and waning affection. Many people, when trying to speak encouraging words into her situation, assure her that “This is for the best. Now you can move on. You were suffering for so long.” In the face of such encouragement how does one articulate profound and unshakeable sadness? “If this is such a good thing then why do I keep crying?” Why do lines like " building me a home, thinking I'd be strong there", "somewhere deep inside you must know I miss you." and "I don't want to talk— because it makes me feel sad" pierce right through the fragile veneer of control into the ache? Because the loss of hope for true love is just. so. sad.

I have another secret. This is for anyone who has lost that last bit of hope in true love: It does exist. I have found it. With no disrespect to the wonderful marriage of eighteen years I’ve enjoyed or the four outrageous gifts of children I’ve had the privilege of nurturing, this love is bigger than all those relationships... combined. This spiritual relationship never fails when everyone else does. Even when I die, this love will not falter. It never disappoints and is not disappointed in me. In fact, the place inside of me that recognized this love in The Last of the Mohicans, the Princess Bride and Moulin Rouge!, is exactly the size and shape of the relationship that filled it.

In the book, Night of Grace, I explore the realization of this love when a mysterious stranger declares himself to young Grace, a woman who has come to her last shred of hope and has left it lying face down on the beach at the tideline. The stranger comes and plucks that last shred up from the place where sand meets sea. A third of the way into the book, he makes his declaration:

"Grace I am wildly, deeply, madly in love with you. I have walked across a sea of stars to reach you, changed my form so you could comprehend me, accepted death on your behalf and stormed through hell and back again just so we could be together. You are beautiful to me. You are the love of my life. I could spend an eternity with you.”

They say that a writer’s first book is generally a thinly veiled autobiography. I would contend that any character in play, book, song or movie that we identify with can be twisted into autobiography. We rewrite our own circumstances onto those villains, heroines, lovers, saviors that we encounter along the way. So, in the same way I have found the echoes of the love I longed for in Buttercup and Wesley, Hawthorne and Cora and Satine and Christian, maybe another reader will find a secret treasure of recognition in the relationship between Grace and her Mysterious Stranger. I can only hope. Good luck storming the castle. It'll take a miracle.

The Chair That Made My Day

Sometimes circumstances converge to make a perfect storm of creativity. Today was one of those days. Remember Laurie The Queen of The Baked Goods? The other day she brought me an old chair, asking me, "Do you think you can do anything with this?" Lots of people think of me when they have castoffs to get rid of...I choose to take it as a compliment. This chair (again I've neglected to take a before picture) was full of promise: it had orangey red paint chipping off the wood and the seat cushion was upholstered in tan naugahyde...it looked like a giant Nilla wafer. Can't really go wrong with the Nilla Wafer.

Repainted in a richer shade of claret red, the chair was already beginning to show its goodness. There was just the matter of the Nilla Wafer. I thought I had some remnant fabric to redo the chair and was frustrated not to be able to find my stash. I thought I'd have to cave in and go buy a remnant from Calico Corners ...not exactly a sad thing—I LOVE going to the fabric store to see what's new in the rich world of textiles.

Against my will, I was cleaning my bedroom this morning when I happened upon one of my secret baskets. I keep baskets around the house where I store treasures...almost like I have an ongoing scavenger hunt with myself. Often I don't remember what I've put in the baskets. Today's hunt revealed an old Peruvian sweater that I have been holding on to for the past nine years. It is the first sweater my husband ever brought back from Perú to my Mom at the beginning of our engagement, nineteen years ago. For nostalgia's sake, I took it from her closet when she died, though I knew I wouldn't wear it because it didn't fit me well. Did I mention my love of all things Peru? Did I mention how I miss my mom? I just couldn't bear to let it go. I knew it would find a way to be redeemed from it's frumpy oblivion.

Epiphany! I pulled it out and ran upstairs, grabbed the staple gun and began stretching it over that Nilla wafer. The pieces all fell into place, like it had been planned from the beginning of time (a wild exaggeration perhaps for a small scale chair refurbishment but that's how it felt)

It made my day. Redemption. Did I mention we needed extra seating for Thanksgiving?

LOCAL CRUSH: THE BUTTERMILK TRUCK

I have this friend Laurie who could bake you a mouthful of heaven if she wanted. I kid you not. She makes a scone that has changed my world view of the scone. Before Laurie, I used to think the scone was a cruel dry punishment the British had meted on the colonists for our minor insubordination. Now I love the scone dearly...well the 'Laurie Scone' anyway.

Don't get me wrong, she's no mindless baking robot, I could list her attributes all day long: perfect skin (jealous), gorgeous eyes, great nailbeds (envy again), sense of humor for days, compassionate, courageous, intelligent, a great mom and the best friend a girl could find. She volunteers tirelessly and is funky and artistic....just like I like 'em. She has taught me much of what I know about the garden—the garden happens to be one her artistic playgrounds. Her gifts are many but her genius is baked goods. In short, the confections she contrives could easily make your knees buckle. She's the Soup Nazi of Baked Goods...minus the Nazi part....and the Soup...just add Queen. Translation: Queen of Baked Goods.

I wish I had some pictures of her delicious baked goodness so I could make you drool. She has a daughter who is a fantastic photographer. Hopefully that young lady will one day decide to take some snaps of her Mom's art and I will be honored to post them on my blog ( Hint Hint Rachel)

Anyway I saw this post about this incredibly delicious looking business in LA and thought of Laurie and reposted. When she starts sharing her baked goodness with the world I want to be there: I hope I will be the first to blog about it. Maybe she'll let me drive the truck!...or man the counter....or carry her bags. Whatever.

LOCAL CRUSH: THE BUTTERMILK TRUCK

Posted using ShareThis

New Door

Sending a shout out to RW Garage Doors located in Vacaville, CA. I am so thrilled with my new garage door. In fact I am extremely pleased with every aspect of our experience with this company.

Our garage door fell apart in September— grrrr so frustrating. I could write volumes about not having access to my garage from the outside for two months but will hold back. Adding frustration to frustration, we couldn't seem to get any of the local garage door companies to take an interest in our problem. After making contact with several companies and receiving no follow-up, my exasperated husband accidentally happened upon an ad for RW in a home improvement magazine. Much to our surprise, the estimator was dispatched right away and he was efficient, professional and very friendly. Who knew? He walked us through the gallery on RW Garage Door website and helped us make the right choices for our house. That was two weeks ago. In the interim we visited the showroom in Vacaville to pick out the stain for our new door. The people there were, again, incredibly helpful and patient with my inability to settle on "exact" color. Listening carefully to my list of preferences, they finally found the perfect sample. Yay!

Today our old door was taken away and a new one installed by a team of, you guessed it, efficient professionals. The result is exactly what I had hoped for. I never wanted my garage door to break. I loathed every moment of not being able to use my garage. But if I had it to do again, I would probably kick the old door down myself knowing this would be the result:

Leap Of Faith

Doing something new always scares me. I remember in the fourth grade, I walked into Mrs. Modica's class and was so startled by her appearance and discombobulated by the new environment that I neglected to read her instructions on the blackboard and committed the faux pas of sitting at the back table where my name card rested. I was humiliated at being called out by this giant woman, dressed all in black and purple, huge black beehive perched atop her giant head, shocking emerald shadowed eyes blinking at me in consternation, multiple layers of crimson lipstick admonishing me to "read the instructions" which explained that each student should take his or her name-tag from the back table and choose a seat. I was overwhelmed by this teacher's appearance, she must have measured six foot two and weighed at least two hundred fifty pounds, a linebacker in a dress. Her hair alone was enough to strike fear in the heart of any trick-or-treater, Bride of Frankenstein step aside. Panicked at my first misstep, I grabbed my name card and sat at the desk nearest the back table so nobody would notice me. Turns out Mrs. Modica was one of my favorite teachers, kind and informative, smart and supportive. But I had relegated myself to the back of the classroom for the whole first semester because of those first minutes of fourth grade.

My life has been punctuated by similar events. Sometimes, I end up doing a thing by default because my first fearful steps put me on a path and I remain on the path pushed along by the inertia of fear and self-consciousness.

Today I decided to take a wild leap off the path into the great unknown. I sent a submission for "Night of Grace" to an agent who is opening his inbox for unpublished authors. Kevin Kaiser is the agent for New York Time's Bestselling Author Ted Dekker whose books I've enjoyed over the past few years. This summer, while reading one of the books, maybe Adam, maybe Showdown, I thought, "This guy's agent could wrap his mind around the strangeness of Grace." So, for the umpteenth time I sent an email to an agent and after countless automated replies from others, he sent me my first actual response. He informed me about this opportunity coming up for unpublished authors. Exciting and suddenly terrifying, contact had been made and the realness made it very scary. What if I do the wrong thing? What if he hates the book? What if I fail? I've decided that I'm not going to let Grace get stuck at the back table for the rest of her fourth grade year just because I'm afraid that somebody will look at me cross-eyed.

On the way, I thought I'd pass the word about this opportunity, for anybody who has a suspenseful thriller of a manuscript hiding in a dusty drawer. One day only, the opportunity begins and ends today.

The Garden

After the Fall

remnants

of
a
disaster

Learning about Book Promotion

I am doing an experiment in understanding book promotion by becoming a "fan" of books that catch my eye and watching the process by which they promote. I encountered this offer along the way: The folks who published "Her Fearful Symmetry", a book I mentioned in my last blog, are running a promotion to give away copies of this book. About eighty pages in, I am being slowly beguiled into relationship with each of Ms. Nifenegger's bizarre characters: Dead Woman, Mirror Twins, Cemetery Curator, Grieving Widower, Dead Woman's Estranged Twin, Obsessively Compelled Neighbor. I think I will enjoy this experiment on so many levels.

Tomorrow is the last day to enter to receive a free copy, or a rare advance copy, of what seems to be a promising book. Go to this link for details: Her Fearful Symmetry on Facebook

Pride Before The Fall

I was feeling pretty good about myself yesterday...just before “The Fall".

The weather has gotten chilly, and to a girl who has gone soft in the milder climes of the Bay Area, that means I want to snuggle down and read a good book. Inspired by rain on Friday, I bought a new book, solely on the strength of its jacket art, called “Her Fearful Symmetry”, by Audrey Niffenegger the author of Time Traveler’s Wife (didn't read it, saw the movie- don't get Eric Bana). This weekend, I had a chance to sneak a peek at the opening pages and, as usual, my ability to judge a book by its cover is unerring. At first I thought that Ms. Niffenegger was British because her story begins in London and she writes phrases like “hooliganish glamour “ and spells the word ”marvellous” rather than “marvelous.” But she hales from Michigan. She is just a sneaky genius.

All my life, raised on the words of CS Lewis, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, I wanted to spell the words colour, armour, and honour with their British spelling. (see I just did it) I wanted to be able to say indolent instead of lazy without feeling self-conscious. There is something about the cadence of a British writer that is lyrical and nearly over the top without trying to be something it isn't. P. D. James and John LeCarré are allowed to use words like “ingénue” complete with accent aigu and feminine agreement without feeling pretentious—after all, France is just a Chunnel away. Sigh, I’ve always wanted the tool belt of the British writer. Somehow, even when I use these implements in what seems like a natural, offhand sort of way, under the critical eye of my read back I think, “affectation much?” and viciously edit the brit out of my writing. You see, I dare not be associated, even loosely, even in my own mind, with that class of nincompoop American soccer commentator that says words like “pitch” and “boot” and “nil”, making me yell at the telly on a Sunday afternoon, “For the love of honey Phil Schoen, have some self-respect, you’re American. That’s what Ray Hudson is for.” My husband and his compatriots call this particular affliction “huachafa” and I would like to avoid that nasty little indictment if possible.

Envy, my name is Meghan. Ms Niffenegger has managed where I failed. By setting her book around High Gate Cemetery in London (where it seems, according to her biography, she once worked though she now lives in Chicago) the author has come up with a device by which she is allowed to use all those coveted Limey tools. Absolutely brilliant! And with my not- so-thorough background check on the author in hand, I am anxious to read more of her book. What to do? Should I draw (see how I did that?) a nice hot bath and settle in for a chapter or two? But what about the $1000 overuse penalty on my water bill that came last month as a result of the Incident of the Leaky Toilet? At our home, we need to prove to the Water Co. that we are not profligate water wasters, so until that matter is settled, no long baths. How about a cozy fire, some hot tea and my book? No tea. No matter how I try, I can’t get used to the feeling of drinking potpourri. I’d like to be a tea drinker but there goes another Anglicism thrown into the Boston Harbor. Also, no luck on the fire—I think it’s a “Spare the Air” day, so no profligate wood burning either.

All this naysaying decides me: Forget the book, I should go ahead and tackle that chore list I had already prepared for today. Blecccch. So, I don my blue coverall (this was a genius purchase) and begin to finish the very last parts of my deck renovation. Although the entire project has taken a ridiculous amount of time, I finish up the last bits rather quickly. Spit spot as Mary Poppins would say. So I tackle the sanding and refinishing of the deck furniture. This takes a surprisingly short amount of time and now I’m on a roll. During the application of rosewood oil, I get to phone chat with my sister Wendy. We successfully solve many of the world’s problems. At one point she reminds me, “It’s interesting, even when we are doing charitable or selfless things for others, how easily we can become focused on our own awesomeness in doing those things.” I nod wisely, feeling sorry for those poor oafs who can't get out of their own way.

I should have known things were going to take a turn for the worse when the garbage man did not pick up my garbage. I love to have my garbage hauled away. It is so refreshing: like starting all over. I call the Waste Management Company and leave a message. Then I confront the next item on my chore list. My roof tiles, on the southern exposure of the house, are starting to lose color in spots. Readying for this task, I have already bought two different colored concrete stain samples for testing. So I climb up the ladder to the roof. The phone comes with me, just in case the garbage man comes a-calling: would not want to miss him. A little way into stain swabbing, the phone rings. Caller id tells me it's my sister Jessica. Having enjoyed keeping company with my other sister on the last job, I decide to keep up the trend.

Jessica: “Hey what’s up?”

Meghan: “I am” (witty)

Jessica: “What?”

Meghan: “I’m up here on the roof, staining my roof tiles.” In conjunction with being on the phone, this very sentence should have given me pause. Sadly, it didn't.

Jessica: “Boy you are really handy”

Meghan: “Pshaw....shucks I’m bashful.”(eedjit)

Jessica : “No really that’s pretty impressive.”

At this point I start to think she might be right. After all, I could have been lying in the bath, in front of the fire, enjoying my brand new book. Instead, I’ve saved water, spared the air, gotten beaucoup work done and now I’m on the roof. Booya! I’m awesome. Should have known better. Should have hung up the phone right there.

Meghan: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I fell?”

Jessica: “Chuckle” (she actually says the word)

Meghan: “Gasp!” (ditto)

Jessica: “Oh no! Did you fall?”

No such luck. Instead of me falling off the roof, the entire container of Terra Cotta concrete stain falls everywhere, I mean ev-ree- way-r: all over the driveway, deck and the arbor that separates the two. Horror bull. If I were a true blogger I would have the quick wit to take a picture so people can know what a catastrophe this is. At this juncture, I can go one of three ways:

• Emotional Outburst- nix
• Stain the Entire Driveway- tempting...very, very, tempting but the stain is the wrongest color you ever did see: less like Terra Cotta and more like Terra Loompa (land of the Oompa Loompa just in case you didn’t figure that out) In an unprecedented act of self-restraint I move on to door number three.
• Haul out the Pressure Washer- I hesitate for just a moment, “What about the the water police?” But I really have no other choice. And so, I spend the rest of the afternoon pressure washing the remnants of my pride off of....ev-ree-thing.

Editor's Note: The yellow paint splatter picture came from: http://ooyes.net/blog/how-to-mold-paint-splatter-to-a-face-in-photoshop. A very cool tutorial on how to make this image with photo shop

Fighting Back at Panic Attack

I love, not like, love the show So You Think You Can Dance. It’s the reality talent contest I look anxiously forward to every week because the contestants are ridiculous—ree-dik-you-luss—talented. I wish I could do any of that. It speaks to the part of me that loves all old time musicals and Fred Astaire movies, and the newer variants like Moulin Rouge (I have a tiny crush on Ewan McGregor) and Glee. Even the judges on SYTYCD, though they could easily cut their florid babbling critiques by half, have grown on me. Mary Murphy has burrowed a way into my heart despite, or because of, her botox drunk mouth screaming her piercing approval. She reminds me of a crazy old lady from church who everybody suspects has been sipping the communion wine in the narthex. Somehow that makes me feel affection.

Although the banging hip hop numbers are my usual faves, once in a while I am really moved by the serious work of one of those kooky choreographers. Last season, I cried when dancers, Kupono and Kayla, were asked to depict a girl’s addiction to drugs by that freakshow known as Mia Michaels. Having, in my misspent youth, been oppressed by the crushing effects of a brief but paralyzing addiction, I thought the choreographer really caught that truth and made her dancers share it. Last night, for the first time this season, I got the chills watching a depiction of a woman’s struggle with her fears. In the middle of the dance, I had to make sure it was being recorded. Why? Because it was true. There are a slew of woman out there who would be moved to know that their wrestling match with fear is not an anonymous struggle—alone and in the dark.

What is it about our race of sisters and the fear that wants to crush our hopes and dreams? Panic attacks wait outside the door of a PTA meeting. Dark clad, “What if I fail my children in some way?” hides in our closet while the monster of marital distress lurks under the bed. Our legs are gnawed by the triple-headed demon dog Cerebrus aka Am I Working Too Much and Neglecting My Family? Am I Working Enough, Ensuring My Independence and Strength?? What Is It All For anyway??? The list of fears that finds us and haunts us is endless to the point of minutiae, “Is my house clean enough?”, “Is my butt too big?”, “Do I have cankles?” “Didn’t I used to be smart?”...to the enormously plaintive, ”THIS IS NOT WHAT I THOUGHT MY LIFE WOULD BE.”

Please allow me to let Stacey Tookey and her dancers speak the words more eloquently than I can write them (don't let the introduction throw you off- wait for the dance, it's worth it...and feel free to stop watching after the dance is over because these judges like to tawk)

kathrynlegacy 18 @ Yahoo! Video

"But Perfect Love drives out all fear." St. John

Artist Antonio Update

Posting Antonio's pumpkin carving work as he sends me pics. Trying to win swag from Mishka

work in progress by Antonio Silva

And Voila!

bonus art...the work of Nathan Dunn

Editor's note. Just for doing this and emailing a picture of their finished art, both artists got a woolen jacket, t-shirts, flannel shirts... for free! Only four people sent entries.