tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6922124894627925242024-03-13T13:55:01.834-07:00At home in the Fun ZoneThis may or may not be the online diary for the funism chalk bandit. Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-81399715964757010962020-08-11T18:08:00.003-07:002020-08-11T18:08:49.057-07:00I wrote a book<div><b>Hey, guess what! I finished an art project I've been working on since I was 15. Want to see it? </b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1658113349/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o01_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1" target="_blank">I wrote a BOOK</a><br /></b></div>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-70675724802517897202016-04-27T09:00:00.002-07:002016-04-27T09:21:01.905-07:00Why I have continued to be the Chalk Bandit<div style="text-align: center;">
(All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.)<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have re-posted this today because of the situation that came about yesterday. I only want to be the GOOD in this world and share positive thoughts and feelings. If someone asks me to create a chalk piece in front of a home they own, and it is tidy and temporary, isn't that okay? It hurts my heart when someone else comes with water and their tennis shoe and smears it away in 3 minutes while the people who live in that building beg him to stop. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the 3 hours it took me to create that piece, at least 6 people stopped to thank me for <a href="https://vimeo.com/139133637" target="_blank">Funism</a> and encouraged me to continue. It took him 3 minutes to erase the message, but leave a mess. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I believe this </span><a href="https://vimeo.com/139133637" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;" target="_blank">4 minute movie</a><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> by super filmmaker Robin Fenlon explains </span>Funism <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">completely. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: medium;">If you are worried about Chalk being a gateway to other graffiti, like the chalk destroyer above, read <a href="http://fledgeflyingiseasy.blogspot.com/2011/12/playing-tag.html" target="_blank">this</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I was born at South Bay Hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The South Bay is an interesting place to grow up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a very small town- Every time I am out, I run into someone I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like that small town feeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many of us have gone to school here and send our kids to the same schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my son is skating about town, there are people keeping an eye on him (It takes a village). The South bay is also a very big place- spread out (like the rest of Los Angeles) for miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it doesn't seem like a community at all- Los Angeles is the city without a center and the South Bay is a community with many hearts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I've lived in most of the cities that are included in the term “South Bay” but Hermosa has my heart because of its artist culture. Hermosa was the center for Jazz music, the center for Punk Rock. 35 years ago I saved my money to buy a pair of purple suede roller-skates from Wild Wheels- the skate shop on the strand. I bought my first pair of Doc Martins at Re-Style, I bought my first Bukowski book from Either-or-Bookstore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worked graveyard at Denny’s, worked a few days at Uncle Stavros, worked for years at Rocky Cola.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">At 3:am when my shift was over at Rocky Cola, after serving drunks on one side of the restaurant, and “friends of Bills” on the other, I was often too wound up to head straight home to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend and I started going down to the pier to draw with chalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would bring coffee for the police and they would hang out and drink it while we drew murals with chalk. The next day we would go down to the strand and listen to the comments- “I wonder who did that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I like what it says” “That’s pretty”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s only chalk”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt encouraged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">My room-mate and I started to draw on the brick wall that blocked our front door from Inglewood Ave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the morning, cars would wait for the light to turn green on Artesia as they headed to the freeway. This was back in the day when no one was looking down at cell phones at every stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drew flowers and hearts and stars and smiling faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wrote messages like “Hootenanny is my magic word” or “Smile today” or my trademark saying “Wake Up and Frolic”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the years that we communicated with the increasing traffic, our chalk never caused anyone to lash out at us, or wash it off, or find our chalk a “Gateway to graffiti”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, when the messages faded and were no longer legible or attractive, we would wash it off ourselves, in order to have a new, clean canvas to work with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My neighbors began to leave chalk on our doorstep, and I interpreted that as encouragement to continue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">When my son was young, I started doing things like the “<a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150139562700818.305444.98898580817&type=3" target="_blank">WaxLips Brigade</a>” “<a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150878811220818.439647.98898580817&type=1&l=aa17b83f8a" target="_blank">Google Eyes</a>” and “<a href="http://funzonehome.blogspot.com/2008/04/toy-tagging-day-1.html" target="_blank">Toy tagging</a>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The toy tagging evolved into leaving tiny plastic mermaids around. Once I started posting photos on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Funism" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, and others participated, it turned into an international game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is much bigger than me, and anyone can play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made the world a smaller place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See: “<a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.403873925817.183633.98898580817&type=3" target="_blank">GlobalMaids</a>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://funzonehome.blogspot.com/2011/05/riding-in-la.html" target="_blank">The Wax Lips Brigade,</a> Toy Tagging, Mermaids.. All of these things (concepts? Projects? Movements?) can be filed under the heading “<a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Funism&defid=7143727" target="_blank">FUNism</a>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">FUNism- the ideology of FUN, the Religion of FUN.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Playing with chalk is part of <a href="http://funzonehome.blogspot.com/2009/07/chalk-cant-hurtyou.html" target="_blank">FUNism</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've been doing it for over 20 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My chalk activity increased when my son was young. We left messages on friend’s driveways, on sidewalks, near elementary schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The messages were well received. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made a difference in people’s days, helped to cheer people up and that made us feel good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was encouraged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I took my chalk back to the places where I spend the most time- primarily <a href="http://www.easyreadernews.com/73025/infamous-hermosa-beach-chalk-bandit-tells-all/" target="_blank">Hermosa Beach</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">The first time someone passed by me and yelled “That’s graffiti” I was sad and a little shocked. I don’t want to upset anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never for a moment figured that anyone would be against CHALK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reason I was down on the strand with my chalk was because I wanted to give the world a gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to give back to the community that I love so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">I sat back and anonymously watched others viewing the chalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>95% of the people who noticed would smile, or stop and take a photo, or comment about how much they love seeing these little surprises on the strand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I don’t even want to upset 5%, because <a href="http://www.easyreadernews.com/80192/funism-chalk-bandits-phrases-erased-hermosa-beach/" target="_blank">those 5%</a> have a right to peace and happiness as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I thought a compromise would be to come around regularly and wash off the chalk messages, as soon as they began to fade, or when they were there too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">At this point, the chalk thing has become such a <a href="http://www.easyreadernews.com/80858/hermosa-beach-funism-bandit-strikes-back-strand/" target="_blank">big deal</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have divided a community that I want to unite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was never trying to be subversive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in a strange way, I feel the chalk part of FUNism is almost “a calling.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">On Thanksgiving of 2012 I was going for a walk with a dear friend of mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While she stopped to get a drink, I wrote on the face of the stairs that lead to the bathroom: “You don’t have to know where you are going, just take the first step.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dog came up to investigate and while I was petting him, his owners asked me if I was the person who leaves chalk messages on the strand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave them the reply people more “mature” than I have advised me to give- “I cannot confirm or deny my involvement in that activity.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">“Well, we just love it and want to say thank you.” She said to me. “You’re welcome! It is me”, I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Happy Thanksgiving!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend next to me told them about how I left chalk messages on her driveway every week while her husband was recovering from a hit and run car accident and unable to walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as he was able, he sat at the computer and ordered a big box of chalk from her teacher’s supply catalog. That was Thanksgiving day 2011, exactly a year before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">“If you are not opposed, I would love to get your phone number and donate some chalk to you” the man said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">“I can always use more chalk, that would be fantastic” I gave them my phone number and a hug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Two days later I got a call, saying my chalk was ready to be picked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got their address and took my son there after school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their home was one I recognized, because they live on the strand and I always liked a particular piece of art they have decorating their yard. I was gifted a big brown grocery bag full of chalk and told when I need more to give them a call. As we walked away my son said to me “Mom, you have a chalk sponsor” and we both thought that was exciting and cool.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I have had other interactions with people that I can only interpret as encouragement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One time a lady came up to me and said “I have always wanted to catch you in the act, so I can thank you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your messages mean so much to me and have helped me in my darkest days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day I came down and read “Don’t stumble over something behind you”… she couldn't complete her sentence, tears welled up in her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped chalking, stood up and hugged her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I am so glad you like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you for telling me, YOU just made MY day brighter.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Situations like that are more common than you know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope to write about more of them in the future.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;">I believe this <a href="https://vimeo.com/139133637" target="_blank">4 minute movie</a> by super filmmaker Robin Fenlon explains <a href="https://vimeo.com/139133637" target="_blank">Funism </a>completely. </span></div>
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Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-62634034219667423062015-09-29T11:46:00.001-07:002017-02-03T15:00:41.368-08:00 Suicide Prevention Month<br />
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September, National Suicide Prevention month, is personal to
me because I have lost friends and family to suicide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask myself often if there was anything I
could have done to save them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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And here is my big step out of the closet- This is personal
to me because I have suffered from depression most of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least as far back as I can remember. </div>
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Before you start thinking that I am trying to “get
attention” or “looking for sympathy”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Know this: when I am in the deep dark hell of depression;
I typically do not want ANY attention, or interaction with anyone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I lose a lot of friends when I am depressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They tire of hearing my tale of woe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one likes a Debbie Downer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, you know what I do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I isolate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am tired of hearing myself be sad, and certainly don’t want to subject
the people I love to…to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like
the best way to be a friend is to let them off the hook- remove their
obligation to talk to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But depression
thrives in isolation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that too,
logically, but depression isn’t logical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You can’t necessarily critically think your way out of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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If I do risk interacting with people, they often think they
can “cure” me by pointing out all the reasons I have to NOT be depressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please believe me that this only makes things
worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s basically like telling a
person who is pregnant to suck in their tummy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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How can a person who spends their time promoting “Funism”
and “Random Acts of Kindness” be depressed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have said before that my Not-so-random-acts-of-Funism are purely
selfish acts of survival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I can
momentarily escape from the monster that is depression, I try to run to a place
to help others- to spread happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>More than once I have written in chalk- “The best way to make you feel
good is to make someone else feel better.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have faith in that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Funism is
my spiritual foundation.</div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I don’t have any easy answers for people who want to help
someone who is depressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can try to
be there- but you may get pushed away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You can invite them somewhere, but they may not be capable of leaving
their house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can call them, but they
may be sick of hearing their own voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
If you love them, try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If they say no, try again in a while; an hour, a day, a week later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Send a card, poke them on Facebook, do what
you can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do it for yourself, in case
they don’t survive, you can say “I did everything I could”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my heart, etched in scars, are the names
of people I wish I had tried harder for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Again, this is not a “cry for help” I am on my way to chalk
up the city- to leave a garden of painted skateboards for other people to
find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may save someone’s life today. </div>
<o:p></o:p>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-38007806129842080092015-09-13T17:00:00.003-07:002015-09-14T14:58:31.000-07:00A Short Film About Funism<span style="font-size: large;">A year ago I was contacted by an amazing artist/filmmaker named Robin Fenlon. He said he was interested in making a movie about Funism. Normally, I would avoid any contact like that- but Robin sent along a clip of his work and I was impressed, he is an amazing artist. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I think we became friends immediately. We have many common interests; extreme sports, making art, tying to make the world a better place, a deep love and devotion to Hermosa Beach. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A year later, I have a wonderful friend and this amazing four minute movie to show you-</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">a film by Robin Fenlon-</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Funism, it's only chalk.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/139133637" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> <a href="https://vimeo.com/139133637">Funism, It's Only Chalk...</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/robinfenlon">Robin Fenlon</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-29340612635113140102014-02-22T12:26:00.000-08:002014-07-16T21:29:31.830-07:00How I (may or may not) have become the Chalk Bandit.<div style="text-align: center;">
(All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.)<br />
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<br /></div>
<br /></div>
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</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I was born at South Bay Hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The South Bay is an interesting place to grow
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a very small town- Every time I
am out I run into someone I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like
that small town feeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many of us have
gone to school here and send our kids to the same schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my son is skating about town, there are
people keeping an eye on him (It takes a village). The South bay is also a very
big place- spread out (like the rest of Los Angeles) for miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it doesn't seem like a community at
all- Los Angeles is the city without a center and the South Bay is a community
with many hearts.</span></div>
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</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I've lived in most of the cities that are included in the
term “South Bay” but Hermosa has my heart because of its artist culture.
Hermosa was the center for Jazz music, the center for Punk Rock. 35 years ago I
saved my money to buy a pair of purple suede roller-skates from Wild Wheels- the
skate shop on the strand. I bought my first pair of Doc Martins at Re-Style, I
bought my first Bukowski book from Either-or-Bookstore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worked graveyard at Denny’s, worked a few
days at Uncle Stavros, worked for years at Rocky Cola.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">At 3:am when my shift was over at Rocky Cola, after serving
drunks on one side of the restaurant, and “friends of Bills” on the other, I
was often too wound up to head straight home to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend and I started going down to the
pier to draw with chalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would bring
coffee for the police and they would hang out and drink it while we drew murals
with chalk. The next day we would go down to the strand and listen to the
comments- “I wonder who did that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
liked what it says” “That’s pretty”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s
only chalk”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt encouraged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">My room-mate and I started to draw on the brick wall that
blocked our front door from Inglewood Ave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the morning, cars would wait for the light to turn green on Artesia
as they headed to the freeway. This was back in the day when no one was looking
down at cell phones at every stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
drew flowers and hearts and stars and smiling faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wrote messages like “Hootenanny is my
magic word” or “Smile today” or my trademark saying “Wake Up and Frolic”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the years that we communicated with the
increasing traffic, our chalk never caused anyone to lash out at us, or wash it
off, or find our chalk a “Gateway to graffiti”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact, when the messages faded and were no longer legible or
attractive, we would wash it off ourselves, in order to have a new, clean
canvas to work with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My neighbors began
to leave chalk on our doorstep, and I interpreted that as encouragement to
continue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_sEV-fZxqGpNM5Gqew41ngJENXEiBjSto5jHDS2x3f6uQWtfyckc6Zvx68uQqYRwlrHbQAcHr-IbGaX-qZXImjL55wRAAq-t3BsowlNM6rSGf0f91p81Sfx03SMwIb95oMmidpHZOO4E/s1600/Wax+Lips+Brigade.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_sEV-fZxqGpNM5Gqew41ngJENXEiBjSto5jHDS2x3f6uQWtfyckc6Zvx68uQqYRwlrHbQAcHr-IbGaX-qZXImjL55wRAAq-t3BsowlNM6rSGf0f91p81Sfx03SMwIb95oMmidpHZOO4E/s1600/Wax+Lips+Brigade.JPG" height="215" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">When my son was young, I started doing things like the “<a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150139562700818.305444.98898580817&type=3" target="_blank">WaxLips Brigade</a>” “<a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150878811220818.439647.98898580817&type=1&l=aa17b83f8a" target="_blank">Google Eyes</a>” and “<a href="http://funzonehome.blogspot.com/2008/04/toy-tagging-day-1.html" target="_blank">Toy tagging</a>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The toy tagging evolved into leaving tiny plastic mermaids around. Once
I started posting photos on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Funism" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, and others participated, it turned into
an international game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is much bigger
than me, and anyone can play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made
the world a smaller place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See: “<a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.403873925817.183633.98898580817&type=3" target="_blank">GlobalMaids</a>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://funzonehome.blogspot.com/2011/05/riding-in-la.html" target="_blank">The Wax Lips Brigade,</a> Toy Tagging, Mermaids.. All of these things
(concepts? Projects? Movements?) can be filed under the heading “<a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Funism&defid=7143727" target="_blank">FUNism</a>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">FUNism- the
ideology of FUN, the Religion of FUN. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Playing with chalk is part of <a href="http://funzonehome.blogspot.com/2009/07/chalk-cant-hurtyou.html" target="_blank">FUNism</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've been doing it for over 20 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My chalk activity increased when my son was
young. We left messages on friend’s driveways, on sidewalks, near elementary
schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The messages were well received.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made a difference in people’s days, helped
to cheer people up and that made us feel good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was encouraged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I took my
chalk back to the places where I spend the most time- primarily <a href="http://www.easyreadernews.com/73025/infamous-hermosa-beach-chalk-bandit-tells-all/" target="_blank">Hermosa Beach</a>.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The first time someone
passed by me and yelled “That’s graffiti” I was sad and a little shocked. I don’t
want to upset anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never for a
moment figured that anyone would be against CHALK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reason I was down on the strand with my
chalk was because I wanted to give the world a gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to give back to the community that I
love so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I sat back and anonymously watched others viewing the
chalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>95% of the people who noticed
would smile, or stop and take a photo, or comment about how much they love
seeing these little surprises on the strand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I don’t even want to upset 5%, because <a href="http://www.easyreadernews.com/80192/funism-chalk-bandits-phrases-erased-hermosa-beach/" target="_blank">those 5%</a> have a right to
peace and happiness as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I
thought a compromise would be to come around regularly and wash off the chalk
messages, as soon as they began to fade, or when they were there too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">At this point, the chalk thing has become such a <a href="http://www.easyreadernews.com/80858/hermosa-beach-funism-bandit-strikes-back-strand/" target="_blank">big deal</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have divided a community that I
want to unite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was never trying to be
subversive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in a strange way, I feel
the chalk part of FUNism is almost “a calling.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">On Thanksgiving of 2012 I was going for a walk with a dear
friend of mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While she stopped to get
a drink, I wrote on the face of the stairs that lead to the bathroom: “You don’t
have to know where you are going, just take the first step.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dog came up to investigate and while I was
petting him, his owners asked me if I was the person who leaves chalk messages
on the strand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave them the reply people
more “mature” than I have advised me to give- “I cannot confirm or deny my involvement
in that activity.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">“Well, we just love it and want to say thank you.” She said
to me. “You’re welcome. It is me”, I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Happy Thanksgiving!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend
next to me told them about how I left chalk messages on her driveway every week
while her husband was recovering from a hit and run car accident and unable to
walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as he was able, he sat at
the computer and ordered a big box of chalk from her teacher’s supply catalog.
That was Thanksgiving day 2011, exactly a year before.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“If you are not opposed, I would love to get your phone
number and donate some chalk to you” the man said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">“I can always use more chalk, that would be fantastic” I
gave them my phone number and a hug.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Two days later I got a call, saying my chalk was ready to be
picked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got their address and took
my son there after school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their home
was one I recognized, because they live on the strand and I always liked a
particular piece of art they have decorating their yard. I was gifted a big
brown grocery bag full of chalk and told when I need more to give them a call. As
we walked away my son said to me “Mom, you have a chalk sponsor” and we both
thought that was exciting and cool. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I have had other interactions with people that I can only
interpret as encouragement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One time a
lady came up to me and said “I have always wanted to catch you in the act, so I
can thank you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your messages mean so
much to me and have helped me in my darkest days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day I came down and read “Don’t stumble
over something behind you”… she couldn't complete her sentence, tears welled up
in her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped chalking, stood
up and hugged her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I am so glad you
like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you for telling me, YOU
just made MY day brighter.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Situations
like that are more common than you know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hope to write about more of them in the future. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/Funism" target="_blank"><img alt=" Mermaid in Rome" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD_Ynt9p4D85f9taqOX8tnaOujyXXY__5Pv1SVoQasAHzKnD5WygR9CugUFcOGw5ewkPI7inbuvR0vRhBpSdaVrrEBoYmyZKjIGov-9gMtCRcaEtTYGU2IrxhgfTexDt0vZeJe73tyYcw/s1600/romanMaid.JPG" height="176" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>Some people believe artists suffer to bring meaning to their art. I believe I make art to bring <a href="http://growingwildstory.blogspot.com/">meaning to my suffering.</a> </div>
Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-82631967333437538802011-09-05T22:29:00.001-07:002011-09-07T15:14:14.760-07:00Art Can't Hurt You<p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUA8msw9BCzE12WjJxhXyMNL-pGY45Iy48q98OQeyX0esxUTHRs9fezKAKm9nui1we5vZX_urZhkXVl8-gS_9BO6NSOLtnKyLAHVqEC8Gi7P_k6WdmXKzUiROyWotsPCINkGFyFDHTKOo/s1600/ARTcantHURT.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649118424537069154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUA8msw9BCzE12WjJxhXyMNL-pGY45Iy48q98OQeyX0esxUTHRs9fezKAKm9nui1we5vZX_urZhkXVl8-gS_9BO6NSOLtnKyLAHVqEC8Gi7P_k6WdmXKzUiROyWotsPCINkGFyFDHTKOo/s400/ARTcantHURT.JPG" /></span></a><br /><br /></p><br /><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">There is a fair that happens in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hermosa</span> beach every year over labor day weekend. It involves a lot of crowds and arts and crafts, kiddie rides like slides and things that spin, pink puffy cotton candy, giant sausages with grilled onions wrapped in aluminum foil. There is even a beer garden where you can see a Journey cover band that has their very own groupies- not Journey groupies, but Journey cover band groupies.<br /><br />To make the weekend's festivities more exciting for me, I went down on the Thursday before to add a bit of my own happiness, my own <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Fun-Zone-center-for-the-study-of-Funism/98898580817?ref=mf">FUNism</a></span> to the masses. My mission was simple: on either side of the strand entrance, I would put a message of joy and happiness for the fair people to read, to give them a smile, to help them think happy thoughts.<br /><br /><br />I share my fluffy thoughts with crayola chalk, the stuff kids use to play hopscotch and draw daisy's and dinosaurs on their driveways. Harmless. Good clean fun. Yet somehow, every time I go out with my chalk, I get people telling me that what I am doing is wrong. They just mumble it as they walk by. No one ever tries to actually confront me or discuss my motives or rights to my face, they just mumble words like grafitti and vandalism as they pass me by. These same people would never consider asking a person to pick up garbage they saw some litterbug throw on the street or pick up a cigarette that was tossed out a car window. I wish these closet vigilantes would ask someone to scrape up gum they just spat out their mouth onto the street or sidewalk and leave me and my chalk alone. </span><br /></p><br /><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp1iYhILgl6vZ9lVufqeBc80iCgGC79FTGQu5-M0afs4aeTRX-ETPFzsO2bcOqqnbSTxRRqYN17E6CszNH6qwcMqgCRpeMDedyG3G4za2KhyphenhyphenyniP_75-q19jTcXQHW8IWZKCkGTbsSpQk/s1600/criminal"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649337694198955506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp1iYhILgl6vZ9lVufqeBc80iCgGC79FTGQu5-M0afs4aeTRX-ETPFzsO2bcOqqnbSTxRRqYN17E6CszNH6qwcMqgCRpeMDedyG3G4za2KhyphenhyphenyniP_75-q19jTcXQHW8IWZKCkGTbsSpQk/s400/criminal" /></a><br />Somehow, because I am on my knees and coloring with chalk, I look like the person they should stop, a criminal easy enough to apprehend. Until the police come and put the cuffs on my wrists all I have to say is "Hell no I won't go!" The world needs a few less Starbucks cups laying around next to the McDonald's burger wrappers and a few more chalk daisys and stick people. One more message from the grave of Dr. Seuss saying "Fun is Good" in crayola chalk isn't going to hurt anyone. Sometimes I just have the need to ask the world to smile with me, to say hello! Occasionally I go back later and observe, and most people do get a smile out of it. My soul begs me to share my art. My O.C. D. demands that I bring along <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">handiwipes</span> to keep the dust on my hands to a minimum.<br /><br />But, this Thursday was different. This time a brave man came right up to me and started a dialog. </span><br /></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">As I started to chalk on the strand wall, a restaurant owner came up and asked me what I was doing.<br />I explained I was playing with chalk.<br />"Why?" he asks.<br />"Because it makes me happy" was my reply as I smiled up at him. "Because it's FUN".<br />"Does it wash off?" he wants to know.<br />"Of course, it will fade within just a few days, its just sidewalk chalk, like children play with, haven’t you ever played with sidewalk chalk? I ask.<br />"NO" He says, almost offended that I would assume he could do such a thing.<br />"Well then, that's our problem!" I declare, as I offer him a piece of beautiful deep blue chalk. "Here-try it."<br />"NO!" he says loudly and recoils.<br />"Why?" I ask him.<br />"I am afraid" he replies.<br />"You are <strong>afraid</strong> of chalk?" I ask.<br />He starts to back away from me as he says in his best grown up voice; "Don't you need a permit to do this? This is city property!"<br />I smile at him sweetly and reply "I don't need a permit to play with chalk and if this is city property, then it belongs to me." I continued with my message of JOY and left him with his fear of it. He walked back into his restaurant and was left with this message when I walked away.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TbNJTyxdGXeCZWQHPZMNve0paDOG9G5v1gpjADLhLewSd4HVanQYwnNzFSuuReXNESWV600niZrYSUL_GFZzbmTij4fKIUY3r2RpzPAvvV7XPqKgLYoSQu7-ru_b3bBj0Xzw9WPevVA/s1600/JOYSEPT2011.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649114576568488962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TbNJTyxdGXeCZWQHPZMNve0paDOG9G5v1gpjADLhLewSd4HVanQYwnNzFSuuReXNESWV600niZrYSUL_GFZzbmTij4fKIUY3r2RpzPAvvV7XPqKgLYoSQu7-ru_b3bBj0Xzw9WPevVA/s400/JOYSEPT2011.JPG" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />If you see someone without a smile<br />Give them one of yours.</span> </p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p>More Funism here: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Fun-Zone-center-for-the-study-of-Funism/98898580817?ref=mf">The Fun Zone; The Center for the Study of Funism</a></p>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-86549435352141796502011-06-21T17:03:00.000-07:002011-06-21T17:08:20.292-07:00Father's Day 2011<span style="font-size:130%;">This Father's Day I made new happy memories hanging out in Carmel Valley with Duke, Chris, Dustin, Jessica and their Mom; Lisa.<br />Here is a video of the boys jamming out down by the river. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">What a beautiful day, what a beautiful life indeed</span><br /><br /><iframe height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/21tiDbQyBRI" frameborder="0" width="425"></iframe>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-6497504437834835182011-05-19T06:11:00.000-07:002014-02-22T12:32:58.920-08:00Riding in L.A.<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 130%;">Nobody walks in LA. We all sit comfortable, or uncomfortable in our little metal and glass cells and strive to stay in our bubble untouched by others.
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 130%;"><br />Today I felt deep concern for a stranger, then overwhelming sadness and loss followed by such joy and hope and levity- in the course of perhaps 25 seconds. It was an entire day of emotions squashed and intensified like the rest of L.A. living. </span>
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<br />My morning started with breakfast with my Dad. We ate at a fairly well known place called Joes which is a family style restaurant- that means that we share a bench with other people who are having their own breakfast dates. Typical to all plans made in L.A. we had a date at 8am and so at 8:15 I had to use the cell phone to call to see where he was. "Oh I wish you would have called me" he said, "I had to move my cars- street sweeping" In L.A. cars take precedent over people. Parking tickets cost twice as much as breakfast dates so that just makes sense in numbers. I told my Dad I would wait and sat at that bench alone for 15 minutes. The waitress got my coffee order, but other than that, I had no human contact. There were people sitting next to me, on the same blue vinyl padded bench, an arms length away, I could smell their food and hear them chew, but we didn’t talk. It’s like we were all still in out cars.
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<br />When my dad showed up we were engaged in conversation, and I wasn't really aware of anyone around us. Towards the end of our meal, I dropped my purse on the ground and had to bend over to pick up my pen and wallet. I was at the very end of the bench, next to a window, my head below the table to retrieve my belongings. As I pulled myself and my purse back up above the table, a woman walked past the 8 other people sitting on the bench, slid a piece of paper onto my table top and walked away quickly. It was as if we were in Jr. High and she was passing a note, except that when I grabbed what she had left behind, it was simply a sticker sheet with all but 3 stickers missing. (2 of the stickers were Disney witches, and one a Disney warlock, but I am not even going to try to read into that). "Do you know her?" My dad asks. I look at the back of this lady’s head as she rushes out of the restaurant. "I can’t say I have ever seen her before in my life. Perhaps she thought I dropped this out of my purse? " I suggested. "She came over from the other side of the restaurant" My dad explained. I try to re-create the vague image I have of her in my mind- well-dressed, short hair- dyed a bright orange color that is obviously not natural but still socially acceptable in a work environment. "I have no idea who that woman is, or why she would leave this with me" I replied. My dad became frustrated, almost angry. "What the hell was that about? He demands, "Go ask her!" "Dad, I’m not going to chase her, I don’t really care. It doesn’t make any sense to me." My Dad surprised me when he dropped the issue. Letting go is not a family trait, so I suppose we both made great strides in our acceptance of whatever may be will be.
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<br />I meet my friend at the mall at 10 am. I need to buy a dress for a fancy semi formal function and I am not prepared. I wear combat boots, tights, mini skirts. Everything I own is black. I don’t wear heels. I don't own "Country club casual" but I did like the idea of the chance to get a bit dressed up. I had tried shopping by myself the day before with zero results. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 130%;">The entire time I am shopping for a posh party frock for this event, I am reminded of shopping with my Mom for my first ever real "Work party" when I was a manager in a restaurant at the age of 21. This particular restaurant we got to wear "costumes" dress up as kitschy waitresses from the 1950"s. I was having the same feelings shopping for the dress today as I did then; I want to look pretty, I want to look dressed up. But I want to look like ME! I don’t want to look like I am wearing my Mother’s clothes. When I show up at the place where people make more than me, and people are older and more established than me, I want to feel confident. I don’t want to feel under dressed or in loaner clothes – I want these folks to look at me and think- "She likes the way she looks." Maybe they would never tattoo their arms and dye their hair pink, but I look beautiful and comfortable and my outfit is congruent with me. I want to feel like Maria in West Side Story when I get dressed for the party.
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<br />After trying all the stores that I know are cheaper, more practical, I finally go to the store I love, the store I can’t afford, and I find the dress. No I find TWO dresses that I love and would be pained to leave behind. They are so far out of my budget that I should have never even tried them on. For some reason, the sales person in there was helpful and nice, in spite of my budget clothes I arrive in. She smiled, she helped, and she earned her commission. I suppose these days it shouldn't be important to be these days that the sales competent at her job, in addition to taking my money but it is.
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<br />I left my friend and went home to see the dog, leave my 2 new pretty dresses and then go get my boy from school. I was exhausted and ready for a nap, but had a long drive ahead of me. My Mom was still heavy on my mind, but I had pushed her into my subconscious. I was really just aware of the good times, nothing sad or morose. I came to a stoplight that has a very dangerous crosswalk. There was an old woman crossing and something about her build, or her outfit or her pep in her step made me think that perhaps if my mom had lived longer she may have looked like that. I was concerned for her crossing the street and looked all around to make sure no cars were speeding towards her. I rarely do this anymore, but something compelled me to say out loud- "I love you Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot about you." I said it loud enough for the sound of my own voice to suddenly twist my face in pain and bring tears to my eyes, but certainly quiet enough that my stereo and closed windows kept anyone else from hearing what I said. My deep sadness shocked me, my voice shocked me and I wiped the tears from my eyes as quickly as they came. The old woman crossed the street safely and I felt glad for her safety.
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<br />Then I felt someone from the car next to me looking at me. It was a young boy- maybe 23 or so, handsome and boyish and full of sparkle in his eyes. He looked right at my twisted face, smiled the most genuine smile as if we were old friends and waved to me in the most cheerful hello. My smile was sudden, involuntary, unexpected and welcome. I smiled and waved back and he seemed satisfied, gave me a nod and turned his head forward again, kind of bopping and dancing to the music in his car. How did he feel me? How did he know I needed a friend? An L.A. friend; only passing in his bubble while I’m in mine.
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<br />We are so connected as people, no matter how we surround ourselves in glass and metal and unshared thoughts and grief. He touched my heart with that smile and took my grief from me. He gave me hope. In him I saw myself as a carefree girl before my Mom died. I saw an image of my son a few years from now, with his whole life in front of him and his security around him. In the 50 seconds or less that I was at that crosswalk, I felt concern for a stranger, I felt deep sadness for the loss of someone most dear, I felt gratitude and joy. This was not insignificant. This was not just some moment in time that washes over you. This left a mark deep inside me that has changed me. This moment has given me gratitude. This moment gave me something more. That smile changed the course of my day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 130%;">I imagine logically that he must have looked over at me, saw my face filled with grief and he just thought he’d try to say "Hey". But no one says "Hey" in LA. and honestly I don’t think he was looking at me that long. He was watching to see that the old lady got across the street safely also. I think he felt me. I believe he felt my pain and reached right out of his bubble. No one ventures out of their bubble, not even if you are sitting alone next to them for 15 minutes in a restaurant.
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<br />I wonder again about the lady at breakfast with the stickers. Did she need a smile? Did I miss the cue I was supposed to see? Did she see me as the person who needed more than I was getting from my own little bubble at that moment? Did I not even know it? </span>
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<br />So I gather my emotions, and do the best I can to act like a stable person, a responsible person who can handle the most daunting task of raising a 12-year-old boy. I pick him up and he is excited about his day, excited about the drive we need to take 20 miles away to Hollywood. We talk for a while about school, homework, substitute teachers, what he had for lunch. After a while, when our talk had slowed down and I was off the freeway and on surface streets in Los Angeles, I do what I often do and put on my wax lips. Similar to the feeling I used to get when I was a smoker and would absent-mindedly smoke an entire cigarette and then feel like I never had one; I often forget that I even have them in my mouth.
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<br />I had my lips on in the car for a while, and my son had his head down looking at the phone or the ipod or his hands or any of the things that keep tween-aged boys head in a constant downward position. At I stoplight I heard laughing. Next to me were two tough looking dudes, riding low and deep back in the seats of their dark Honda. They looked tough, but they were looking at me with smirks on their face and when I turned my head to look at them they started laughing. I pulled a spare pair of lips from the center console of my car. I rolled down the window and the guy closest to me says, "I was hoping you’d look at me! I tossed him the package of wax lips- "Wear these and make other people smile" I told him.
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<br />Their faces changed. These 27 year-old tough guys looked like they were 8 and it was Christmas morning. That man grabbed that package of lips and ripped them open like he just got a new X-box. He put them in his mouth and his eyes were so bright and smiling, he gave me his tough guy pose- head cocked back and flashed me the peace sign, and drove off. I wish I could have caught up with them again and got a photo. I thought of all the other people that would be driving by them and seeing the wax lips and laugh, and then possibly pass me and see me wearing mine.
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<br />I don’t know why I have such a desperate need to connect with strangers- to try to bring a brief moment of joy. I wear wax lips in public; I make chalk murals in the street. I leave tiny plastic mermaids in unsuspecting places for people to find like treasures. It’s not art, it a movement. It’s <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Funism" target="_blank">FUNISM</a>. <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Funism&defid=7143727" target="_blank">Fun as a religion</a>. It's my way of trying to lure the people I meet in to trying to be nice to one another.
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<br />We are all here alone in our bubbles. Why does that have to be?
<br />Why are we not waving and smiling when we see some old 40 year old crying in the car next to us? I am so thankful for that young boy's smile today, he changed my mood. Because of him my mood changed quickly and I was able to be a better mother. Because my mood changed I felt inspired to put on my wax lips and then I changed the mood of 2 men that looked like they would have never went out and bought wax lips on their own. Who knows how many people smiled when they saw them with the lips on? Why can’t we all have a little more silliness in our lives? Isn’t it silly to pass thousands of people every day and NEVER make eye contact? Is it any less silly to want to see people smile at you?</span>
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<br />Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-5814141661593459282011-05-05T10:11:00.000-07:002011-05-05T17:08:35.251-07:00Memories of Mom<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3P6mx3MdYWGuXntQ8OtQKJYxLtIuVI4PpejGezuSM35Ml63sTMsXTcaW9vpQq0W6E47kH7i_RFnQ-ZBXEdY7L5l9nm8Mycv5hxP185oVuj8W6Uc_KFplKoMDz8qkjit5aIyPwwU3xo9A/s1600/momfrom+TV.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603284369595255954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3P6mx3MdYWGuXntQ8OtQKJYxLtIuVI4PpejGezuSM35Ml63sTMsXTcaW9vpQq0W6E47kH7i_RFnQ-ZBXEdY7L5l9nm8Mycv5hxP185oVuj8W6Uc_KFplKoMDz8qkjit5aIyPwwU3xo9A/s400/momfrom+TV.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">I can’t remember my mom ever sleeping. My entire life living with her she would go to bed after I did and when I woke up she would be at the kitchen table drinking coffee-already showered, hair already dried. I do remember her owning robes and slippers so I don’t know where that falls into the picture except to say that my mom was modest. I never saw her naked, never saw her in her underpants and only remember seeing her in a swimsuit when I was in my early 20’s. We took a water aerobics class together and when she came out from the dressing room in her modest 1 piece suit I was in awe of her. "Oh my God Mom! Look at you! You are so beautiful, look at that figure"! She laughed at my reaction and told me I had the same body --but it wasn’t true. </span><br /></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">My Mom had a class and grace I have never seen in another person, ever. I’ve seen actresses try to convey it on screen and they can’t even pretend that as well as my mom lived it. She could accept a compliment or give one in the most genuine way. Years ago I wanted to have this quality that she had but I’ve quit trying. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">My Mom’s coffee cups had little feet on them, and delicate handles and rims that tipped slightly out at the top and the material was so thin you could sometimes see through it. She drank from the pot of weak coffee that she would brew in the morning all day long, </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">My Mom had amazing table manners and even tough she grew up very poor and underprivileged in Detroit, you would have guessed she dined with the Queen every night. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />My Mom never complained or gossiped and kept all of her emotions and feelings inside. If I so much as stub a toe, I need to tell every person I meet every detail about it. My Mom was terminally ill with cancer, dealing with a mentally ill son and a fiscally irresponsible ex husband and had a pot-head daughter who occasionally modeled nude for art classes. All anyone knew about My Mom's world unraveling at the end of her life was that her office door was closed more often. </span><br /></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">My Mom was an amazing woman; our relationship was often much less than amazing. We mainly didn’t get along, but luckily for me, the last few years of her life she and I made peace. When I think about where she came from- an absent racist, alcoholic father, a meek subservient mother living in poverty- I see that my Mom gave me so much more than she ever had. She gave me so much more than you could ever expect a person of that background would be capable of giving. </span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />My mom rarely spoke of her past and the small amount of information I have I've collected from my grandparents and photos and the very rare fleeting references my mom would make. She never spoke about her heritage much but when she was older and preparing to die she started to mention our Chippewa Indian heritage and tried to help my Grandpa preserve his small percentage of reservation land. </span><br /></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">My mom took me to Minnesota to see where I came from and meet other relatives of mine that share the same Chippewa bloodline. But some memory of that place hurt her. Some relative in that group had hurt her and the entire trip went bad in such a way I had never seen. Even then, in her anger/hatred/bitterness she was in such control that I never dare ask for specifics. </span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />When she died and I saw her body she looked like an old wise Indian woman. I had to identify her body and it was difficult because it was as if I was seeing her for the first time. She was just a small, delicate woman, not the giant I knew. Having to identify her body helped me come to terms with the idea that she was only human, when so many of us viewed her as something much greater than that. </span><br /></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Happy Mother’s day Mom. I miss you each and every day.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXGbRw1SAV9jJ8rucETv9N0dKaisqfAjkFUYueCTOJa_y9bhsXn9Kz99E-h1zQ2W5auHVDHeN_T1cSoKZ5uC1kyhzSIPBf4Fkta33PNvQkCqiBmFoN_avd_Cg2AE60X2EF2XpNGY0f9o/s1600/Menmom2.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 293px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603281728978002258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXGbRw1SAV9jJ8rucETv9N0dKaisqfAjkFUYueCTOJa_y9bhsXn9Kz99E-h1zQ2W5auHVDHeN_T1cSoKZ5uC1kyhzSIPBf4Fkta33PNvQkCqiBmFoN_avd_Cg2AE60X2EF2XpNGY0f9o/s400/Menmom2.jpg" /></a></div></div>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-52820717319408215442011-04-20T13:38:00.000-07:002014-02-23T08:18:27.222-08:00Quest for SmilesI like to make life FUN, for myself and other people. I hide toys in people's houses, I do chalk murals on friend's driveways. Recently FUN people have been participating in my new artistic movement, my not-so-secret-society called "The Wax Lips Brigade" if you wanna play, grab some delicious Wax Lips and send me your picture. I update the photos often on Facebook/funism. Life should be FUN so why not wear wax lips while you drive to work? You will be surprised how many people you can make smile.<br />
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Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-66711165183925016782010-10-16T14:39:00.000-07:002014-02-20T21:01:08.733-08:00The EelWhen I was 18 and living on my own I saw a freshwater moray eel at the pet store. I immediately had my boyfriend help me set up a freshwater tank so that I could bring this strange pet home and call my own.
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The eel at the time was about 12 inches long, about as thick as my pointer finger and a dark caramel color. He was the most unusual freshwater fish anyone had ever seen and I began to collect other unusual fish for my tank. I had a needle nose gar that ate mini guppies. I had painted glass fish in a variety of fluorescent colors. I had two blue fish that would meet lip to lip and push each other back and forth across the tank- it was if they were fighting with kisses.
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The eel looked pretty creepy-always opening and closing his mouth just like the big eels you see at aquariums and on TV shows about the ocean. He would burrow into the colored gravel at the floor of the tank and kind of bob in and out of the decorative lava rocks. His funny eel characteristics made him seem to have much more of personality than most fish that just swim around in tanks.
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He began to have other strange habits, like always swimming up to the top of the tank and climbing into the out of tank filter and hiding. I would search the tank and when I noticed he was missing I would have to open the outside filter and dump him back in to the tank. I never wanted to touch him because he was a creepy water snake with a strange tooth filled mouth. He was fun to look at, but I didn't want to touch him.
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Another funny thing he did was attempt suicide. Often I would come home from work and find him on the ground, a much darker brown than he was in the water. From being out of the water so long, he would be shriveled up and wrinkled. The first time this happened, I was certain that he was dead, but put him back in the water just in case. He quickly turned the lighter color and wiggle through the water and was as good as new.
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These suicide attempts became a regular course of events. When my boyfriend moved in with me I explained to him the coming home ritual. First thing when we came home we had to check to see if the eel was still in the tank. If the eel was gone, we had to check the filter and if he wasn’t there we had to search the floor. I told him no matter what the eel looked like, no matter how dead he seemed we had to put him back in the water and he would come back to life. Sometimes he would be out of the tank for hours before we put him in the water, but each time he could come back to life. Re-animated eel.
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The suicidal eel carried on like this for years. I had to move into my Mom’s condo for a few months, and I brought my fish tank with me. My Mom, who didn’t like snakes wasn’t very keen on me moving a water snake into her house. I assured her that he didn’t bite. He never did bite me, but he did have those creepy teeth. I explained to her it’s suicidal ways, and asked he to please follow the eel suicide watch protocol and put him back into the tank if she found him. She said there was no way she could pick him up and put him in the water. I suggested she use rubber dish gloves, even tongs or salad forks if she had to.
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For the few months I lived with my Mom she never had to pick up the eel. I only had to grab him off the floor a few times myself and was always happy that my Mom’s small dog didn’t eat him while he was on the floor.
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I was leaving on a trip for a week, and assured my Mom that the eel would be on his best behavior. I left knowing the eel may be successful in his suicide attempt with me gone and my mom in charge of re-animating him. I left hoping for the best.
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When I returned, the eel wasn’t in the tank. He wasn’t in the filter and he wasn’t on the floor. When my Mom came home from work I asked what happened and she told me he had made his final jump to the death. She found him on the floor the day after I left. He was dark brown and wrinkled and she decided it was pointless to put him back in the tank. She figured he was past the point of re-animation.
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<br />
Not knowing if I wanted to bury him or flush him or trash him, my Mom grabbed him with a paper towel wrapped him up and put him in a zip lock bag and then put him in the freezer. He was in the freezer for several days before I got home from my trip.
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I had this eel for many years and we had been through a lot together. He had taught me something about perseverance and having a strong will to live. I decided I wanted to stretch him out and seal him on a plaque. As I unzipped the bag and unrolled the paper towel, the thought occurred to me that maybe he still wanted to live. I opened the fish tank lid and let his frozen wrinkled brown paper towel lint covered body fall into the water.
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<br />
He sunk to the bottom and I was sad knowing that he had his last fling. I always joked that he was trying to evolve and live on land and that one day he may just sprout legs and walk away. I was sad that I didn’t get to witness his evolution. I was sad that my Mom didn’t put him in the water when she first found him.
<br />
<br />
Just when I was about to pull him out of the tank, he moved very slowly. His next movement was a bit faster and then in a rapid jerking motion he burrowed his body completely into the gravel floor covering. A few more wiggles and he emerged from the gravel without any lint on him, and back to his beautiful dark caramel color. He slid through the water like he had never been frozen for days. He had survived another attempt.
<br />
<br />
What if we could push ourselves out of our comfort zone like the eel? What if we tried to just leave our normal world and risk all to try a different way? Perhaps the eel is a good example of striving to "live outside of the box" and surviving against all odds? Imagine if we had the ability to survive for hours or days completely out of our natural element? Most days I feel like I can’t survive a chill for more than 10 minutes without my sweater.
<br />
<br />
Or maybe he is a bad example- maybe he really was a quitter and suicidal? Maybe I prolonged his life years longer than he wanted? Imagine if every time we felt like jumping ship, someone came along and picked us up? Would we be grateful? Would we feel inspired to make something better of our life? Would we just come to expect it and throw ourselves out of the water at every chance, knowing the safety net is there?
<br />
<br />
Who knows what the lesson of the eel is. Perhaps it’s different for each of us. There probably isn't a lesson here at all. I just know that he was a survivor and a super cool and interesting pet. I have never seen another one in a pet store, or I would set up a tank just to have another one.
<br />
<br />
The eel lived for several more years. I had a new roommate who had pets of his own; cats. The eel jumped out several times and became a live plaything for the cats. I would come home and find him scraped and scarred in another room, carry him to the tank and re-animate him.
<br />
<br />
Eventually the cats won. The eel just couldn’t beat them up and eventually they did too much damage. One day I put him in the water and he just didn’t revive. He was done. I wanted to keep him around as a conversation piece. I wanted him around to bring up his story and tell people about his amazing eel life.
<br />
<br />
I tried attaching his body to a plaque and coated him with resin, but I didn’t know what I was doing so he shriveled up to just a twig compared to what he once was. I said goodbye and put him in the trash.
Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-43261149843633094062010-09-15T18:13:00.000-07:002010-09-15T18:13:46.613-07:00Jaan Pehechaan Ho<object style="BACKGROUND-IMAGE: url(http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/FyEnG_DEB1I/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FyEnG_DEB1I?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FyEnG_DEB1I?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-60478302292320262802010-05-06T12:25:00.000-07:002010-05-06T12:33:58.035-07:00May 6th<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUBp1tVeOfUUAgC65iYK0-aaBdISW5W_JlC0nwpdwiFQwkzqzbyhYpEis_eye-bG3PZ-TJ15rZPlR7mkdTLP4hxnbsmpmqjiO2GhJ5OdicAtPdt0s9avhi3_CnnAvh5wm5L0v5NpLAtY/s1600/May+06+CR+035.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468241526087524290" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUBp1tVeOfUUAgC65iYK0-aaBdISW5W_JlC0nwpdwiFQwkzqzbyhYpEis_eye-bG3PZ-TJ15rZPlR7mkdTLP4hxnbsmpmqjiO2GhJ5OdicAtPdt0s9avhi3_CnnAvh5wm5L0v5NpLAtY/s400/May+06+CR+035.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><span style="font-size:130%;">I love to leave art on friend's sidewalks or driveways. I always keep chalk in my car- just in case the need arises.<br /></span><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhjrYcBDUEAFHqOck6x5E5yLyX-VAha9MqsqcAhVp4GUvFUwPHZ6utFy0s-1y2C1jZFkjmKdOte2GLhYxaDilRiCybXUyZn8tClVKbvporLA6XzeypM-9bWnOOlR37eUpaON18NOWtD0/s1600/May+06+CR+033.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468240780638183090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhjrYcBDUEAFHqOck6x5E5yLyX-VAha9MqsqcAhVp4GUvFUwPHZ6utFy0s-1y2C1jZFkjmKdOte2GLhYxaDilRiCybXUyZn8tClVKbvporLA6XzeypM-9bWnOOlR37eUpaON18NOWtD0/s400/May+06+CR+033.jpg" /></a></div><div>Today is the anniversary of my Mother's death. I miss her a lot. When I look at my hands, I think of her, I have her hands. I have her rings. I don't have her hand to hold. My hands make chalk art for people I love, like my friend Doreen who was born on this day. So today I will celebrate my mother's life, and I will celebrate <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Doreen's</span> life, and I will celebrate my own life. </div><div>Fun is Good</div><div> </div>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-12994203809252880212010-05-04T12:02:00.000-07:002010-05-04T12:09:11.400-07:00Doug<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqgC1vJbmbcYMTz4IVODz4ExkX5muCa6QCdIIEQC6d8qBodKmWX4ZWcr12V8N1jKsTn1z5VyzOrKHBT7Men4aR35DX2_WcF0k2V3MdWfe-pDYa_kP8NV4LEMVkMDu-oK5WxLImWzZzXZo/s1600/May+04+002.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467492706424112578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqgC1vJbmbcYMTz4IVODz4ExkX5muCa6QCdIIEQC6d8qBodKmWX4ZWcr12V8N1jKsTn1z5VyzOrKHBT7Men4aR35DX2_WcF0k2V3MdWfe-pDYa_kP8NV4LEMVkMDu-oK5WxLImWzZzXZo/s400/May+04+002.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I chalk tagged my friend's house today. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">A heart with wings heading to the stars to symbolise her late husband. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">3 flowers blooming beautiful tied together with a bow symbolizing the family he left behind. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />A year ago today a wonderful friend of mine died. His smile is in my mind. His family's tears are in my heart.<br /><br />We miss you Doug.<br /></span>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-55644859862986337362010-03-11T13:37:00.000-08:002010-03-21T19:29:00.666-07:00Ghost<span style="font-size:130%;">When I was 21 I started working with my Mom. She had a mortgage company and I ran her escrow department. After many years of a very strained relationship, we had finally come to a place where we respected each other and depended on each other and spoke to each other every day. On the weekends I would live my normal 21 year old life- skating ramps wearing my "die yuppie scum" T-shirt. Palm Springs weekends with my friends. During the week my mom was very happy with me while I was posing as a grown up.<br /><br />I would often call my Mom when I had a problem with a friend or my roommate or a boyfriend. She would listen and occasionally give advice. Around the time I was 22 or 23 years old my Mom started doing this annoying thing on the phone when I would call upset or crying about a problem. She would tell me "Put your right hand on your left shoulder" and I would say okay and not do it. "Are you doing it?" "I want you to really do it and not just say your are. " "Yeah yeah"…I would think in my head. She would say "Now put your left hand on your right shoulder and give yourself a big hug and know it’s from me." I wondered where she picked up this annoying habit. I would occasionally comply and feel totally ridiculous, other times I would lie and say I was doing it and just go along and wonder to myself when my Mom had become such a sentimental emotional person. She sounded like a hallmark card.<br /><br />When I was 24 my Mom closed up her offices suddenly. I had no idea why she did but I was left to find a job and try to keep all the things I had grown to enjoy. I was once again faced with the question "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I went back to waiting on tables and I started to study photography. I got a darkroom set up in my bedroom and began to make a bit of money shooting pictures. I was just starting to take risks with my life and I felt like I was possibly on the right track to a happy, productive, independent life. I felt like a real grown up instead of just posing as one. <br /><br />My Mom died when I was 25. She had cancer and never told anyone about it. Not anyone. She was sick for several years and kept that sickness entirely to herself. Her death was sudden and unexpected and so traumatic and painful. It became clear why she so suddenly closed up her office. It became clear why she became this talking hallmark card. I was so thankful for the time I had with her and the deep bond that we managed to build in spite of the baggage from my teen years.<br /><br />Every problem in my life was compounded because I didn’t have a Mommy anymore. When I fell while skating and got 2nd degree burns on my leg, I didn’t have a Mommy to bandage me or loan me money for the doctor or help with the rent because I missed several days of work. So then in addition to having burning pain in my infected leg, I had the problem of possible eviction from my home. I felt like a child again, an orphan lost in a dark world where I didn’t have a hand to hold. To have my safety net pulled out from under me at that age was very crippling. I didn’t have another adult to rely on.<br /><br />My life continued to crumble after my Mother’s death. I remained in a relationship that was abusive, I had a steady stream of roommates that moved without warning, leaving me strapped financially. I always felt my mother’s presence around me, I would talk to her and felt like she was watching over me. It hurt to know that I would never hear her talk back.<br /><br />Talking to a ghost is not as helpful as a hug from your Mom.<br /><br />I remember lying on the floor during one particularly trying time and crying. I spoke out loud to my Mom; "Please give me the strength that you had, give me the wisdom, give me the answers that you would give to me if you were here. Mom I need you so badly to help me through this, I need to feel your strength instead of feeling like a lost little child".<br /><br />I swear I could hear her voice so clearly, in my mind, not out loud, but still as clear as ever. She told me to put my right hand on my left shoulder and my left hand on my right shoulder. I felt stupid laying on my floor with tears streaming down my face, but this time I couldn't pretend I was doing it, like I did when she and I were on the phone. I had to actually do it because I was sure that she was watching over me. As I hugged myself I could feel her spirit move through me. I could smell her. I could feel her strength, her wisdom, her soul.<br /><br />At that moment when I was hugging myself and feeling my Mom hug me I realized that all the years that she was annoying me with her "give yourself a hug routine" over the phone, she knew she was dying. She knew there would be a day when I would miss her so terribly and she wouldn’t be there for me. She was trying to find one last way to connect, and did so without ever letting on that she was suffering and dying. When I think of the sadness she must have felt. How alone she must have felt knowing she would die and leave everyone she loved and she chose to do that alone instead of burden anyone. She made sacrifices that I have never known any person be capable of making. My Mom had more strength than any person I have ever met. Ever.<br /><br /><br />It was so bittersweet to feel my Mom’s hug. I don’t know how to describe it, but I know that other people have felt this sensation. That is why there are those scenes in movies like "Ghost", or "City of Angels" because others have tried to convey this feeling, this experience and they are much better at it than I am. It is to this day, the closest I’ve ever come to a religious experience. The closest I’ve ever been to God.<br /><br />I know, I know, it’s in my head, that wasn’t real. I can imagine all the things I would think to myself if I were reading this instead of writing it. But I know what I felt. It was her- my Mom’s spirit. One last hug that she managed to touch me with.<br /><br />I read somewhere that Houdini and his wife had agreed on a secret word so that if or when he died if she was to seek a psychic she was not to believe that psychic was in contact with Houdini unless they could come up with this word. Of course, no psychic could ever tell Houdini’s wife this word, so she never felt like she could contact him in the afterlife. This telephone hug, this one-person hug that my Mom had given me for years was her secret Houdini word. She knew that someday I would need her and she would be able to hug me one last time.<br /><br />That was last time I was able to feel my Mom’s presence around me. I think her spirit just left after that, and knew I would be okay. I no longer felt her around me in the same strong way as I once did. I miss the feeling of that spiritual safety net.<br /><br />We have moved into a new home, with new sounds and new creeks and my son sometimes thinks that there are ghosts around making that noise. I tell him it’s just the noises the house makes. In my heart I wish so badly that it is a ghost and not just some structural problem that remains hidden in the ceiling- some future expense that I hope we can prepare for. I want so badly for it to be my Mom watching over him, someday giving him a hug that he will otherwise never get to feel. I want my mother’s strength and wisdom to pass through me to him. I want my ghost. I miss my ghost. Please let it be a ghost</span>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-33192198461463438312010-02-26T11:27:00.000-08:002011-03-02T13:53:06.054-08:00Value<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lJVkaHt8uTIANP0HbSOD4MyPDS7aE-MZavNC8s_M2mH5g6LiwK9TXGSdduZlV_KTlhWC8WRH0CFm3oLoyCCshHwOsouPQVBTQe6R_Tlq-kZG2xAURrCSIL0r3E7Xk3cKGyDPGoQ51aQ/s1600-h/KPR+004.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 268px; HEIGHT: 182px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442670601923268098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lJVkaHt8uTIANP0HbSOD4MyPDS7aE-MZavNC8s_M2mH5g6LiwK9TXGSdduZlV_KTlhWC8WRH0CFm3oLoyCCshHwOsouPQVBTQe6R_Tlq-kZG2xAURrCSIL0r3E7Xk3cKGyDPGoQ51aQ/s400/KPR+004.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I believe it was my brother's 14th birthday when he got a nickel in a box from my Mom. I don't know if it was something he asked her for, or if she thought it up all her own, but that nickel was very powerful in our family and defined relationships, communication and sadly; value.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Whoever thought of it, the idea was simply that once a day, every day of my brother's 14th year, my mom and he would connect. She would give him the nickel and tell him "Happy Birthday Son! I am glad you were born!" He proudly saved the nickels in stacks on his bookshelf, each week there was a pile of 7 more. 7 more confirmations of support, 7 more expressions of love.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />I thought the idea was brilliant and touching and sweet. At the end of the year you would only have $18.25- which was not a lot of money back then, but you would have had 365 moments to connect with Mom. Moments when no matter what problems Mom was having in her day, or what problems had occurred in his- there was going to be that one moment where that stuff didn't matter and she would tell her son; "Happy Birthday! Thank you for being my child."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">My brother's birthday is in April, so when my birthday came in July I asked my Mom if I could have a nickel too. I was told no. It would be unfair to my brother. It was explained to me that the sentiment between she and him would somehow be diluted by my getting a nickel too. I was told that he was good at saving money and I was not and therefore I'd never be able to stack all 365 nickels on the shelf without spending them. Well, it was their thing, I told myself, and not mine. I needed to think hard to somehow create a special ritual with my Mom. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The following year for my brother's birthday, my Mom and he went shopping together and spent the $18.00 on a gift of my brother's choosing. Later that night while we had cake and ice cream as a family, he received another small box- this one containing a dime. My brother was happily surprised at this gift, because he was certain that the previous nickel was a one-year deal- and now this next year, he would end up with twice as much, and almost $40.00 wasn't too bad for a 15-year-old kid in the 1980's.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">When my birthday rolled around in July, I asked again if I could have a nickel. I figured he was now getting twice as much, so my nickel couldn't possibly affect the arrangement between them. I explained to my Mom I was older, and much more capable of saving money and that we could make a deal that at the end of the year, if I spend even .05cents of the money, she could have it all back. It would be a lesson in saving as well as a chance for us to connect every day too. I was told no.</span><br /><br /><div><div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJprGWLDn2Cr9BWIewaqdM30iTRmB2Lnk30hN9UNFUZ2qAGZiWQ4ZUTJ2lqardH7lKms3Jkokyo5CbrP5krWtQjTbK9DG8nEN_jorH9swn4a5lNrStK5JW_Rnv0EROazXyk1HNpOw447c/s1600-h/IMG_7990.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 154px; HEIGHT: 185px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442668469820219394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJprGWLDn2Cr9BWIewaqdM30iTRmB2Lnk30hN9UNFUZ2qAGZiWQ4ZUTJ2lqardH7lKms3Jkokyo5CbrP5krWtQjTbK9DG8nEN_jorH9swn4a5lNrStK5JW_Rnv0EROazXyk1HNpOw447c/s400/IMG_7990.JPG" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />That year my resentment grew at the rate of one dime a day. Each pile that was stacked on his bookshelf was like a monument to their love and their relationship that seemed so strong and so different than the relationship I had with my Mom. I began to feel like I wasn't actually worth a dime a day, or even a nickel, and in some ways I suppose I wasn't. I'm sure my Mom didn't consciously try to create that feeling of inferiority or worthlessness. But when I looked at the facts- he was worth 10 times more than I was every day. </span></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHkD5mesXVirlnwrLUSoUGqMZRimzT-wj_g3egcqPzysjilyVkKDvOXDPVpvViFgG_X1filSpawKYnGBgHvYn5D7n3Ab0ICddYeyvMTRWoH1TiAKIHLUL32EdDW4gfpz4xuXif56Wa7o/s1600-h/IMG_7988.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 317px; HEIGHT: 181px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442669498888658594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHkD5mesXVirlnwrLUSoUGqMZRimzT-wj_g3egcqPzysjilyVkKDvOXDPVpvViFgG_X1filSpawKYnGBgHvYn5D7n3Ab0ICddYeyvMTRWoH1TiAKIHLUL32EdDW4gfpz4xuXif56Wa7o/s400/IMG_7988.JPG" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><div><br />During that year, their closeness became a wedge between my Mom and me. I felt I couldn't get in. The dimes were everywhere as a reminder that I had no value in my family. Mom stacked her dimes in the kitchen cupboard, he stacked his on the most prominent shelf in his room. Every day they would hug and giggle and say "Happy Birthday" and "Thank you for being my family" and I felt excluded. More and more excluded until I no longer felt a part of that family at all. Of course our family had tons of other problems, the dime thing was just something visible I could focus on. </div><div><br />The following birthday he got a quarter! Now he was going to have more than double of what he had the year before. I knew enough that I didn't ask for any special daily ritual. I knew enough to just hide, stay invisible or stay angry. I did a lot of that.<br />I see this type of situation happening all around me- parents who seem so intelligent and loving but will say out loud; "If I knew how hard this one was going to be, I would have stopped with one." or "My son is so cute or talented or more socially adept than his sister". I don't understand why they can't see how damaging it can be to the child who isn't the easy one. Don't they understand that just by saying those things to children they can make them true? If so-and-so always hears they are the "difficult" child, will they ever believe they can be anything else? I grew up thinking I wasn't worth a nickel and believe me, by the time I was a teenager I was making sure everyone else knew that too. </div><div> </div><div></div><div>You can’t call a child a slob over and over and then expect them to clean their room. </div><div><br />I am a Mom now, so I understand a lot more about why my parents did the things they did. I understand many of the choices they made and although I don't agree with them, or I think I would have found another way, I still understand why they felt they had no other choice. </div><div><br />My parents did the best they could, and coming from how they were raised, they have done 100% better. Isn't that all we can really hope for as parents? To improve upon what we had. Take the good and bring it along and revise the bad or make it go away.<br />Even with all that justification, I just can’t figure out why I couldn't have a nickel. Why would anyone have two children and consistently give one child some things they would never consider giving the other? Again, I am not talking about just the nickels, but other things as well. The nickels were just a symbol for the effort my Mom put into maintaining a loving relationship with her son.</div><div><br />So, when your Mom is dead and you can't ask her as an adult "Hey, what was the real reason you couldn't give me a nickel?" What do you do? How do you make sense of this? How do you heal yourself and make the world a better place for your own child?<br />I start by telling my son only the great stories about his Grandmother he's never met. I tell him about how smart and strong she was and how much she would have loved to have held him. </div><div><br />On my son's 10th birthday, I gave him a nickel.<br />Each night before my son goes to sleep I kiss him and tell him Happy Birthday! Thank you for being born to me and letting me be your Mom. He thanks me for making him and being his Mom. I kiss him and put the coin in the empty peanut butter jar and screw the lid back on. Every night the child inside me is healed. Every night my son knows I love him and no matter what my mood or his, we stop and say I Love You!</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></div></span><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSDzWsM00a47ZaIECWI1wrB4rHH88bRpEHg99qE4GQMhyOayOjpL6BHftXLGNTdabH1VYJikKoxDZXjP9SW9tpASRVIjCxY9ndo6_u81iLAB4GkZcWkIaRwZ5Jx7J15fvVxxhcHPkzW6w/s1600-h/IMG_7977.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="WIDTH: 267px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442668947916360114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSDzWsM00a47ZaIECWI1wrB4rHH88bRpEHg99qE4GQMhyOayOjpL6BHftXLGNTdabH1VYJikKoxDZXjP9SW9tpASRVIjCxY9ndo6_u81iLAB4GkZcWkIaRwZ5Jx7J15fvVxxhcHPkzW6w/s400/IMG_7977.JPG" /></span></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />My son just turned 11 and he used his 10 year birthday nickels to combine with the rest of his ipod fund. That birthday night, before he went to bed, I went in his room and gave him a kiss and handed him a dime. We are looking forward to another 365 days of Happy Birthday wishes and kisses.</span></div></div>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-63015716265467304302010-02-04T16:21:00.000-08:002010-02-04T16:45:00.488-08:00Art Saves Lives so do FriendsThis is Chalk art that I made about 15 years ago. It says "Art SAves Lives" which is a phrase I have tattooed on my body. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9D6img0n0wz0ViLVnlTYGe2-cqVdXNEKRBoTkg0JmFUUtSDcBXxSsva7OhDcm2kwUw2ax7Y4BeBIVE_RCjDqnhghQBOeoWiW4QLnQcVJa46Fu1I-02_VmS4RKn0W8Fj-C-V4-3uW6mY/s1600-h/Art+Saves+Lives.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 288px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434553388463502706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9D6img0n0wz0ViLVnlTYGe2-cqVdXNEKRBoTkg0JmFUUtSDcBXxSsva7OhDcm2kwUw2ax7Y4BeBIVE_RCjDqnhghQBOeoWiW4QLnQcVJa46Fu1I-02_VmS4RKn0W8Fj-C-V4-3uW6mY/s400/Art+Saves+Lives.JPG" /></a><br />I often stamp my dollar bills with rubber stamps that I've had made- One of the stamps says "Art Saves Lives". For a while I misplaced the stamp and would search for it from time to time, when I found it I sent my friend a text message that said "I found my Art Saves Lives stamp." He saw this text on his phone when he pulled it out to take a photo of something he saw while driving in Oxnard. This is the photo:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJBY3v_uVe8BQDlRUe4gF8Cpi2tl6E66jKuc80_kmWHdgmCAL_mJV2oFP5Y0ZWtCy11j3UbY5t4RrILz3ymGhQXcpNFIJzc3UwhWINNhY20KgSg06X2OC2l5l-ll_GddC84dfJ7vUPh8/s1600-h/Art+SAves+Lives.jpg.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434549193125136354" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJBY3v_uVe8BQDlRUe4gF8Cpi2tl6E66jKuc80_kmWHdgmCAL_mJV2oFP5Y0ZWtCy11j3UbY5t4RrILz3ymGhQXcpNFIJzc3UwhWINNhY20KgSg06X2OC2l5l-ll_GddC84dfJ7vUPh8/s400/Art+SAves+Lives.jpg.jpg" /></a> </div>Yep, that's right, it says Art Saves Lives right on the wall!<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwC3imshVrMwMi_q8NpwfhI-vzPQ7k9unsF3ckIFYIjmYMpHBbR-4Rlmkm8fAsHtpZxw9lFEnkzuivEkzO2d8a5kkiTjBvcewWPdG4-PaF0G4nr3SQeYOslbNFFOLXQfPtkjINuLyiodE/s1600-h/ArtSAvesLives2.jpg.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434549377827418018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwC3imshVrMwMi_q8NpwfhI-vzPQ7k9unsF3ckIFYIjmYMpHBbR-4Rlmkm8fAsHtpZxw9lFEnkzuivEkzO2d8a5kkiTjBvcewWPdG4-PaF0G4nr3SQeYOslbNFFOLXQfPtkjINuLyiodE/s400/ArtSAvesLives2.jpg.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div>So then he sent the photo to my phone and continued to drive to the Dr.s office and when he pulled into the parking lot he saw this:</div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKSptY-thnwp3hoUI3AgBnbBxVN9z8ZYagELzDmPuzLZxi9TcbedAdzGB2bhvusPaMabFq9EapAwYdc4jyEqtp9Stc2HCtkSkBJa_NdsVRcEcZm1BUcN06gZHTt_aYuLwvUPdzunWcNw/s1600-h/KPonly.jpg.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434551009252856594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKSptY-thnwp3hoUI3AgBnbBxVN9z8ZYagELzDmPuzLZxi9TcbedAdzGB2bhvusPaMabFq9EapAwYdc4jyEqtp9Stc2HCtkSkBJa_NdsVRcEcZm1BUcN06gZHTt_aYuLwvUPdzunWcNw/s400/KPonly.jpg.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div>Guess I was on his mind a lot that day- or the world was telling him I should be on his mind or to contact me?</div><br /><div>Funny how sometimes we have friendships that glow and grow and then fade and flicker while others are always just there- constant, comforting, continuous and dependable. </div><br /><div>I've needed my dependable friends a lot lately. I am thankful for them. During times of trouble it's nice to have friends. I think this week these close friends have probably saved my life. </div><div>Friends Save Lives.</div><div>Thank You<br /></div><br /><div></div>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-42332865374579751512010-01-26T23:33:00.000-08:002010-01-26T23:55:49.970-08:00survivalI have watched many friends die from drugs or alcohol. I miss them all. I mourn for their families.<br />At what point is the line crossed from support to enabling to letting people drag you down? This is what I am struggling with this week, which leaves very little time for self indulgent essays, although I do love to do that. I have a cool story about an eel I am working on.<br />So- if anyone has advice- where do you draw the line in the sand? I wonder if I should go back to al-anon meetings? How much time do I commit to someone else's life anyway?<br />So many of my friends who have died, I sat at their funeral wondering why I didn't try one more time to talk to them, to get them help, to do anything possible to keep them on this earth.<br /><br />Do you help people as long as they say they want to help themselves?<br />Do you help people till they are no longer helping themselves?<br />Do you help until their lifestyle is putting yours in jeopardy?<br />If my friend was drowning, I would jump in even though I am a poor swimmer. I would try to save them.<br />Isn't that the same as helping someone even though you may not be able to help or they don't want help and will likely pull you down with them?<br />And just in case you are concerned- Duke and Chris are just fine-<br />It's the extended "family" I may need to "cut my losses" with. Other people I love who are falling fast.<br /><br />Every night I pray-<br />Please God- don't let anyone I love die tonight or sink so deep into a bottle that they can't see out.<br />I can't stand the thought of burying another one of my friends this year...<br /><br />See the following:<br /><a href="http://funzonehome.blogspot.com/2008/03/another-friend-gone.html">Another friend gone </a><br /><a href="http://funzonehome.blogspot.com/2009/05/may-6-2009.html">May 6 2009</a>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-51707122487105222922010-01-07T13:48:00.000-08:002016-03-19T09:53:47.060-07:00Peer pressure<span style="font-size: 130%;">My parents moved from Manhattan Beach to Wilmington when I was 5 years old. They had decided it was better to live like kings in a big 5-bedroom house in Wilmington than live like paupers in a 2-bedroom house in Manhattan Beach.<br /><br />We lived at the end of a cul-de-sac and I attended a very diverse private school. I took piano lessons and went to the nursery with my Mom to buy flowers for the yard. We had a 2-room playhouse in the backyard - so my brother and I didn't have to share... and a tire swing in front yard that we shared with all the neighborhood kids. Every Christmas the kids from the neighborhood would get Big Wheels and we would ride for hours in the street- there were rarely any cars and the parents would keep their eyes on the kids.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQLMMEMAvCoADKeGtd2n1bYj0p3K1O6fJHHioXuDuBQt6MrM7XSJKq0abu6nSfGY5aLRv-Pxwh0foliMuRWXA12giApgbZYF6EDZYX_zBWs3hNEHCunQJbmIrbgKQNwpvrdgXGc_lF3U/s1600-h/Big+Wheel.JPG"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435529319053195490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQLMMEMAvCoADKeGtd2n1bYj0p3K1O6fJHHioXuDuBQt6MrM7XSJKq0abu6nSfGY5aLRv-Pxwh0foliMuRWXA12giApgbZYF6EDZYX_zBWs3hNEHCunQJbmIrbgKQNwpvrdgXGc_lF3U/s400/Big+Wheel.JPG" style="cursor: hand; height: 397px; width: 400px;" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />Every night before 4th grade I would sit on the floor in front of my Mom as she would carefully wrap my super straight, thin hair into pin-curls. I would sleep with my head covered in hair clips so that it looked like I had a metal colander on my head. In the morning I would brush it out and style it into two "Cindy Brady-esque" pigtails before school. I really wished I was a Brady- from a big family where I would have options on what sibling I would hang out with. At that time my life did seem to resemble a television sit-com, we had popcorn on Friday nights while we watched "the Rockford files" and we toasted marshmallows in our fireplace. Even more nostalgic to me now was that there seemed to be easy solutions and prompt and final resolutions of problems.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEVlkXvdSLx3jQT8Z8RxScG0fQKAN86W7qQP4D888DvPP0bVJoO9TDi61Ld32mNSGd1wdgULToNxnAqHa2Lmq9rckkOqKUMXjkGslOzCoNo9ETWc3_2BVlf8aA6_zk-xsDSygqEkGToY/s1600-h/bradycindygreen.jpg"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435524251387600434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEVlkXvdSLx3jQT8Z8RxScG0fQKAN86W7qQP4D888DvPP0bVJoO9TDi61Ld32mNSGd1wdgULToNxnAqHa2Lmq9rckkOqKUMXjkGslOzCoNo9ETWc3_2BVlf8aA6_zk-xsDSygqEkGToY/s400/bradycindygreen.jpg" style="cursor: hand; height: 140px; width: 141px;" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">My parents pinched their pennies and saved their money and we never took family vacations and we never had the newest and best things but we always had enough and we always seemed to have more than anyone else in our neighborhood. That was as close to a Brady existence that I would ever get. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">By the end of 4th grade my parents announced that we would be selling our home at the end of the cul-de-sac in Wilmington and moving to a tiny home at the top of a hill in Torrance. I remember the night we drove by the property in Torrance and I couldn't imagine how I was going to get anywhere living at the top of a hill. It was obvious to me that my Big Wheel days were over. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We moved during the summer and I didn't meet any kids I was going to attend school with the coming year. I showed up for my first day of 5th grade wearing my red gauchos and curly pig tails. I was met with scrutiny and criticism. I was questioned by girls "What kind of pants are those!" and I replied "Gauchos" not understanding the question. They wanted to know what BRAND they were, not what style. I had entered into a world I knew nothing about. When the girls said Dittos- they were not referring to copies of a paper from a teacher, When they said Vans they were not talking about an automobile. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-6Zx8yIT-2ehw0lYf7zkKmQHIcVIPVrymVkIM9n4WsFJGG_Ax0bADsgdN00odHGTtRS3gCb56eCy72islwvnVfazDvBOmMREBX39JJPrHzUBnPSbJLxMSDuQbvdDeNJ05CVDd68BvMU/s1600-h/Ditto.jpeg"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435554218193716402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-6Zx8yIT-2ehw0lYf7zkKmQHIcVIPVrymVkIM9n4WsFJGG_Ax0bADsgdN00odHGTtRS3gCb56eCy72islwvnVfazDvBOmMREBX39JJPrHzUBnPSbJLxMSDuQbvdDeNJ05CVDd68BvMU/s400/Ditto.jpeg" style="cursor: hand; height: 184px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ot1zHvPywRm-cQIyyfyFivV5U3itYEY2Cc2Y_sPrZZZmmP-UoHA6cylNVG9IlIFB_XRGeQhmyxX2-HuLcH0Qec6IVjymEwFxYEnOaV9ywPblb9gP0Obk-rCbZ32W7Bhyi8tV_ezgqJ8/s1600-h/tall+cherokees.jpg"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435554895546494802" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ot1zHvPywRm-cQIyyfyFivV5U3itYEY2Cc2Y_sPrZZZmmP-UoHA6cylNVG9IlIFB_XRGeQhmyxX2-HuLcH0Qec6IVjymEwFxYEnOaV9ywPblb9gP0Obk-rCbZ32W7Bhyi8tV_ezgqJ8/s400/tall+cherokees.jpg" style="cursor: hand; height: 179px; width: 215px;" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65Lu6NRc61-7-HpyPlm7Fs6di2fJAFurIRoRAelalbfk5_-oM8oTLiHyjGlgd4Fukm9TqmfYeKei7xXXL4Eo4s0cZ8tQkk3tCR_dNaRc1u9WKCdXl5TzR1SIyr7EoDXjRH8_X-IC1tbY/s1600-h/featherd+hair.jpg"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435558362370802290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65Lu6NRc61-7-HpyPlm7Fs6di2fJAFurIRoRAelalbfk5_-oM8oTLiHyjGlgd4Fukm9TqmfYeKei7xXXL4Eo4s0cZ8tQkk3tCR_dNaRc1u9WKCdXl5TzR1SIyr7EoDXjRH8_X-IC1tbY/s400/featherd+hair.jpg" style="cursor: hand; height: 137px; width: 205px;" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">From the moment I walked onto the campus I was an obvious outcast. These girls were so much more sophisticated than I was. They had feathered hair and Dittos and high-heeled Cherokees and I had gauchos and sandals and Cindy Brady hair. The girls in this more affluent neighborhood didn't necessarily purchase happiness, but they certainly sold their childhood. They were little women at 10 and 11 and I needed to grow up fast. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I remember walking home from school crying. I was 10 and couldn't verbalize the problem or imagine a solution. As an adult I understand I was feeling betrayed by my parents- how could they not know what they were doing to me? Why didn't they give me the tools I needed to succeed in that world? All I could do then is cry, and when my Mom asked me why, I didn't have any answers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">My brother was a bit more astute and able to quantify his needs. Within the week he had his O.P. shorts, Hang ten shirt and Vans on his feet. I would lock myself in my room and put a Barry Manilow or Olivia Newton John album on my record player and cry. I didn't understand why I couldn't fit in. I do remember asking my Mom for Dittos and being told that they were far too expensive and form fitting for a girl my age- and as a Mother of an 11-year-old, I agree. The child inside of me longs for those tools of acceptance. Please Please Please buy me some friends! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I remember there was a boy that many kids made fun of; his name was Bobby and he suffered a minor physical deformity that was the subject of conversation and harassment. This was 1978 and back then bullying wasn't yet a prosecutable crime. Bobby and I had in common that fact that we were both Polish and he was nice to me despite my offensive clothing. I imagine now that Bobby is a very successful man, having survived the cocoon of school he probably emerged a victorious butterfly. I know that's such a typical analogy, but when I think of the people who's apex of the greatest moments of their life ended at High school graduation.... well, you get my drift. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I did eventually make some friends like Stacey and Tracey. They were nice girls who were neighbors and had the advantage of having older sisters who had already navigated training bras, curling irons and leg shaving. To this day these girls are nice- they had more going on personality wise and could therefore risk, at the tender age of 10- being friends with an outcast. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">With the help of their friendship, I did eventually, temporarily, superficially fit in. I quit having my Mom pin curl my hair and got a curling iron. I ditched my gauchos and eventually scored some dittos. I got the short Cherokees because my Mom would not allow me to have the tall versions, my short ones were stamped with the correct brand name and I was on my way to social acceptance.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUmaJedQBHZztXyEbTzGnwm4ThK8mwd5qHqi5jrk9Pe5_HF3prdHrS1Z7-PGx0OuA-FsJZ1bff3i3O3_WO0sFvcUSxr5IDWb6QxIQis2Ty_A6eYVH291Iatjuzyo3vNH_w5gD6b1jdoSY/s1600-h/short+cherokees.jpg"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435563553697298210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUmaJedQBHZztXyEbTzGnwm4ThK8mwd5qHqi5jrk9Pe5_HF3prdHrS1Z7-PGx0OuA-FsJZ1bff3i3O3_WO0sFvcUSxr5IDWb6QxIQis2Ty_A6eYVH291Iatjuzyo3vNH_w5gD6b1jdoSY/s400/short+cherokees.jpg" style="cursor: hand; height: 190px; width: 261px;" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">I remember the day Tracey showed me that her legs were shaved and I began to do the same. Shaving at 10 was one of the first secrets I had to keep from my Mom- that paved the way to many more. I have scars on my legs from my attempts without an adult's help. The cuts were like a right of passage I guess, and when I sat on the grass hill and my legs stuck out from under my pants, I was no longer humiliated by the unsightly peach fuzz on my 10 year old legs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">My inability to read social situations and social cues has always caused problems. When I asked for something all the other kids <em>really did</em> have, I remember my Dad telling me "Why do you have to be like everyone else? Why can't you be an individual?" But a few years later, when my parents no longer had the money to buy me the tools necessary for public school acceptance I found my individuality in thrift shops. It is easier to look like you don't care- and fit in with the punk rockers than it is to ask for another $30.00 pair of jeans. And then as I begun to act out because my Brady Bunch word fell apart. I was able to misbehave under the banner of Punk Rock and still be accepted into some social group. Then my Dad would tell me "Why can't you be like everyone else?" By then I had already resented everyone. By then I didn't identify with everyone else. By the time I was a "<a href="http://growingwildstory.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">punk rocker</a>" I hated everyone else. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Now I am a Mom, and my son goes to a school where the kids have brand name clothes. I think all neighborhoods have those status symbols now to some extent. I do make sure he has similar clothing as the rest of his peers. Part of me feels like a sell out. I don't really want to have to buy his friends or acceptance. I wonder if I am making life too easy, not allowing him to learn that clothing does not actually matter. Maybe I am enabling him to be one of those 30-year-olds who thinks the best time of their life was High School. I need him to know there is more to life than that, but I don't know if sending him to 5th grade in out of fashion clothing is the answer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I want him to be friends with the jocks and the punks and the cheerleaders- or whatever the groups are called these days. I want to invest on his insides, more than what goes on the outside. There was something magical about aspiring to be a Brady- wanting a certain feeling in my life, rather than a certain look. </span>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-90128387875631971662009-12-18T17:35:00.000-08:002014-02-23T12:52:51.580-08:00Determination<span style="font-size: large;">When I was 16 years old I was in High school but secretly living on my boyfriend's boat. I say secretly because I had to hide it from his parents, because they did not have a "live aboard" slip permit and they didn't really want to "Harbor a runaway" anyway. I had to hide it from my school because as far as I knew if they found out I would be kicked out; that happened to me when I was 14 and ran away from home and still tried to attend school. I had to hide it from my parents because if they knew I had a place to stay, they'd blow it for me, so that it wasn't so "easy" for me to be out on my own away from them. So- I lived on a boat several miles away from my school and I would get up every morning and roller skate to school. My first class was Volleyball during "zero period" at 7 am. so I had to get up very early to get to school. I was always warmed up and ready for Volleyball, while all the other kids were whining about how tired they were and how cold the gym was, I was relieved to be indoors- out of the fog- in the light. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was in an honors English class, and I only mention it was honors, because I am trying to talk of determination and motivation and integrity and responsibility and I believe that having made it to honors English when my home life obviously sucked so bad is a testament to those traits. I loved that class and the teacher; Mrs. Wickstrom, because we got to do a lot of creative writing and that was an amazing outlet for me. From reading my papers, Mrs. Wickstrom could glean that I did not have a typical home life, but she never let on and would just encourage me to continue writing. I always got A's on the content part of my page, and B's on the execution. This was back in the day when there was no computerised spell check and I didn't have a parent's help or even a dictionary on the boat. I know so little about writing now, I am surprised I got B's in that category. (Maybe she liked me and was just going easy on me.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">One day I got to the boat and did my homework then fell to sleep especially early- leaving my backpack and roller skates on the floor. I woke up to discover the floor of the boat had inches of rainwater- and my skates and backpack were in that water. My school papers were in my backpack, and therefore also wet. All the clothes I owned were either in that backpack, or in my locker at school, so the only solution was to put on my wet skates and get to school early so I could change into a different outfit then the one I was wearing. High school kids and teachers notice if you wear the same thing two days in a row and it's a sure tip-off that you are not living with dear old Mom and Dad. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Wet homework is another sure tip off, and I had an English paper that was very wet and damaged and I certainly couldn't turn it in like that. I went to the public restrooms at the top of the dock and unrolled about 3 feet of paper towel and took it down to the boat. I copied my barely legible wet story onto the paper towel and rolled that up into my backpack, put on my wet skates and headed off to school. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Roller-skating in the rain is not as bad as you might think. Once you commit to it, it's actually fun. Visually, when you skate in the rain, it's like driving in the snow- you can see the drops coming down but you are skating towards them, it all seems to look like it's coming at an angle- so it looks like you are skating into a tunnel. Once you surrender to the fact that you are going to be wet when your skate is over, it's not as cold as you may think- as your clothes get wetter, your body is getting warmer from the skate, so that kind of cancels each other out and you are just about the temperature you started with. Skating on wet pavement just makes you go faster than usual and creates a super sound effect like an amplified whoosh whoosh that makes you feel like you are skating even faster still. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I got to school I had dry sweat pants and tennis shoes waiting for me in my gym locker. I was so grateful to be at school and it was such a safe haven for me that listening to the other kids complain really started to annoy me. I would often reply to their whining with comments like "If school is too hard for you then why don't you move out of Mommy and Daddy's palace and get a job!" My ability to keep my "situation" under wraps was waning. And now, I had an English paper written on a paper towel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I showed up for English class a few moments early and told Mrs. Wickstrom that I did my homework, but it had gotten rain damaged and would she please allow me to fix it? I planned to borrow some paper from a friend, copy it onto dry paper and hand it in by the end of the day. I showed her my paper towel assignment so that she would know that I wasn't trying to get away with anything. She told me it was okay, and that this once I could just turn it in on a paper towel and she would grade it like a "normal" paper. I apologized and folded it neatly on her desk so that no one would know it was my homework. As I turned around, to my horror, a boy who sat in front of me had seen, I knew I had been caught. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I sat down and tried to play it off. As class filled up he was shielded in the anonymity of the class, he began to tease me for bringing my homework in on a paper towel. I was so mad that I got caught. I was so mad that the teacher was gonna cut me some slack but one of my peers would not. I was so mad that I just couldn't control myself and ignore his comments. I jumped up and yelled at him- for the entire class to hear; "I bet you have a solid oak desk at your house, with piles of multi-colored paper and pens and pencils falling out of the drawers! I bet every day when you get home, your Mommy has home made cookies and ice cold milk in a frosted glass that she serves you, and I bet- even with all that help, you still didn't do the assignment, and I did it on a PAPER TOWEL!" Like you would expect a bully to do in a situation like that- he just sat there- shocked that I would stand up to him at all, or draw the rest of the class' attention to the fact that I DID MY HOMEWORK ON A PAPER TOWEL. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In front of the whole class and the teacher too- I challenged him loud and clear to a duel; I bet, on the very next assignment, I would get a better grade than him. I bet him 5 bucks that even though he had everything he needed to succeed, and I had no resources available to me at all, I bet him that I could get a better grade than him. He shook my hand and I sat down, and Mrs Wickstrom was so bewildered and amused by what just happened that she chose to ignore the whole thing and just started in on the regular lesson. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was a few days before the next assignment grades came out, and I imagine this boy forgot all about the bet. He had to because otherwise wouldn't he have worked extra hard to get the very best grade possible? When the papers came around with all the red pen marks- I asked him what grade he got. The class got quiet. I raised my voice; "I got an A in content and an A in execution- what did you get?" He shows me his paper, and I had the better grade. "Pay up" I demanded as I put my hand out to him. "NO!" he replied. "I'm not giving you anything!" I couldn't believe it. I was so mad, I felt taken advantage of somehow- I lost my temper and jumped out of my desk and brought my fists down on his back- cursing at him. He was cursing back. It was just a flash of insanity- I think they call it a "crime of passion" I had already re-gained my senses by the time Mrs. Wickstrom yelled at us. She sent us both to the principal's office. As we walked across campus we talked- He didn't really care about the 5.00 or his grades. I was more worried about being kicked out of school than I was mad at him. We went from fist fighting to allies- trying to figure out how to get into the least amount of trouble at the principals office. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The principal wasn't there- only the school counselors. Back then there were many counselors employed by the school, and "your" counselor was assigned by your last name. For instance-all students with the last name starting with A-F got to go talk to "Mr Smith" if they needed something. Usually this was for planning what</span><span style="font-size: large;"> classes to take, more than talking about trouble at home. I remember my boyfriend always saying that Mr. Schneider was awesome,but he wasn't assigned to my last name, so I never went to see him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well, this time only Mr. Schneider was there, so we had to go to him instead of the principal. After the boy explained that he had reacted in self defense- he was excused from the office and Mr. Schneider said he was going to have to call my parents. I told him he would have to call my boyfriend, since I was living on his boat, but that my boyfriend always spoke highly of him and perhaps he could help me out. We talked for at least an hour- I explained that I had not lived with my parents for months, but that I wanted to continue in school and get my diploma to spite them- in spite of them. I guess he was moved because he didn't call my parents, and he gave me special tickets so that I could get a free breakfast every morning after zero period and before first period. Now I had food and an adult on my side who would keep my secret. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know why I had such determination to complete High school. Perhaps it was because I had already had several jobs by the age of 16 so I knew that if I didn't get an education, I would be doing the same thing forever. Perhaps because school was so much easier than working at the burger stand till midnight. I didn't see any reason to NOT succeed in school. Perhaps I did it because I felt alienated from all the kids at the school. They seemed to have such an easier life yet they complained about it. I wanted to finish school so I could be away from them, at least enter the "Next world" on a level playing field with them. I couldn't stand the thought of them being superior to me forever. I know I did it because my parents thought I couldn't and wouldn't. That was certain. But I had so many opportunities to give up- perfectly good reasons to just say "Oh my skates are wet, I'm not going to school today". It's not like I would have been in trouble with my parents. They were not there to drag my ass out of bed and drive me to school. By my senior year, many of the kids who had their parents driving them didn't get their diploma. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know how to teach determination. I don't know how to help my child have it. I don't know how. School was easy for me- you show up, you do the work, you get the grade. It's like work- you know what is expected and you just do it. Parenting is so much more difficult, and so much more important. You can always get a different job or re-take a class or re-do an assignment. But every little mistake you make with your child is a black spot on their perfectly sunny light. I need help to teach my son the values and morals that have helped me be okay- in spite of my homework being wet. I had that within me before my parents kicked me out. I had that by the time I was 16. How did they teach it to me? Where did I learn it? I am now determined to be the best mom possible, but I don't know how to do it- and I fear determination alone isn't enough.</span>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-25095800090429180942009-12-14T12:46:00.000-08:002009-12-14T13:03:10.636-08:00Thank YouThanks to all who commented on my last blog entry. The support and love that came my way during that sadness pulled me out of the darkness quickly. I usually drag that gloom along for much longer. I am grateful to have such love and support and understanding from so many. Kind words and hugs mean so much to me.<br />I want to share with everyone something else that meant so much to me; a gift. A surprise gift from my friend Jerome T. A super cool guy with a super cool business: <a href="http://www.picturemypet.net/">Picture My Pet</a><br />I was at our mutual friend's studio and our friend said "Oh yea, Jerome made that for you" and kinda shrugged over towards a plastic bag. When I opened it up, there was this awesome little miracle for me, the most thoughtful of gifts! Jerome Rocks and I just wanted to take a moment to tell you all that he made this shirt for me:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ6aSnIUrGyH-L1JXm2h14yhikZd-cBOg_kKZmmvrrHuDqfjMJ7wA4QdVu3S0_PpStnPs-IowZFszyXMJjmWtcHfLMQwyUfI9fHJe-U7tEzxMfVSxnKPyuDkAzBXLF8ki2dtwpz51g5tY/s1600-h/KP+012.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415197092393924978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ6aSnIUrGyH-L1JXm2h14yhikZd-cBOg_kKZmmvrrHuDqfjMJ7wA4QdVu3S0_PpStnPs-IowZFszyXMJjmWtcHfLMQwyUfI9fHJe-U7tEzxMfVSxnKPyuDkAzBXLF8ki2dtwpz51g5tY/s400/KP+012.jpg" /></a><br />It made me cry. But in a happy, happy way. Words fail me. I wish I knew how to tell you all what a wonderful gift this was. It was so unexpected. I guess, if you read my last blog, you would have a pretty good idea.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIj-K1Z8SNYb3cKj8iKEufvTH9pqprfk72LpEJ3K0SZgltmbmkBc9iEr5B9MLY3SHe1r4DvPMaG5GxFFPMqKruErLbU0kJO0B8JDD34SQWA3P2PjWNs6yyyXrm455yPRy5SDzspq-z7S8/s1600-h/KP+011.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415196434663046994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIj-K1Z8SNYb3cKj8iKEufvTH9pqprfk72LpEJ3K0SZgltmbmkBc9iEr5B9MLY3SHe1r4DvPMaG5GxFFPMqKruErLbU0kJO0B8JDD34SQWA3P2PjWNs6yyyXrm455yPRy5SDzspq-z7S8/s400/KP+011.jpg" /></a><br />So, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone! And thanks to Jerome for the lovely shirt. If anyone can use his awesome services over the holidays- <a href="http://www.picturemypet.net/">Click here to check out his awesome printing services</a> you can give someone a shirt that might make them cry. In a good way.Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-59853081729410300872009-11-18T08:47:00.001-08:002014-02-23T12:55:13.354-08:00"It's only stuff"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCG9b1g4KQKJ97efSysUoqnO1UKBu7yejVrlw4yBfBvIn2mNSR31intTvz28ztFxfaNOR1c4A0Ex0GsLD84vHsDpVvkqWzrUcm_J5t3F5d43kzVj4vxPm6uokSw-xXjNXeNIfa47wxwU/s1600/KP+003.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCG9b1g4KQKJ97efSysUoqnO1UKBu7yejVrlw4yBfBvIn2mNSR31intTvz28ztFxfaNOR1c4A0Ex0GsLD84vHsDpVvkqWzrUcm_J5t3F5d43kzVj4vxPm6uokSw-xXjNXeNIfa47wxwU/s400/KP+003.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405486555130419714" style="cursor: hand; height: 206px; width: 166px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">These are my Grandma's Ladles. Circa 1950? They have that awesome vintage design on them-perhaps it's called a mid-century-modern Atomic Starburst? In my home we refer to that star-like shape as "dings". The sound effect from a commercial when your floor would sparkle after using a special product advertised. Back when it was still okay for a woman to feel accomplished if you made your floor sparkle.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27jACKDOvu0OzDFmx7aW0OKKgEnkqiZJvXLIAytCZYHvoWDsZ4j1t5YB_bL6mdzczW9yLi1o9TWw_Za_jpqrXA9V30d3r8k_ti3oP7SMwq0EyDliqbzVCA8frIwnsd5fP07rGLWUG16I/s1600/KP+001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27jACKDOvu0OzDFmx7aW0OKKgEnkqiZJvXLIAytCZYHvoWDsZ4j1t5YB_bL6mdzczW9yLi1o9TWw_Za_jpqrXA9V30d3r8k_ti3oP7SMwq0EyDliqbzVCA8frIwnsd5fP07rGLWUG16I/s400/KP+001.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405486831517167682" style="cursor: hand; height: 191px; width: 239px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 180%;">The designs back then were "futuristic" or what was imagined the future would look like. Think- 'Jetsons' and hover cars. In that era, there was a general feeling of promise and hope for the future. There was pride for a job well done, and hard work was respectable; not something you suffered through if you weren't wealthy or smart enough to hire someone else to do it for you.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">My Grandmother was a hard working woman. She had jobs in factories and cleaning hotels and also quite often when the money would allow; she got to be "just" a Mother and Wife and Homemaker. She was an amazing cook and seamstress. She taught my Mom how to sew and also tried (unsuccessfully) to teach me. My Mother died before my Grandmother. The greatest gift I ever gave my Grandmother was my son because he was her living proof that her legacy would live on. He was that part of her, that part of her daughter, to continue on in the world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">So- when Grandma died, I couldn't keep all her furniture, all her stuff, because I already had all my Mom's stuff. I kept Grandma's photos and I kept her ladles, and the coffee pot with the 'dings', and her dishes. I didn't have room for much more than that. I have so many things.....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">I know that these are just things- that the things don't actually contain the memories. I know that the memories are still there if the things are gone. But in the same way you can hug your Mom or Grandma to make yourself feel good and safe- I only get to hold these things. So I want to always have them. And I want to give these things to my son so he can hold these things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">Eventually the idea came to me to have these 'dings' on my body- near me, like a hug, but forever. I knew exactly where I wanted them, and how they would look on me and how it would feel to have them placed on me. I was ready to get the tattoo with the only exception being that I didn't have any discretionary income to buy a tattoo. I knew when I got some "extra" money, what I would do with it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 180%;">I sometimes work in a big building with individual private offices and at the end of each floor are two bathrooms. Early in the morning, as I walked into the women's bathroom, I found a hundred dollar bill on the floor. I picked it up and checked to see that it was real. I checked each stall and there was no one else in the bathroom. I walked the entire floor and there was not a single person in any office. I walked back to my office and wrote a note- "If you lost something in this bathroom, please call to identify and I will be happy to return it". I taped the sign to the bathroom door and waited all day for a call that never came. When I got off work I called my tattoo artist and said "I found a hundred dollar bill on the bathroom floor- do you want it?"</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrdBD3l15GAVr_4UvqdCFGQbDWne0kQLv4SAkyxf43Qb-nbTTMKn-wqBfcYjphtI-RoY13wX4Wj90XUnoarg5iqXCFtiCDfIz5moPytkCrYZxDwC-JH96VJ9Zr_w0fFN3LsdOmLeQ_Lk/s1600/Vania+006.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrdBD3l15GAVr_4UvqdCFGQbDWne0kQLv4SAkyxf43Qb-nbTTMKn-wqBfcYjphtI-RoY13wX4Wj90XUnoarg5iqXCFtiCDfIz5moPytkCrYZxDwC-JH96VJ9Zr_w0fFN3LsdOmLeQ_Lk/s400/Vania+006.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405487143878620850" style="cursor: hand; height: 300px; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 180%;">I love this tattoo so much. I think it is pretty and very fitting for the area and I love that it is my ladle tattoo that I found on the bathroom floor. I know my Grandma and Mom didn't share my love of tattoos, but I feel that somehow they gifted this tattoo to me anyway.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimImtS_pDMr7zudsV5IDiKtzouMjdG5WLQBMlgJeQoILdqICUXSvYVAD806yFP-76aTI2f6H6Woe6iKwjUzazozokAMzPXlmaZpNpk5ksGFtE_lJ_PYpnFOZjO0rw0uGPpd6kfrIwsSSg/s1600/Karen+090.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimImtS_pDMr7zudsV5IDiKtzouMjdG5WLQBMlgJeQoILdqICUXSvYVAD806yFP-76aTI2f6H6Woe6iKwjUzazozokAMzPXlmaZpNpk5ksGFtE_lJ_PYpnFOZjO0rw0uGPpd6kfrIwsSSg/s400/Karen+090.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405488002660822866" style="cursor: hand; height: 400px; width: 266px;" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXAz0DF_CcPMVbNk70eXDaDNZ6X7TElmEwCUHFH-RXIsX7FCwE1aH15QGV993VVO8MJwojOGypb4HjCLyH9-l9xT_jXO504REnqp-K6mj2E8uvbnOaos1y3G88BQjSUPVEjkEyAObU4E/s1600/Karen+068.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXAz0DF_CcPMVbNk70eXDaDNZ6X7TElmEwCUHFH-RXIsX7FCwE1aH15QGV993VVO8MJwojOGypb4HjCLyH9-l9xT_jXO504REnqp-K6mj2E8uvbnOaos1y3G88BQjSUPVEjkEyAObU4E/s400/Karen+068.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405487624431573698" style="cursor: hand; height: 188px; width: 300px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXAz0DF_CcPMVbNk70eXDaDNZ6X7TElmEwCUHFH-RXIsX7FCwE1aH15QGV993VVO8MJwojOGypb4HjCLyH9-l9xT_jXO504REnqp-K6mj2E8uvbnOaos1y3G88BQjSUPVEjkEyAObU4E/s1600/Karen+068.JPG"></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-size: 180%;">I still love having the ladles- and the other "stuff" that I can hold in my hands and pass on to my son. I hope to raise him to be the kind of person who knows his history and values hard work and taking care of irreplaceable things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-size: 180%;">We are moving now, into the first home that we own as a family. I have been packing and sorting and letting go of a lot of 'things'-because I can't take it all with me and I don't want to be a hoarder, or pack rat. We have been in our rented house for 8 years and have acquired a lot of stuff. But there are still so many things that I don't want to get rid of. Like the ladles. And the dishes. I decided to quit waiting "till I grow up" to use Grandma's dishes. After all, I am 42 years old and I would derive so much pleasure from seeing and touching her things every day. So I pulled the dishes out of the attic to assess what I had and prepare them to take to our new home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-size: 180%;">When I picked up the box it rattled like an evil maraca. When I opened the box, this is what I found:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGj0K6MftLS4eo2D4ARcrADbx1kLHq3luOAlFURzeDYVawFwCGtSObtoeMmlAN9h-bUjVNyKGpPPhS3qCGb4k3U-nMdxo69oqqe5YlIeBUG-4NHlNhzU1XD7ZWSaxB9l2OlvdHFrkbCc/s1600/KP+005.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGj0K6MftLS4eo2D4ARcrADbx1kLHq3luOAlFURzeDYVawFwCGtSObtoeMmlAN9h-bUjVNyKGpPPhS3qCGb4k3U-nMdxo69oqqe5YlIeBUG-4NHlNhzU1XD7ZWSaxB9l2OlvdHFrkbCc/s400/KP+005.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405510486093015810" style="cursor: hand; height: 400px; width: 300px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">The sadness that came over me was so overwhelming. I know, they are just things. I know it shouldn't matter. Yet, I feel so sad. Adding to this sadness is the fact that TODAY is my Mother's birthday, and I can't buy her a cake or give her a hug. I can't eat from her mother's plates. Almost the entire set is broken- completely broke and damaged beyond repair. Even looking at that photo makes me feel like I have been punched in the stomach. So- I have been crying on and off, over some stupid "stuff". Silly, right? I still have the memory of my Grandma- what I don't have is the idea that these things of hers were safe in my attic and there for me some day when I was grown up and ready to use them. So my advice to anyone who will listen, is: DON'T STORE THIS STUFF! Use your nice things and hold your loved ones close and hold their things often. I would have rather used these for years and eventually accidentally broken each one, than to have found them all as a broken pile of dishes to use when I grow up and deserve nice things. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 180%;">And now I am consumed with this idea that I should ignore all my moving and packing obligations, and forget my financial responsibilities and go get this pattern from one of the few unbroken dishes tattooed on my body. After all, what better day than today- since it is my Mother's birthday. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bZ4WiGKpvjV4ZyIeRUfRLRBbs1douBBFPyTH26XdsHJCuNQG-_d0V4Jza7aPz_Vaakk5e6nQQeQglIVg5emIAdkrX7-1Oq69KrTSeiSsTqAyPXym0jnAlR52gYkbiS9VXzJQU-ri_PA/s1600/KP+007.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bZ4WiGKpvjV4ZyIeRUfRLRBbs1douBBFPyTH26XdsHJCuNQG-_d0V4Jza7aPz_Vaakk5e6nQQeQglIVg5emIAdkrX7-1Oq69KrTSeiSsTqAyPXym0jnAlR52gYkbiS9VXzJQU-ri_PA/s400/KP+007.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405509814357530994" style="cursor: hand; height: 300px; width: 400px;" /></a> </div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">I hope as I get older, I continue to have things of beauty all around me, things I can pass on to my kids. Things they will hold and enjoy and most of all- use daily. Things that will be helpful to them, not just to be packed and stored and eventually broken beyond repair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 180%;">Perhaps as the rest of this day unfolds, I will miraculously find tattoo money on the ground.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">Sorry Grandma.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;">Happy Birthday Mom.</span></div>
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Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-80110228637832328552009-11-11T07:11:00.000-08:002014-02-23T08:19:47.773-08:00Baby Baby, please let me hold you. I wanna make him stay up all night.This is little Ryder Layne. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLgMLKrF8IDePLfdpgb_MFVYqbxjLy6QE_NWltPfls5wFA9t1JQ1_My-QnaHwJJcrpkRPcArrNqY7mN9vK8jkcP6Tfbl1DVAtQtcYXozQLZ_J8ZAVAJChWfYF7EDmsk2SZE7oDQIZv-E/s1600-h/KP+264.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLgMLKrF8IDePLfdpgb_MFVYqbxjLy6QE_NWltPfls5wFA9t1JQ1_My-QnaHwJJcrpkRPcArrNqY7mN9vK8jkcP6Tfbl1DVAtQtcYXozQLZ_J8ZAVAJChWfYF7EDmsk2SZE7oDQIZv-E/s400/KP+264.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402866582646394578" style="cursor: hand; height: 267px; width: 400px;" /></a> </div>
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Feet and non-knuckles</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuih-LYgKhIyLZNmLNJQfmc5L3hKYZUJfS1dwQ_9cRjh1Xce1PTIIWXwkdnxrDRueVpAKxoTk3Aclc9tvcJchHwSrYEp82UaHIzWsfi3pFRGOvfqt1qa7Q2oHJw6auwldkyVSpPytDzbQ/s1600-h/KP+286.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuih-LYgKhIyLZNmLNJQfmc5L3hKYZUJfS1dwQ_9cRjh1Xce1PTIIWXwkdnxrDRueVpAKxoTk3Aclc9tvcJchHwSrYEp82UaHIzWsfi3pFRGOvfqt1qa7Q2oHJw6auwldkyVSpPytDzbQ/s400/KP+286.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402867165731203778" style="cursor: hand; height: 400px; width: 267px;" /></a><br />
Lips</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj45CS_mbPUK7ruL1aDQQIZ42lPqWiNZq8f7k8eU-sQX-1VNfywalmkWOEXwh2LraxfJqSoqBdrUyPBnYTYM-ergEJOE8zGf87YVc4WnGRUtAYjODZA0IWa0panClTfkp5fXXSv7nB6ftU/s1600-h/KP+505.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj45CS_mbPUK7ruL1aDQQIZ42lPqWiNZq8f7k8eU-sQX-1VNfywalmkWOEXwh2LraxfJqSoqBdrUyPBnYTYM-ergEJOE8zGf87YVc4WnGRUtAYjODZA0IWa0panClTfkp5fXXSv7nB6ftU/s400/KP+505.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402865712512764738" style="cursor: hand; height: 400px; width: 267px;" /></a><br />
Eyelashes like curtains.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05iiaoKz5wcZre-aiwzZK7s41lWIIhncQI5_nyrQ1djw6h0zvL9Ms7Nuqb2MaaT454f8r1SlhiwYdH6fzBiQwfKtWm0ne3OFSZOUW_X2FGHPAk5aIVYUEZMNqiO5YT0aV4Aon0qzC_tU/s1600-h/KP+153.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05iiaoKz5wcZre-aiwzZK7s41lWIIhncQI5_nyrQ1djw6h0zvL9Ms7Nuqb2MaaT454f8r1SlhiwYdH6fzBiQwfKtWm0ne3OFSZOUW_X2FGHPAk5aIVYUEZMNqiO5YT0aV4Aon0qzC_tU/s400/KP+153.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402865359904851778" style="cursor: hand; height: 267px; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-12867488759680309892009-10-30T12:14:00.001-07:002014-02-23T12:26:08.702-08:00Halloween<div>
I have always loved Halloween. When I was young, all my costumes were "home made" - a clown, a hobo, a witch. Back then you could buy a costume in a box- like at K-Mart and it would have some weird mask with a string on the back and some thin nylon outfit that you would wear over your regular clothes. But, in my family, we always made our costumes, so I was always envious of the kids who got those store bought boxes: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH48EACCN4NiN6sz2n6cJVJmXUEKNKpzgUJNhCZF3aUHb3Rp2ZJ_2tlJupKNTpIoqrDrmqRu-20bSHqq04sO__Hh5msYeL1NqVB4wnJXo4lOWy3gRIZsjTjzjWchCf6GY8qmj1q6GPsFg/s1600-h/halloween506-729197.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH48EACCN4NiN6sz2n6cJVJmXUEKNKpzgUJNhCZF3aUHb3Rp2ZJ_2tlJupKNTpIoqrDrmqRu-20bSHqq04sO__Hh5msYeL1NqVB4wnJXo4lOWy3gRIZsjTjzjWchCf6GY8qmj1q6GPsFg/s400/halloween506-729197.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398477598358775106" style="cursor: hand; height: 321px; width: 241px;" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBkMJr1HFPTmnS03_a1p0Marqt1Dn0GDfJWvCXczMvYNOtsujeGDnLC8NhzJ2EIjrBaCzM1nSGmZUz9wH6sWf1UuPBJZ_Y0Odbx81ZLNYrwbSA1tdPPILKjsTVssDY77GMyleImJnPOY/s1600-h/6a00d8341c8c6253ef00e54f7dd8dc8834-800wi.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBkMJr1HFPTmnS03_a1p0Marqt1Dn0GDfJWvCXczMvYNOtsujeGDnLC8NhzJ2EIjrBaCzM1nSGmZUz9wH6sWf1UuPBJZ_Y0Odbx81ZLNYrwbSA1tdPPILKjsTVssDY77GMyleImJnPOY/s400/6a00d8341c8c6253ef00e54f7dd8dc8834-800wi.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398477466375659762" style="cursor: hand; height: 321px; width: 243px;" /></a><br />
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Now I'm older and I think back to how amazing my costumes were that my parents would create after I imagined them. My Dad would build race cars out of boxes or my Mom would sew a dress and make me a tin foil crown to go with my cardboard and glitter wings.</div>
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My son Chris has had nothing but store bought costumes ever since he was old enough to say NINJA! First he needed to be an all black ninja, then a black and red ninja... I loved how he would move around the house all ninja-like once he put the costume on. I loved that it made him feel so special and his imagination was so vivid. I wanted to create the costume from "scratch" but he needed to be like the other kids, he needed to be the ninja he saw in the store, on the mailers that came to the house, Halloween has always been a blast, but secretly inside me, I wished just once that during the school costume parade, he was not one out of many ninjas- I wished he had the experience of building his own costume, figuring out how to create something of his own.</div>
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So this year, I asked him what he wanted to be for Halloween and he said "a NERD". I asked if he saw a picture of a nerd somewhere or an ad for a costume and he said no, he wanted to make it himself.</div>
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Oh yippee! Hurray! </div>
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He had it all planned out in his mind, and we went to several thrift stores to get the goods. I can't sew, so my friend <a href="http://vaniafrancesca.blogspot.com/">Vania</a> helped with the hemming and dork-ifying of the pants. She also fixed the suspenders so he could keep his pants up super high. Another friend helped by locating and ordering bow ties and pocket protectors because I wasn't having any luck finding these things at thrift shops or office supply stores. It takes a village to raise a child they say, and it took a village to help me help my son make his costume. Thanks Ladies!</div>
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Chris was the only nerd that looked like him at the school parade today. I was happy for him and he was super proud of his outfit. I got teary eyed because this will be my last elementary school costume parade I have a family member in until I have grandchildren. I was also a bit teary eyed because I was reminded of my costumes as a child, and how they were always different than everyone else and how that made me feel uncomfortable. I cried becasue my son felt special and unique because he was different than anyone else. </div>
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Happy Halloween everyone!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsobZkMq1ZcbWA1OVUofMBv5hcG7xlKtPzrz8zTzWmA-3QdhOLpgHrISB7D44FbthMzf0FEcwKmgFfUnawOgKPf1UOYNkkC8y6IO034XUJ0Ai2am5n8oDi44tsQSXdyDq3OIbNIY10kI/s1600-h/Nerd+002.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsobZkMq1ZcbWA1OVUofMBv5hcG7xlKtPzrz8zTzWmA-3QdhOLpgHrISB7D44FbthMzf0FEcwKmgFfUnawOgKPf1UOYNkkC8y6IO034XUJ0Ai2am5n8oDi44tsQSXdyDq3OIbNIY10kI/s400/Nerd+002.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398473915729294818" style="cursor: hand; height: 400px; width: 300px;" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOf6HXBd8pC553liTfMp78rLnL-bdxVa_xwBgQc7lly53toEc2TN_J1tA-qKQldHmdQC81H3VYluxNdRRS0xfX7hfUgurcmxRz183oT2Enqxlv5h05JUoLnYpVLhuGstI5VeN-z8DdX-8/s1600-h/Nerd+003.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOf6HXBd8pC553liTfMp78rLnL-bdxVa_xwBgQc7lly53toEc2TN_J1tA-qKQldHmdQC81H3VYluxNdRRS0xfX7hfUgurcmxRz183oT2Enqxlv5h05JUoLnYpVLhuGstI5VeN-z8DdX-8/s400/Nerd+003.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398473685046580626" style="cursor: hand; height: 400px; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
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The cutest dork I've ever seen.<br />
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Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-692212489462792524.post-1260786327827301922009-10-28T08:32:00.000-07:002009-10-28T08:42:19.657-07:00Pennance or Funism participation?I guess I felt guilty for laughing at "the people of wall mart" website and emails that have been coming around. Maybe I just saw an opportunity to participate in some Funism? Perhaps my friend and I were just waxing nostalgic for when we were in our 20's and we would dress up to go do our laundry?<br /><br />No matter the inspiration- we went in full "OMG" "WTF?" costumes to Wall Mart to see if we could make it on the website. We have submitted our photos but haven't made it yet, so I thought I'd just share our attempt with the blog world for now.<br /><br />Do something FUN today-<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOr3-z0AeQQrDnOVM3HJ0zQ1bhYJ89CQRTOJhPWj7NuNv_7nl6whfmJbPzoAkszSSo4VdJL_HDj2LX1FGW0RiGtd_x7jD2vuuI6CujNWgXbp_GKeVt0mufvOs5mcMHg33y3K71hnCGBgU/s1600-h/KP+003.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397676005829866418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOr3-z0AeQQrDnOVM3HJ0zQ1bhYJ89CQRTOJhPWj7NuNv_7nl6whfmJbPzoAkszSSo4VdJL_HDj2LX1FGW0RiGtd_x7jD2vuuI6CujNWgXbp_GKeVt0mufvOs5mcMHg33y3K71hnCGBgU/s400/KP+003.jpg" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdrBrLeJPOBenDJ4QTqwxUHrLbLV7500YTJuhPK2uqpEfxKZQYNlh1ht5ow5vQ-R-neCuW9c6_yczSYFayJMRP4WHgvr0JpFN7yyjmtLrGvDEO3wIdYgh1mzTLYqLE4jVtKUsqsEfoAA/s1600-h/walmart.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397676096946067282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdrBrLeJPOBenDJ4QTqwxUHrLbLV7500YTJuhPK2uqpEfxKZQYNlh1ht5ow5vQ-R-neCuW9c6_yczSYFayJMRP4WHgvr0JpFN7yyjmtLrGvDEO3wIdYgh1mzTLYqLE4jVtKUsqsEfoAA/s400/walmart.jpg" /></a>Miss K.P.-Nesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15110757780525269088noreply@blogger.com1