Watercolors

Some times I can’t explain myself. Thankfully, I don’t have to explain or account for any criminal activities. Mostly, just weird stuff. Mostly, my adventures. For example, there is my trip to the base of Mount Everest. I hate cold. Why would I want to lie on the ground in a sleeping bag with a complete stranger and two hot water bottles only to wake up in the middle of the night when it is 8 degrees outside (and inside for that matter) with the urge to go to the bathroom? It is tough to satisfactorily offer an explanation. Because I wanted to see the mountain? Does that explain it?

Can I offer a rationale explanation for my desire to stand foot to paw and eye to eye with a cat so huge it would not hesitate to kill me if given the remotest chance? One day I want to see a tiger in such a way it scares the life out of me. And not get eaten.

But as I get older, my undertakings have become less hazardous. Still they are no easier to explain. So I wanted to re-learn how to watercolor. I say relearn because I once knew. In high school I took every class Mr. Izzo, the art teacher, offered. After he died one spring afternoon during school, there was Mr. McD. I can’t remember his full name. Never liked him. Another teacher couldn’t replace Mr. Izzo. Or maybe I didn’t like him because he was the only teacher who put me in detention. My crime: spraying another student with a water hose. Such a juvenile delinquent I was.

Anyway, I debated about signing up for a four day watercolor class. Besides the cost of the instruction, there was a list of supplies to purchase. Have you priced a watercolor paintbrush? Or 140 pound cold press paper? Paints? Everything is expensive. As a housepainter I know the importance of quality paint and brushes. To skimp on either will make a job tough. Same goes for artists’ materials. But all you can find on this island is crap at Ace Hardware. So I went to class with crap.

I was nervous and tried not to have expectations that soared too high. I didn’t expect masterpieces to be flow off the paper, but I did expect something more than a refrigerator painting. I once was pretty good. But watercolor wasn’t something that stuck like bicycle riding.

The class was small. All retired old ladies and one retired old guy who disappeared after the second class. Every one of the eight students knew each other. They knew the instructor. And there I was. I didn’t even know how to mix my paints without contaminating the primary colors. Nervousness turned into intimidation as we started our beach scenes. We were suppose to bring pictures. I had no pictures. The instructor showed me how to make puddles.

The instructor, Annabel Spielman, was very patient. She loved my naïve and curious questions. She explained wet on wet and wet on dry techniques and other nuances in her lovely British accent. She described elements and composition as "episodes". And she had a technique she called a “happy accident”, and if she like something it was “delicious”. My stuff was too delicious.

At the end of the first day I was very frustrated. If I hadn’t paid $200 I probably would not have gone back. My head hurt. My beach scene looked tormented. My palm tree neglected and my ocean polluted. I did have what I thought was one nice puffy white cloud hanging in the sky. The next day I woke and went to class with a head ache.

Noticing my inferior materials Annabel gave me a pallet of paints, two good brushes and a block of paper. She must have seen some talent worth investing in. She suggested I try my beach scene again. Same painting, superior materials. A better result even though I have yet to finish this painting.

The class moved on. I practiced making palm trees. On the second day we dove under the water to paint fish. I have little interest in painting fish, but then I had little interest in painting palm trees on the beach.

So why was I in this class? I hated watercolors in high school. I drifted toward acrylics. Maybe it was to reclaim the media. After the first day there seemed to be slim chance of this happening. But once upon a time I fell in love with an artist named Byron Birdsall. I was in the army stationed in Anchorage and saw his work in a local gallery. That was watercolor. On my measly army pay I purchased two of his paintings. At the time nearly two months worth of military pay. Years and years later, after one of the painting “foxed”, a moldy appearance to the paper, I contacted him. He explained that back then he was still a starving artist using cheap materials. But his paintings come with a lifetime guarantee. He redid the painting, mounted it next to the original and sent it back to me, insured for far more than I ever paid for it.

In class, I was determined to get one painting worth hanging on the refrigerator. Any time I approached something with shaky hand or too much speed I talked to God. For Your glory God, steady my hand and slow me down. Oh, to paint with the talent, technique and discipline. I have a little bit of each, but a wealth of none.

Today was the last class. I got that refrigerator painting. I sort of like it. I’ll invest in some worthy supplies because I want to paint a picture to hang on the wall over the dining room table. Something Mom would love. Except now I know that I need one huge ass piece of paper. No canvass. My brushes should last a lifetime.

The Decision

I wedged my body between the overstuffed arms of living room chair - back against one microfiber arm, legs draped over the other – and forced myself to finish A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian. It had taken too long to read. Even for me, a slow reader. I barely had started it when it was due back at the library. I renewed it. Felt compelled to explain to the librarian that it was difficult to get into. That’s what you say when a book starts slow, right? But this one didn’t. "Two years after my mother died, my father fell in love with a glamorous blond Ukrainian divorcee." That grabbed my attention. Almost six years since my mother died and my sisters and I navigate carefully around conversations involving my father’s women friends.

The reconciliation between the two sisters and their 80 year old father’s uncontested divorce absorbed my attention. The distraction needed. I didn’t want to think about a job interview I just landed. Interviews can be hard to come by, but this one wasn’t. I wasn’t sure why I applied. An exciting and glamorous job. Lots of travel. The requirements, however; life changing. But then again aren’t most careers life changing?

For the last two years I’ve sent out resumes. It hasn’t been an all out assault on the job market. I’ve been picky, looking for high level HR jobs in the manufacturing arena. The economy has made competition tough. Meanwhile, to stay one step ahead of the tax man I've picked up temporary work. This work also has helped with the plumber, the roofer and the auto mechanic, and the occasional dentist and doctor. Besides these stupid expenses who needs to work? Food, shelter and clothing - so over rated.

So surprise, surprise! An email from ADMIN regarding an Interview Invitation. The first thought was, “Spam. Where did this come from?” I almost deleted it. I forgot that three weeks ago I applied for a job as a flight attendant with Hawaiian Airlines.

The job openings made the news. Hawaiian Airlines was looking for flight attendants. Apply on line. So I checked it out. Without thinking too much about this I began to complete the application, but only after I checked to see if I could meet one important physical requirement. With a tape measure running up the wall I reached toward the ceiling as far as possible. On the tip of my toes I passed 82 inches. Barely, but successful.

Another qualification was two years of customer service experience. I explained that having my own consulting business was all about customer service. But I have never served anyone passion fruit juice.

It was one of the most time consuming applications I have completed. Every bit of time for the past ten years had to be accounted for. That included gaps in employment. Do you know how many gaps I had just last year? Four. I filled out seven time periods for 2011. I ran out of form before I could explain the past ten years. The same happened for the places I have lived. Ten years. First, I couldn't remember the addresses where I lived. Thank God Amazon retains all my previous mailing addresses. Second, again, I ran out of form.

I was sure these incomplete parts of my application would spit me out of the automated system. So I didn’t fret the details of getting to Honolulu for a couple of interviews. Nor did I worry about a six week unpaid training period in Honolulu. The logistics of lodging, transportation and relocation weren’t something I needed to solve. Then neither did I ponder living in Hawaii year round. How would I do that? Would I make enough to live in Honolulu as a flight attendant? Would I get enough hours for a car, rent, clothes? They only guaranteed 75 hours a month. And join a union? Almost against my religion. But the biggest hurdle I didn’t want to think about were my cats. How would I get them to Hawaii? Because if I permanently lived in Hawaii, Phoenix and Diablo would have to relocate. And if I got a Tahiti route, who would take care of them while I was gone?

I finished A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian. The story is a delightful mix of characters shaped by the powers of culture, time and politics. The reconciliation between sisters pulls the past to the present as they deal with the expectations of their father and his new bride. I held the finish book in my hands. A book.

I had my decision. It didn’t take deep contemplation. No wrenched soul-searching. No long reflective walks. No sleepless nights. No long discussions with friends. No t-charts with the pros on the left hand column and the cons on the right. It just happened. I realized I am just not willing to change my life that much at this time. I still dream about writing.

Honestly, I hate flying.

Job Benefits

Throughout my career I’ve had to deal with challenging individuals. I’ve handled drunks and obnoxious people who thought they owned the track because they had a two dollar winner in the third. I’ve confronted backstretch staff who thought living with horses licensed them to wander any place they wanted at any time. Damn the gate. Their logic was similar to someone with a miniaturized train set in their basement rationalizing they can beat an oncoming train. Damn the gate. I’ve wrestled juvenile delinquents to the ground when they were determined to pummel another delinquent. I’ve stood in a verbal firing line when employees got upset about overtime, schedules or policy changes. My response held in check knowing later I would have address the issue behind closed doors. I’ve had a customer thrust his nose in my face and call me stupid and with the help of God and one cool co-worker stood calmly and handled it as if nothing happened when the same customer returned. Yeah, my careers have been fun. My new career as pool monitor is not going to be any different.

Yesterday there was a birthday party of a group of four year olds at the upper pool barbeque area. I wasn’t scheduled to work, but I was asked to fill in for one of the guys. Great, a kid party. I imagined the worst. Kids running all over the place, screaming, yelling, jumping off the rocks. Being boisterous is a pool conduct no-no. How do you keep kids pumped up on birthday cake, ice cream and candy at a pool birthday party from being boisterous?

I imagined unruly four-year olds terrorizing the pool deck, annoying the residents who live in the condos that surround the upper pool. Complaints from everyone. I expected the parents to tuned out their kids' behavior as they lounged in the hot tub, traded gossip and chow downed on pupus. How was I suppose to check the four-to-one kid-to-adult ratio? How was I going to rein in the choas? I went to bed the night before and had a nightmare about the party. Unruly kids make me nervous. Heck, four year olds in general make me nervous. No motherly instincts in this being.

When I entered the pool area I ran smack into a sea of Hello Kitty pink. It was everywhere. Cupcakes stacked on three tiered pedestals. Thin plastic table cloths draped over picnic tables. Balloons tethered to the cabana dancing in the late morning breeze. A small army of adults busied themselves with adding more balloons to the decor and hanging a Disney castle piñata. I eyed a shiny blue bat and decided that most of my day would be tied up with keeping a tight check on this scene. I remembered my nightmare. Did anyone drown?

Carrying a clipboard I circled the pool, greeted the patrons and asked them for their pool passes. Made some small talk. Wrote numbers down. I waited for one young kid in his late teens to get off his phone. Then I stepped toward him.

“Pool pass?” I had pen in hand ready to record his number. I thought about the days when there was nothing more dangerous than a lieutenant with a clipboard and pen in hand. The army.

“What?”

“You got your pool pass with you?” I couldn't see his eyes behind his shades.

“Ah, I’m staying in DD.” His thumb was tossed over his shoulder. I let my eyes follow.

“Yep. Okay. Got your pool pass?”

“Um. I got to have it? It’s at the place.” He turned his head in that same direction his thumb had gone. Consistent

“Got to have your pool pass.” I persist as nonchalantly as possible. I shift my weight from one foot the the other.

“Now?”

I was tempted to say, “No tomorrow.” But I’m still the new pool monitor. I know patrons are watching. I’ve heard the comments, “there’s the woman.” I must ask. Has there ever been a woman pool monitor before? Instead I say,“Yep. Got to go get it, if you want to stay.” Realizing I wasn’t going away anytime soon, he picked his lanky body off the lounge chair and strolled off toward the gate. Never saw him again.

Once I checked everyone in I enter the period of time where I challenge myself not to go crazy. Killing five hours without playing Angry Birds. I mean killing. I could organize chairs, scoop debris out of the pool, check spa temperatures, clean the bathrooms, polish the drinking fountains, empty trashcans, clean grills, sweep the parking lot…but the truth is most days everything is in pretty good order. So I tackled the three sets of large sliding glass doors at the community center with Windex. Very slowly and paying meticulous attention to every smear, smug and streak I GIed every window in the place. Meanwhile, the children gathered. Quietly gathered.

I expected the worst. Occasionally, I reminded a boisterous tot that there was no running or jumping into the pool. Once, four adults gathered poolside to dangle feet in the pool while they chowed-down on cake and sipped on soda. I informed them that food and drink had to be kept in the barbeque area. They apologized and retreated. A few minutes later, as I was admiring yet another shiny window, Birthday Mom came over and apologized for her invited guest. "No problem", I said. Thank you.

The rest of the afternoon moved slowly toward the moment of piñata smashing. Everyone watched the shy kids take four whacks a piece at the Disney castle. As the party wrapped up I heard one guy tell his wife to fix a plate for me. Flashbacks to Micronesia and my Peace Corps experience. There everyone leaves a party carrying more food than they brought. It defies physics, but the phenomenon always proved true. Yesterday afternoon, I came home with a Hello Kitty cupcake, a bag of popcorn and four seaweed wrapped rice thingies. Local food. Job benefits.

Corporate Stalking

This is how it works.

Notice the cluster of ads running down the side of your Facebook page? Who really clicks on those? I suspect they contain malicious malware and other creepy things that can infect my computer, eat all my files and steal my identity. So I don’t click through. If I ever find something of interest, I go the slow route, open a new browser page and type in the address. This is very rare.

My Facebook ads this morning were:

Gluten free food
Upstate New York
MomThink.org
Rachel Ray lost 47 pounds
Feedback on Your Writing
Creative Writing Degrees

In some corporate office many streets removed from Madison Avenue some intern convinced some ad exec that money spent on these ads was an investment well made. Have bots ferret out key words and target the word user with ads. Brilliant. Facebook could not agree more racking a cool Billion in profit last year of which advertising comprised a full 85 percent of revenues. Look out when they drop these ads on your smart phone.

What these particular ads all have in common when posted on my homepage is that they will not generate one dime of revenue for the merchant, cause, organization or after thought that decided to pitch to me. Not even a curious “click through” will generate revenue.

They ought to give me the dollars and save themselves half the trouble. In this day and age of what I call corporate stalking, social media content is used as criteria for the ads placed in your face. It is also very easy to steer. Mention booger and sooner than you can sneeze a Kleenx ad appears. And we all can imagine what happens when you mention a few choice words you would never utter in church. Some day, like two years after the Facebook IPO, someone is going to wake up and realize they have spent a lot of money and got very little in return. Facebook stock will tank and the rest will be Enron history. Hey, I have an MBA.

Meanwhile let’s examine the fiscal flaws of this revenue stream on a micro scale.

Gluten Free
I have eaten no gluten free food since the day I ate a gluten free cookie to quell desperate hungry pains. Stranded in Kealakekua and waiting on the public transportation I needed something to eat. I had gone to a writers group meeting at an independent bookstore located next to a health food store. Nothing else was nearby so I moseyed in for some organic goat yogurt and a gluten free cookie. Imagine, small town Hawaii hippie-type village. Imagine me running around in long flowing sarong from Bali wearing a knit cap and flapping hairy arm pits. (Advertisements for shaving cream and razor blades are beginning to appear along with travel adventures companies going to the South Pacific.) You see how corporate stalking works? But this is not me. It is all so wrong. Totally throwing good money when the poor so desperately needs it.

That gluten cookie was the most God-awful thing I ever tasted since Kaopectate. (Diarrhea and church ads forthcoming.)

Upstate NY
It’s my neck of the woods and a great place to live in the summer time. I commented on a photo the Wishing Well, a fine local restaurant in Saratoga Springs had posted. They were participating in the annual Chowder Fest being held in downtown. Trust me, if I were in Upstate New York, I would totally be down with sampling chowder unless it was gluten free. The error in this ad is that I am not in Upstate NY and no ad about Upstate NY in February is going to lure me back to New York. Ever.

ThinkMom
When a friend posted this photo I wondered why someone had not created a similar one with a cat. I guess this sparked MomThink to target me as a potential…mom? I later investigated their site. I learned "strategic nuclear weapons are long range missiles that can reach a target between 3,500 to 9,000 miles away. Tactical nuclear weapons (a.k.a. nonstrategic nuclear weapons) are short range missiles with a range of 350 to 400 miles." Oh yeah, another advertising home run.

Rachel Ray
Why Rachel Ray's diet secrets targeted my Facebook page puzzles me. I have not mentioned diet, weight loss, fat… Wait, wait a minute. I did mention in a tweet that a certain cat in Chicago had a fat booty. Now let’s think. Rachel is from Upstate New York. And she lost weight. And I might be eating chowdah. So? Maybe the ad execs thought I was gaining a few extra pounds. I swear I need one of these jobs!

Writing
Okay. Now a writing advertisement I can see. Not that I have ever clicked on one. But I do have a blog. Actually I have two. I mention writing. The blogs are part of the Google Empire, but still. A mining bot is a mining bot. On Facebook I have friends who are a writers. A few more who are English majors. And from time to time writing gets mentioned. Last night one posted:

"My favorite Grammar Peeve: Lay and Lie
This is the crown jewel of all grammatical errors. “Lay” is a transitive verb. It requires a direct subject and one or more objects. Its present tense is “lay” (e.g., I lay the pencil on the table) and its past tense is “laid” (e.g., Yesterday I laid the pencil on the table). “Lie” is an intransitive verb. It needs no object. Its present tense is “lie” (e.g., The Andes mountains lie between Chile and Argentina) and its past tense is “lay” (e.g., The man lay waiting for an ambulance). The most common mistake occurs when the writer uses the past tense of the transitive “lay” (e.g., I laid on the bed) when he/she actually means the intransitive past tense of “lie" (e.g., I lay on the bed)."

My reply: "Whew. That made me tired. I need lie down. Then I'm going to look up transitive if I can remember where I laid the dictionary." Thus the creative writing classes.

Corporate stalking on social media is an expensive proposition. It is like reconstructing a crime scene and hoping the jury will buy it. I predict the case will be lost.

Just what have you posted in the last thirty six hours?