The Diary of Queen Mothy |
Ole! written @ 10:49 PM on July 09, 2005 What a crazy month. Of course it was! That's why I haven't been updating. Christ Almighty, the stories I could tell you. In the beginning of June, Mom became so fed up with the status of variables in her life, i.e. the house not selling, my bother and me generally being a pain in the ass, financial issues, etc, that she stormed into the nearest travel agency and said, "Give me the cheapest trip out of the States that you've got." And behind curtain #1 was the Dominican Republic. An all-inclusive package to one of the finest resorts in La Romana, down the street from Santo Domingo, with crystal clear beaches and tropical air, palm trees swaying in the wind, etc, and all the alcohol you can drink for free! And she booked the trip for the second week of August, a journey that will last for a full week in paradise! Assuming no hurricanes develop over Hispanola, that is. So guess what, guys!! I'm going to the Dominican Republic! Woohoo! Time to brush up on my Spanish, eh? Said many friends of mine, "So, you're going to bring us back some cocaine, right?" "The only 'cane' I'm going to be bringing back is sugar cane," I answered. I have been beside myself for a whole month in anticipation for this trip! *does an ecstatic dance* Yay for free alcohol and more voodoo supply stores than you can shake a stick at! Oh yes, there will definitely be pictures here. *** Also in the beginning of June was my brother's high school graduation. This was an extraordinary event because we were all quite sure at certain points that he wasn't going to make it due to his own lack of common sense, his ADD, or his sketchy friends, God love him. Graduation also meant that my relatives were in town. All of them. The follolwing is the cast of characters: From my dad's side, there was my aunt and uncle from Myrtle Beach. My aunt, who is in her 60s, tends to dance on top of bar tables and with total strangers when she's tipsy. She is the quintessential happy drunk. My uncle, a tanned avid golfer who had to get a heart valve replaced due to his lifelong friendship with a fellow known as Jack Daniels, is, shall we say, a character. The two of them together make me laugh. From my mom's side, it became more surreal. My grandmother and my uncle flew in from Rhode Island. It's difficult to describe my grandmother. She's loud and opinionated. Throw in the Rhode Island accent ("Pawk the cah in the yahd behind the hahbah"), mix well, and you've got my mother throwing back happy pills all weekend. My uncle? There's a story. He still has the rattle snake tatoo starting from his ankle and ending I really don't want to know where, and he's in his mid-40s and very gay. He lived in Hawaii for a number of years, then San Francisco, then he moved back home to Rhode Island to open an antique store with my grandmother. All well and good, right? Well, there was a falling out of mass proportions, and he ended up cashing a friend's plane ticket to get back to San Francisco, where he proceeded to live as a dumpster diver for five or six years, then made up with my grandmother and moved back home, sans driver's license and social security card. He is now the manager of the local Salvation Army and is working toward getting his own car. He had a friend at one point who passed away due to HIV/AIDS, and his family had him cremated. Half of the ashes remained in San Francisco, the other half went into a tupperware container which has been sitting in my grandmother's attic since the 1970s. I hadn't seen my uncle since the summer after the eighth grade. But with all that said, he's probably the most normal, sensible one on that side of the family. He knows a hell of a lot about antiques. Then my grandfather drove in from Pennsylvania. My grandfather, also into antiques, owns a van that wouldn't clear some freeway underpasses. Why he bought this freight box on wheels is a mystery to most; he claims he needed it to transport antique furniture. My grandfather, mind you, is an anesthesiologist (sp?) who has worked at a hospital every day of his life. He drives this freight box to work everyday. I'll leave you to picture it. The thing about my grandfather is that once you get him in a book store, you'll never get those four hours of your life back again-- if you find him at all. But when you're the favorite granddaughter, this usually works out to your advantage, as he showers a plethora of awesome books on art museums and theater history. So now that the stage is set... Act I begins... My brother's graduation was the first time both sides of the family converged after my parents' divorce. I was ready for the Awkward Weekend From Hell, especially after my mom invited her boyfriend to the post-graduation lunch, but thankfully they all acted like adults and the weekend went pretty smoothly. My aunt and uncle had too much to drink, and my aunt, as expected, was dancing on tables while my grandfather sucked down martini after martini of the Blue Goose variety. My uncle lamented on how Ohio was ansolutely boring and he couldn't believe how this tract of land ever became inhabited enough to be inducted as a State in the Union, and I agreed. My grandmother and my grandfather argued about their health problems, my grandmother being as stubborn as usual. Mom periodically kicked back aspirin while yanking the tight leash on my grandfather to keep him from wandering down to Barnes&Noble. My brother made out with his girlfriend most of the weekend. Dad was surprisingly cordial and in good humor. He invited his sort-of fiancee Ohma to dinner to meet my aunt and uncle. They like her, which I'm relieved over. I was bombarded with questions about college and interrogated about the finer points of the Hudson River School of painting and what I consider to be "good art" by contemporary standards. It somehow became my job to make the seating arrangements at the graduation ceremony so that my grandparents wouldn't have to speak to my father, but my aunt and uncle could indulge in conversation at the same time with my dad and my grandparents. My brother got his diploma. He was one of the last ones to walk up there, and when he did, he was walking side-by-side his cavorting numbskull best friend Andy, whom I loathe with every fiber of my being because the moron is so obnoxious (I can't believe he managed to graduate; I wonder who he paid off). But at the same time it seemed like a fitting ending for the two to graduate together. (To paint a portrait of Andy, for Christmas one year he bought me Super Woman thong underwear because he thought I'd look sexy in it... I wanted to castrate him.) Mom and I made jello shots... because we needed them by Saturday night. I also took my uncle and grandfather antique shopping for a few hours. The next day my uncle and I went to the local flea market, where he proceeded to buy a lot of jewelry which he intended to resell, and comment on the high concentration of rednecks crammed onto two acres of asphalt. If there's one thing he does like about Ohio, though, it's those God awful fried pig skins. Yech. On the ride home, he vented about how socially inept my cousins (who are younger than me) are becoming as they trudge through their teenaged years because of a lifetime of going to Catholic school. He seems to think Erica will be in therapy by the time she's twenty-two, and Ben has serious anger management issues, and Andy is perpetually tied to his mother's apron string... willingly. I'm sure you can imagine it being a very interesting weekend. When they left on Sunday, my grandfather almost taking out our mailbox with that freight of his, a strange quiet descended over our house. I used to think that out of a family of mill laborers, businessmen, and medical professionals that it was weird that I became the artist, but now that I think about it, it really makes perfect sense. *** Work has been a little brutal. I've worked seven days a week for the past three weeks, but tomorrow is the first day that I'll have completely off. I've been working down at my school's summer dinner theatre shin-dig as a props designer and scenic artist. It's a good gig for me. I don't mind it too much, aside from the fact that I hate working with props, but it's the only normal semblance of a routine that I've got. And I've done it for three summers now, so there's not really a lot of thinking or questions about what to do. First we did Always, Patsy Cline, one of the most ridiculous musicals I've seen. The curtain call lasts fifteen minutes because after hearing thirty Pasty Cline songs over two acts and little plot in between, the audience has the option to cheer the actress playing Patsy on to sing three more songs. I hate country to begin with, so sitting in those tech dress rehearsals was murder. For the type of show it was, though, it got pretty good reviews. We got better reviews than the other professional repertory theatre in the area, and we sold out every performance. Steel Magnolias is running right now. What a change from when I did it in high school. First of all, they brought in a guest set designer. I was looking forward to working with a new designer and sort of picking his brains about the business. He recommended not going to grad school, since it's basically already what I'm doing now. I think I'll at least take that bit of advice. After six years of undergrad, I'll be too tired to take on grad school. His set design, in my opinion, was a little too upscale for Truvy's salon, but it was a beautiful set. From my end with the props design, though, it was the show from hell. Not only did I have to locate enough props to stock and furnish the beauty salon, but they had to be period 1980s props. My friends, there's a good reason why most of the fashion from the 80s went out: delightfully tacky. As a matter of fact, the local paper slammed my props design for making the props too damned tacky. Particularly, they felt the addition of silver garland during the Christmas scene to be "too much" and "too tacky." Hellooo? Don't you remember the 80s? Everyone on my street had metallic gold or silver garland-- boat loads of it! We had our metallic silver garland for fifteen years. I didn't care too much about the scathing review the show got, though. That's theater. When you're sort of in the limelight, people who don't know jack shit about anything are obligated to take shots at you. I was just sort of surprised that the reviewer decided to critisize props, of all things. You don't ever hear about the "props design" in a review! It was kind of stupid. One of the advantages of being a props designer is that you can usually fly under the radar. But oh well. I like my metallic silver 1980s Christmas garland, so did the director, and that's all that counts. Meanwhile, I began work with another theatre company. They pay next to nothing, but I get to design the set for the big theatre in downtown Cinci, which will give my resume some pizzazz. I think I mentioned this show before, the one about abortion. One of the props for this show was to get anti-abortion pamphlets, the kind that shows the dead babies in buckets and on dissection tables. It was gross, but I couldn't help myself reading it. I go back and forth with the abortion issue. Some days I'm for it, some days I'm against it. I like the Japanese point of view on it. They call aborted children mizuko, which means "the water children." Apparently abortion isn't a hotly debated issue in Japan. They recognize the emotional and moral dilemma a woman goes through when she has to make the decision without taking away her legal right to do it. Their mentality is that children have to be wanted, and it's not right to welcome a child into the world if you are not ready to receive it. Therefore, an abortion means you send the child back to the underworld with the hopes of waiting for a better time to welcome it. They erect temples in Japan dedicated to the mizuko. They have rows and rows of little Buddhist statues that resemble unborn children. You pay a fee to the monk, and you may dress the statue or leave it offerings. Mostly you pray to your unborn child for forgiveness and hope that you can have it later and give it a better life. In any case, the point is that you have to do what's best for your family. *** In the Arts Council, our Web design guy sort of stepped aside, so guess who got landed with the website? Yup. I can't say no to an opportunity like that. Using my trusty html programming skills, I've completely redesigned the Arts Council website, and it's pretty cool. I wish I knew Java script and Flash, though. In the meantime, I'm running my hometown's weekly arts festival in one of our commercial districts. It sounds impressive, but it's really just a matter of herding volunteers to the right place at the right time for two hours every Wednesday. Hey, if I didn't find it rewarding, I wouldn't do it, right? Over all, it's been a busy summer thus far, but I've been enjoying it too. I went to a Greek festival a couple weeks ago for Greek pizza, baklava sundae, Greek wine, and awesome Greek music and art. I've taken time to swim in my pool, and go out for the occasional movie or coffee at Barnes&Noble. Next Friday I'm heading out to the Harry Potter book release party with every other nine year old in Cincinnati because I'm a big dork and love Harry Potter. Currently I'm reading The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama, which is actually pretty interesting. I recommend reading anything by His Holiness. He has a great way of explaining things. Who knows? Enlightenment might be right around the corner for you, if you try. *** To my friends in London, my prayers go out to you. Fuck the terrorists. I'm still coming to London in December. Steve, I promise that letter is coming... plus postcards from the Dominican Republic!
A Bit of History ~ And Onward! L'Amour Toujours! - August 08, 2005 |
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