Nervous Twitch

I've started biting my nails again. I know it's a bad habit and, since I work with children, a sure-fire way of catching a cold, flu, virus, or flesh eating disease, but I can't help it. My nerves are getting the best of me. This trip has me jittery. Last Sunday, when I had a moment to think for a second and count the number of days left until I leave in July, it hit me- I'm going. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered, I started to perspire, and my appetite went away.

I'm going. I am really going to a strange continent all by myself to do something that I am (on my best of days) only slightly skilled at. A year in the making, plans are still barely starting to come together, and I'm afraid that I am running out of time. Between now and July 6th, there's just enough time to move out of my house, throw some stuff in a bag, jump on a miracle, and pray for a plane....

I mean, jump on a plane, and pray for a miracle.

Which reminds me of another nervous twitch. I've started stuttering and messing up my phrases. I called a t-shirt a 'teacher', and repeatedly called Shelby (my student) Sydni. I can't seem to keep dates, times, important obligations, or appointments straight either, and I'm pretty sure I called my dog 'mom' the other day.

Along with nail biting, and stuttering, I've just recently started tugging on my left earlobe when I am worried (seriously)...especially in the car. I find my hand pulling on the fat part of my ear whenever my thoughts turn to 'how ON EARTH is this going to work!?"

I would like to say that I am fully confident that this trip is going to be a gigantic success and that it will all come together seamlessly....but I can't. I don't have the comforting guarantee that I won't fall flat on my face. I only know that God has brought me this far and He will bring me the rest of the way, wherever that is. If I do fall flat on my face, He'll pick me up and dust me off.

In the meantime, maybe He'll help me get over some of these nervous ticks becuase Europeans are going to be pretty freaked out by a nail biting, stuttering, earlobe-tugging American...even if I am an artist.

Hi, My Name is Pepsi

I grew up on the Colville Indian Reservation in Inchelium, Washington- a rural patch of paradise. Growing up surrounded by the beauty of untouched mountains and beautiful landscapes helped shape me into the person I am today. As beautiful as it all was, however, growing up 'rural' wasn't the only influencing factor in my early childhood years. Growing up a shrimpy, uncoodinated, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, blonde definitely had its challenges.

Let me paint a scene for you:

Rewind to 1991. Zoom in on the second grade class at Inchelium. See that tiny, bugeyed girl in the corner wearing a bright green Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweatsuit? Yeah. That's me.

See those weird metal bands on my two front teeth (my two CHICKLET teeth)? Those are supposed to keep my teeth from drifting apart.

Sweet, right?

As you might imagine, I wasn't even close to being the most popular student in my class. That award went to Randi Pakootas (the most beautiful of beauties) and David Tonasket (the most athletic of athletes). On the popularity list of the 20 students in my class, I think I landed somewhere near that 19th mark, right in front of a kid that publicly picked his nose.

Second grade for anyone is usually not the greatest of years, but I stuggled more than most. My almost transluscent skin didn't help either because there was no way I could blend in with my popular classmates. My only hope was to try to figure out a way to make myself more popular.

I tried dressing better and wearing cooler shoes (LA GEAR) with neon shoelaces. I even begged Mom to buy me a Crayola t-shirt with a giant Crayon on the sleeve 'cause I thought it would win me bonus points with the classroom fashionistas.. Yeah, wearing that to school got me nowhere.

Next, I tried cutting my hair. My new short hairdo failed miserably and almost got me bumped to #20 on the popularity list afterall, nose-picking habits can be overcome a lot faster than a terrible haircut.

Okay, clothes and hair didn't work. What about....um....

I racked my brain. Nothing seemed to work. I just wasn't happy at #19. I wanted more. I convinced myself I was too cool to be last. I HAD to improve on myself, fast.

It wasn't until almost the end of second grade that I devised my master plan to gain instant fame. It came to me one day when the conversation turned to the beverage that dominated the 1990's: Pepsi.

You see, everyone LOVED Pepsi in my class. Students came to school carrying Pepsi in their right hand and their backpack in the other. That cola was the hit of not only the Reservation, but of America. Highly sought after, Pepsi was numero uno, Kahuna grande with second graders. Like a caffine addict craves that beverage, I craved its popularity.

And, just like that, my scheme unfolded. I figured that "Vivian"was a pretty dorky name. In fact, "Vivian" held me back from rising to the top of the cool list. Who names their kid Vivian, anyway?

I decided to do what comes natural: be phony and tell everyone that Pepsi is my real name. It makes sense, right? Get rid of my old ladyname and take on the name of the most popular thing in school- a no brainer. Popularity, here I come.

On the playground, when the conversation turned to Pepsi, I chimed in:
"My name's Pepsi" I said.
"Huh?" Everyone else looked perplexed.
"Yeah, Vivian is my middle name but my real name is Pepsi." I said again, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about.
"Cool".

Cool? That's all I get? COOL?! Where's the cheering? Why isn't the student body carrying me around on their shoulders? Why isn't David Tonasket trying to be my boyfriend!?

Cool was better than nothing, though, so I went with it. The lie went all the way from lunch recess to the last hour of the day when we were told to write Mother's Day cards and I signed mine "Love, Pepsi"- classmates really bought it then. I mean, signing my own mother's card with a cursive 'Pepsi' was a very convincing move... until someone called my bluff.

"No Sir. Your name ain't Pepsi, it's Vivian"
"Um... I ... uh..." I stumbled. I faltered. I failed. Keeping up with the falsehood had me tired and worn out; I caved.

"Okay, you're right. My name is Vivian."

And so, that marked my descent to spot #20 where I stayed... for quite some time.

_______________________________________

The Pepsi Story is a tale I tell my students every year when the subject of 'lying to gain popularity' comes up. They laugh and I laugh and we're all reminded of a little lesson: don't try to be someone you're not... because the world is better off with the REAL you rather than the fake one you're attempting to be. Be happy with who you are, the person you were created to be...blonde hair and all.

How to NOT get your nose broken, and other art related tips from students

In a recent lesson, I showed a video about Michelangelo to my fifth and sixth grade art students. The cartoon (Getting to Know Michelangelo) told of Michelangelo's childhood, his love for sculpture, his masterpieces, and other well known information regarding the famous artist. Along with all that content, the video showed a not-so-glamorous side of the Italian artist that a lot of people did not know.

For instance:



*Did you know that often seen as an arrogant artist, he was really hard to get along with? So much, in fact, that he got in a fight with another art student and ended up with a broken nose!



*Did you know that he even snuck into morgues and operated on dead bodies to get a better understanding of human anatomy?

*Also, he did NOT like painting. He'd much rather sculpt or design buildings than be painting that lame old Sistine Chapel for a Pope.

*Even though the Sistine Chapel is seen as a masterpiece by today's standards, Michelangelo's naked paintings caused quite a stir during the Renaissance.

___________________________________________________________________

The instant the video was over, students' hands shot up with questions. We discussed the many reasons why someone arrogant would be hard to get along with, and why his statues are famous, and how sometimes you have to do things you don't want to.


At the end of class, I gave the students about fifteen minutes to write down some thoughts about Michelangelo's life. Some of them even offered some advice.

Here's what they came up with:

1. "If I could change one thing about [Michelangelo's] work, it would be the naked statues part."



2. "I learned from his life that you shouldn't break into morgues and check out dead bodies."


3. "If I were Michelangelo, would have put clothes on David's waist."


4. "I would have changed my skills from sculpting to painting, 'cause everyone LOVES paintings."

5. "One thing I learned was not to mess with guys bigger than you so that you do not get your nose broke."

6. "What I learned from Michelangelo's life is that it is alright to be confident in yourself... but not TOO confident."

7. "I would be most proud of the Sixteen Chapel."

8. "If you don't want a broken nose, then encourage others even if their artwork looks terrible."

9. "If you wanted to know something during Michelangelo's time..you had to find out the hard way...you couldn't just look it up on Google."

A child's honesty and matter of fact-ness is refreshing.

Excuse My French

I'm just going to come out any say it: accents are cool.

I don't care if it's a French accent, Italian accent, Australian accent, or even a Texan accent, the hinting sounds of another language or dialect makes my ears happy.

Two months ago, my friend Julie and I ventured to Vancouver, BC and spoke in (awful) British accents whenever we were out on the town. Although we sounded like we were more from a Harry Potter movie than Manchester, I noticed that the Vancouver audience enjoyed our accents as much as we did. Strangers stopped us in the street just to listen to our voices. People gave us special service at restaurants and, I am almost embarrassed to say, we were even given VIP access to one of the hottest clubs in town (let's just say that the 100 or so people waiting in line were not pleased to see us get in ahead of them). So, maybe our Afro wigs and awesome high heels had SOMETHING to do with our special service too, but I am fully convinced that it was the accents that clinched the deal. I'm sure that most of you would agree with me if I said that, as shallow as it might sound, accents make a person a little (if not a lot) more interesting than if they were speaking in a 'normal' tone. In fact, I can prove it.

Come to my classroom any day of the week and you'll find me struggling to teach distributive property (baby steps to algebra) to fifth and sixth graders. Just when they're about to nod off to sleep out of sheer boredom, I switch to a stereotypical French accent and (voila!) I instantly have their full, undivided attention. It's true!

As much as I enjoy playing around with languages and pretending to be from different countries, I fail at actually learning the language. Several years ago, I grabbed a 'Learn Italian in the Car' CD from the discount table at Costco in hopes of absorbing the information and delivering it in a perfect Italian accent. In went the CD, the program prompted me to repeat the letters of the Italian alphabet, numbers, and months- which I did with ease. I worked through each chapter, repeating sentences and phrases back to the dashboard.

"THIS IS SO EASY!" I thought to myself as I cruised through traffic. Convinced that I was one of those people you see on Oprah with an uncanny ability to learn languages, I finished my Burlitz course and anxiously waited for a chance to demonstrate my abilities to unsuspecting friends and family.

When the time came to show off my linguistic talents, however, I realized that they only Italian I knew were parroted phrases from my CD course:

"Mi ciamo Maria Santoni" Translation: "My name is Maria Santoni." "Mio marito e Italiano" Translation: "My husband is Italian"

If my name WERE Maria Santoni and if I WERE actually married, and if my husband WERE Italian, everything would be 'molto buona'. I also knew how to tell someone that I was from Colorado (which I am not) and that I have three children (which I don't).

Revelation: I can copy anything people say almost perfectly. But when it comes to conjugating verbs and forming my own sentences, I can't find my way out of a paper bag.

That was the end of my attempt at Italian. I think that when the time comes for me to venture through Italy, France, Greece, and anywhere else I travel in the next year, I'll just throw on my Afro wig and speak in my Harry Potter voice- people love that.

I Sure Ain't No Sammy Sosa

In an effort to earn more money this spring, I eagerly applied to be the Curlew High School assistant softball coach.

Bad idea.

In the last ten years since high school graduation, I forgot how terrible I am at softball. I'm pretty much awful at anything that involves a ball, a bat, a glove and running- not to mention decision making skills and mental toughness.

When I think back to my softball playing years at Inchelium, all I can remember is the look on my coach's faces whenever I messed up (like, all the time). They'd shake their heads in disgust or let out an audible sigh or just throw their hands up in frustration and look to the sky for some Divine miracle. Those looks still haunt me. Batting wasn't my thing, throwing wasn't either and decision making skills were definitely not my forte. I used to play with a thick rubber band on my wrist for me to snap whenever I made an obvious error. My wrists practically bled.

After graduation, I left my softball years behind me and swore I wouldn't return. But, alas, the financial strain of saving for a year of painting caused me to have a severe lapse in judgement and leap at the chance to serve as assistant coach. Last weekend, I sat in my parent's living room and relayed stories to them about my experiences as assistant softball coach so far: "Do you guys even KNOW how hard it is to hit fly balls?!!? It's practically impossible to make that sphere go anywhere you want it to. Think of all the possible directions a ball can go when it's hit with a bat: it can go behind you, it can plop in front of you, it can...." And on it went. My ranting continued with stories of trying to teach players how to bat when I, of all people, can't seem to get the ball past the pitcher's mound. I vented about how complicated 'tagging-up' to a base is when a fly ball is hit.

Me: "It makes no sense that you RUN when the ball is caught. I don't get it."

Mom: "Well, isn't that the first base coach's job to tell when to tag-up or not?"

Me: "Mom, I AM THE FIRST BASE COACH!"

Mom: This is junior high softball, right?

Me: "Mom! This is HIGH SCHOOL SOFTBALL!"

That was when mom laughed so hard she cried.

Two more months and this season will be over with. My gift to the team this year is a promise NOT to return to coach them next year. You're welcome, ladies.

Mr. Mouse and Me

The drive from my parent's ranch to my home in Curlew is an hour and a half trip. Driving for a good 90 minutes isn't usually that grueling but, as it turns out, I don't get any radio stations for the last 45 minutes of driving time (one of the drawbacks to living so rurally)- just static and snippets of songs:

"-----wel-come-------t-----Hote-----Californi----such a lo--ly place----------"

If you know me at all, you know that I love music and I thoroughly enjoy rocking-out to tunes while I negotiate the curvy roads of eastern Washington. That last (almost) hour of driving can be a killer without music- especially since I visit my parents almost every weekend and I am left driving home in silence alone...alone with my thoughts.

Last night, as I cruised home from Long Rifle Ranch, my car started the ascent up Boulder Creek Road and, predictably, my radio gave out. I turned it off and watched as my headlights scanned the road in front of me. With nothing but time and silence, I figured I'd spend a little of my drive thinking about and planning for this upcoming trip.

"What should I pack?"

"What else can I do to save money?"

"What can I do to ensure this adventure runs as smoothly as possible?"

"What is my next painting going to be?"

"Linen or cotton canvas?"

...etc.

Inevitably, thoughts turned from concrete to-do lists to more abstract, vague "no right answer" thoughts like:
"Can I do this?"
"Is this possible?"
"What if I don't make it?"

Twists and turns of the road kept my Mazda's wheels turning while throughts and concerns kept MY wheel turning as well.

"What if I don't make it?" The question stuck with me, like it was riding shotgun, keeping me company on my drive home.

My mind tried to shut off the faucet of doubt pouring more thoughts into my brain,
"Stop it. Don't even think that this isn't going to happen!"

I was busy wrestling with my own insecurities when I suddenly spied a mouse in the middle of the road- two shiny little eyes.

With my car zoom-zooming ever closer towards this little rodent, I watched Mr. Mouse (I am assuming it was a HE) struggle with indecision and insecurities of his own. He'd ventured out onto the scary pavement and had stopped right in the middle- unsure whether to turn back towards the comforts of home OR to surge ahead and leap towards the other side.

His decision became obvious when he hesitated-like he wanted to head back but, at the last second, scurried towards the right side ditch- running full speed into the unknown.

Kind of like me.

Mr. Mouse didn't double-back, he didn't go back to the safety of where he came from, and neither will I. That rodent, for one split second, had a choice to make and he did.

Next time I am driving in the car, in silence, alone with my thoughts, "What if I don't make it?" is a question I will not entertain. Instead, I'll consider the mouse and his bravery, and remind myself that there's no room for second guessing.

And I'll devise a budget so I can afford satellite radio.

Update on Joe

Several of you have inquired about Joe Artist lately. I guess he left more of an impression on you than I thought. Well, I wanted to let each one of you know that he is doing fine, sitting fat and sassy in my sketchbook, getting impatient just sitting on my shelf.

For those who are familiar with Joe Artist, you will totally understand what I am talking about. For those who have not yet met Mr. Joe, I urge you to befriend him on Facebook (Joe Artist) because he loves friends... and you can catch up on old episodes.

Joe Artist came about on a gloomy Saturday afternoon in November, 2009 and frequented my Facebook page for several months before disappearing last summer. Joe has served as a creative outlet for me and, as projects come and go, he's always eager to entertain my family and friends with stories of heartbreak, crazy Christmas gifts, faux hawk hair-dos and the every day struggles that artists face (lack of sales, spells of creative droughts, and the constant struggle against insecurity). Although Joe went dormant last summer, he is due to make a reappearance here in the near future. Stay tuned.

I should mention that Joe has been invited to join me on my European adventures this next year as long as he minds his manners and doesn't irritate the locals... and as long as he doesn't cramp my style. =)