Freaky Fruits and Swimming Suits!

Ha ha! Look at that title. I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it!

Ah hmm. Seriously though, we’ve had an interesting week. Michael left Tuesday for a training course in Houston, abandoning– er, I mean leaving me with the kids. My knee is doing much better, so I was mostly able to keep up, but after a week on my own with those demon spawn, I am wiped out.

First thing we did after Michael left was hit the grocery store. Michael does all the grocery shopping, so I always use his trips as an excuse to buy the stuff **I** want. I didn’t get much, just some fruit and side dishes that I knew he’d never in a million years pick up (curried veggies, anyone?). Cassie saw a star fruit in the produce section and immediately decided she had to have one. It just looked so freaky, but not nearly as freaky as the horned melon. If you’ve never seen either of these fruits, the star fruit looks like a banana sort of thingie with a star cross-section (in other words, if you slice it into pieces, you get lots of star shaped slices), while the horned melon looks like something Jacques Cousteau picked up off the bottom of a coral reef. It’s a sort of neon orange see-slug thing. Or maybe it’s a sea cucumber. Or are sea cucumbers actually a sort of sea slug? Who knows? It was orange, spiny, oblong and freaky and Cassie had to have it, and since **I’ve** never had one either, we got it.

I served the star fruit that night. It tasted… odd. Not really sweet, and not really tart. Sort of like weak kiwi flavored gelatin. The star fruit is yellow on the outside and yellowish on the inside. Cassie spent all of dinner telling me how much she just **loved** star fruit after only taking one bite of it. And that was the only bite she took. I had to finish the rest of the damned thing off. Blech.

The horned melon was very different though. It was freaky inside and out. On the inside, it’s neon yellow-green, with sections like a pomegranate. Little round fleshy pods wrapped around a tiny seed. It tasted pretty good, definitely more like kiwi, but with a big juicy squish every time I bit into it. Both Cassie and Sam ate a couple of piece once they got over the color.

Ah, color. I never get enough of it in my life, and here’s where we now talk about swimming suits. Since screwing up my knee the other week, I’ve gone back to swimming. In fact, I’ve decided just to forget about running and swim as much as I can. I’ll be in the pool four days a week it looks like, but until yesterday, I only had one swim suit. So I ordered two more from Swimoutlet.com. I went with their grab bag option. Grab bag swim suits are $26 a piece instead of the usual $40. The only catch is THEY get to pick the color. You pick the size and the style, but THEY pick the color. The grab bag suits are all the colors that didn’t sell the previous year, and now that I’ve got my two new suits, I can kind of see why. One of those suits isn’t bad – it’s a hot fluorescent pink and orange print that sort of looks like a 1960’s acid trip. But the other suit… oh man, the other suit is a reversible suit. One side is Grape Ape purple and the other side is **lime green**. Both colors are eye-blinding.

But hey, for $26, it’s not a bad suit.

Right?

Eek! I Just Bought Some Clothes!

I don’t believe it. I just bought some new boots, a new belt, a new swimsuit and a digital timer on Amazon. I’m freaking out! I spent around $100 for the whole lot, which isn’t bad considering what I could have spent, but still, $100! I hate buying clothes. No, wait, I hate spending money. I actually like buying clothes, so long as I’m doing it online. I hate shopping in malls, especially with the kids in tow, because I can never get anything done. But I’m all right with buying clothes, until I get to the money part.

But, I need new clothes. I need another swimsuit, especially after blowing out my knee last night. It’s going to be a long time before I can run, so it’s back to swimming three times a week, and we may just stay there for a good, so I’ll have to get another swimsuit in addition to the one I got. And I needed the shoes. All I’ve got is sneakers, sandals and hiking boots. What I got was ankle boots, which are a little dressier but great with jeans. And I’ve been wanting a belt for some time, just a little accessory to dress up my wardrobe. The one I got is black leather with pink skulls. How cool is that!

And the timer? It’ll go on a lanyard around my neck (probably the ultra-cool Pirates of the Caribbean one Rachel got me for Christmas). I’ll be using it to force me to stick to my schedule, so I don’t run too long and screw up everything that’s supposed to come after. I tend to do that.

In fact, I’m running too long now. Gotta get back to work.

But EEEEEK! I bought clothing! Holy cow!

Techmen, Oh Techmen

There is probably nothing useful I can add to what’s already been said about the shootings at Virginia Tech. Michael and I are both Virginia Tech graduates. We met at Tech, fell in love there, and must have invited half the campus to our wedding. I was a member of the Corps of Cadet all four years and was commissioned as a lieutenant in the Army Reserves when I graduated. Michael graduated a semester ahead of me with a BS in aerospace engineering, and was so good his department paid for him to come back for his master’s degree. A lot of our lives, a lot of our relationship and marriage is tied up in Virginia Tech.

I can only shake my head in sad wonder at what happened on Monday. Thirty-three students dead, including the shooter. Why? I’m sure we’ll never really know. But I know this day will haunt us all for a long time, and I’m sure many will remember it as they send their children off to college in the years to come. I know I will.

To the grieving, I offer my condolences.

Life Sucks, But Being Cranky Is Good

Having a cold sucks.

Having a broken toe sucks, too.

Being 37 and having someone tell you that you have arthritis in both knees really sucks.

Trying to take care of a baby and a preschooler who both have colds while suffering through your own cold is major suckage, especially when you stub your broken toe while trying to take care of your arthritic knees.

Finding out that being cranky means you’re smart is kind of cool though.

Okay, that’s not exactly what this article says, but still, it goes to show that cynicism pays. Now please excuse me while I tend to my snuffling baby and my (re)broken toe.

***

Here’s the latest artwork. I sort of copied the pose from a book on drawing manga, but the details of the figure are all mine. I’m going to flesh this out over the next week or so, adding hair and costuming, then work out a background setting for the character. When it’s done, I think I’ll take it into Corel Photopaint and digitally paint it. Not sure what the final product will look like, but so far it looks good to me.

Standing Figure, WIP, 28 September 2006

The Origins Of Cynical Woman

I have a secret to confess. I am not the original Cynical Woman.

Are you shocked? Don’t be. Cynical Woman is a title I inherited/borrowed from a friend of mine way back when. Many, many, many moons ago, I was a young college student studying communications at Virginia Tech. I was also a cadet and an ROTC scholarship student, but those are miseries we’ll discuss in later entries. As I was saying, I was a young Hokie working hard on my degree and in desperate need of a social life. Being the geek/freak that I am, I joined VTSFC, the Virginia Tech Science Fiction Club, and proceeded to meet a wild assortment of characters, including a charming young woman named Joelle. I do not use the word charming lightly. Joelle originally haled from Atlanta, Georgia, and was as close to a Southern Belle as anyone I’ve ever met. She had style, grace, good manners and enough attitude to power all five computers currently running in this house, which is funny because computers and Joelle never really did get along.

So I met Joelle and we very quickly became good friends. She was working on her master’s degree in entomology, the study of bugs, and did cool things like make pets out of giant Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches (while still maintaining that wonderful Southern Belle attitude). Unfortunately for Joelle, life was not always easy. I think she had more than her fair share of bumps trying to get through grad school. She was supporting herself and paying for all her courses, which often stretched her finances thin. She worked an assortment of jobs to make ends meet, and did them all very well, but usually only got paid crap for them. She rented a small room in an apartment that was quite frequently mistaken for a landfill. Her room was clean, but the rest of the place was a dump. And she had problems with friends who turned out to not be friends, thesis advisors who stabbed her in the back, etc., etc., etc. I won’t go into too many details because a lot of it is quite personal and much of it is not pleasant, but I will say that Joelle survived in spite of all the garbage that was dumped on her by her graduate department, minimum wage jobs, and assorted aggravating room mates and faux friends. In fact, she did quite well, although there was always something coming up to cause her trouble even after she graduated and moved on to bigger and better things.

Through much of this, I had the pleasure of being one of Joelle’s friends. I can remember several lunches, usually held as some fine but affordable dining establishment located somewhere in Blacksburg, where we’d sit and discuss our woes (I had my own problems with being a cadet and an ROTC scholarship student, but again, we’ll save that for later). What I remember best is that after detailing her latest crisis, Joelle always said the same thing. “You know Helen, just when I think things are going well and everything is wonderful, something really crappy happens, and then Cynical Woman raises her ugly head and says ‘I told you so!’”

And that’s where Cynical Woman came from. It wasn’t until a few years later that I myself started to use those same words. “And then Cynical Woman raises her ugly head…” By then, I was dealing with my own crappy minimum wage jobs, assorted aggravating room mates and faux friends and I so totally understood what Joelle meant. You think things are going okay and you start to feel happy and kind of nice and then life jumps up and bits you in the ass. Only the way Joelle said it sounded so much nicer. Cynical Woman. It just had a nice ring to it, so I adopted the title and developed the persona to go with it. And I have to admit, being Cynical Woman has served me pretty well these last few years, especially when my life has been at its worst. Anytime I’ve been hip deep in agony, I’ve always been surrounded by a bunch of Pollyannas who try to tell me that life is great, things are going to get better, God has a plan for me, etc., etc. Well I know better. Life isn’t always great. Many times it down right sucks, and I’d much rather be Cynical Woman and know that life is going to hand me crap than be all perky and obliviously happy and then get kicked in the teeth when things go bad. Some people think that’s a horrible attitude to have, but I say it’s realistic, and being realistic means I’m always prepared for when things go wrong.

So whatever happened to Joelle, you ask. Where is the original Cynical Woman now? She’s in Bangkok, Thailand, a place she went to pursue her dream job and live an exotic, adventurous life. Of course, they’ve just had a military coup over there and everything’s in a sort of uproar. As Cynical Woman would say, “It figures.”

***

Artwork from yesterday. More torsos. I’m getting better at it, I think.

Torso studies, 19 September 2006

Bum Knees And Bifocals – Not-So-Gracefully Growing Old

Did I mention I’m going to physical therapy three times a week? A couple of years ago, four months after Cassie was born, my husband mistook me for a six-foot, seven-inch, 200 pound man during a self-defense drill in karate class and knocked me hard enough off my feet to blow my right knee out. Four months after that, someone else got a little intimidated during a sparring match and took out my other knee. The end result? Two bad knees that sound like Rice Krispies cereal every time I go up and down the stairs. Snap! Crackle! Pop!

My knees got progressively worse during my last pregnancy, thanks to relaxin and all those other fun pregnacy hormones. The crunchy sound I was making going up and down the stairs got so bad that it creeped out one of my best friends (who just happens to be an emergency room nurse and so is not easily creeped out). Since I’d still like to be able to walk when I hit fifty, I decided to see an orthopedist who sent me to a physical therapist who told me that my knee caps are tracking to the outside of each leg and that if I don’t correct it now, my knees will eventually migrate to the back of my thighs, causing me to walk like a bird with my legs bent backwards for the rest of my life.

Fun.

So in addition to all the other stuff I’ve got to do, I’m now going to physical therapy three times a week to fix my knees. Actually, the therapist says the problem is easily correctible if I keep up with all my therapy appointments and do the at-home exercises. I can make it to all the appointments. I’m determined to do that. But remembering to do the exercises at home on top of everything else is a little challenging. I’m trying though. I’ve got to stretch my outer thigh muscles while strengthening the inner ones. This is something I’ll probably have to work on for the rest of my life, seeing how weak and unstable both knees are, but at least it won’t take surgery to correct.

The biggest problem with the therapy is I have to slow down on my exercise and karate. It’s partly because the therapist doesn’t want me to overexert myself until my knees are stronger, but it’s also due to the fact that I’m in her office so frequently that I don’t have any time left to exercise during the week. I hate that. I just got my schedule set up so I could start practicing karate again and go to the gym on a regular basis and now I’ve got to spend that time at the therapist’s office instead. I know, physical therapy is exercise, but it’s exercise that is only concentrated on one part of my body – my knees. The rest of me needs a workout too, you know.

Of course, if I fix my knees, I can go back to having wild sex. I’m not kidding about this one. The last time Michael and I had sex, I just about dislocated both knee caps. And we weren’t doing anything all that kinky, just trying out a perfectly normal position that put a little too much pressure on my knees. I miss my sex life. I want my knees back.

Strong knees will let me get back to sparring (not my favorite activity, but I like being able to brag to weenies who are too scared to step into a sparring ring), it will let me get back to kata, kobudo, running, weight lifting, and sex. All those fun hard core activities that I love that make me feel young. Bum knees make me feel old. I hate feeling old.

Being told I will probably need bifocals by next year also made me feel old. That came up during my last eye appointment. What the hell? I just had a baby. I’m a new mom. Why is my body falling apart now? Oh, wait. I’m thirty-seven, going on thirty-eight. Forty is just around the corner. The warranty has apparently run out on my hot sexy bod. Oh well.

I will not grow old gracefully. I will fight it tooth and nail, kicking and screaming all the way. If nothing else, the resulting temper tantrum should make me look like a three-year-old, which is much younger than a thirty-seven-year-old, and since the goal is to look young(er), I think I can be happy with that.

***

Here is the artwork from yesterday. I’m going to work on figures for a while. I’ve been drawing heads and faces for so long, they’re easy. Now I need to be able to do the same with bodies. I’m having a hard time figuring out how to quickly sketch out a human figure though. None of the books I’ve got do a good job showing how to go from basic shapes to a completed figure. It’s almost like they’re leaving out a key step that I can’t identify. Very, very annoying.

Figure sketches, 18 September 2006

A Very Quiet Day

It’s 7:26 AM, September 11th, and Michael is trying his best to get Cassie out the door. Right now she’s fighting him tooth and nail. Michael’s a patient man, but Cassie is really pushing it this morning. They’ve got to head out for preschool in a few minutes, and she’s refusing to stand up so he can brush her teeth. The whole process takes only a few moments, and if Cass would just stop arguing, she’d be done by now. Meanwhile, Sam refuses to settle down and nurse. She keeps popping on and off the nipple, every now and then stopping to grin at me like she’s discovered some wildly hilarious new game. It’s infuriating and it makes it almost impossible for me to type.

Thus goes our mundane life on the morning of the fifth anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. I suppose I can’t not take time today to think about what happened five years ago. It’s like asking someone from my parents’ generation, “Do you remember where you were when JFK was shot?” Only now we ask, “Do you remember where you were when the World Trade Center was hit?”

I remember. I was sitting on my bed, not ten feet from where I am right now, with a drawing board in my lap, working on a colored pencil sketch that would end up taking me over a year and a half to complete. It was the last real piece of artwork I would ever attempt for a while. We used to keep a small TV in the bedroom back then, but I didn’t have it turned on. It was too peaceful and quiet that morning for me to listen to a bunch of yakkin’ on the tube. So when the phone rang, I was caught completely off-guard.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, are you okay?! Is Michael okay?!”

It was my sister, shrieking hysterically. I had no idea what was going on, and couldn’t get her to calm down.

“Of course I’m okay. Carolyn, what are you talking about?”

“They said there’s another plane! It’s headed your way, for Langley! Are you okay?”

“Plane? What plane? What’s going on?”

“Somebody crashed a plane into the World Trade Center! It’s on fire!”

I finally turned on the TV and saw it. Maybe an hour earlier that morning, the first plane had hit one of the towers. The second went shortly after that. Cocooned in my quiet little world, with no TV or radio on, I had missed it. My sister Carolyn was right in the middle of it. She lived in New Jersey and commuted to New York each day for work, so she was only a few blocks away when it happened. She didn’t know where many of her friends were (one worked in a building right next to the WTC). She’d heard a rumor that more planes had been hijacked and were being flown to other targets, including one on its way to Langley Air Force Base, only five minutes from where Michael and I lived. She was afraid we’d been killed.

I spent the rest of the day sitting by the phone, watching the news. Carolyn was stuck in New York. My dad was home in Arkansas. My mom was off somewhere in Michigan, I think, on a trip with friends. Nobody could get a hold of anyone else but me, so I became call central, keeping tabs on where the family was. I relayed messages back and forth, assured people that the rest of the family was fine, and sat in stunned silence when I wasn’t on the phone.

The next day, I called the Army Reserves to remind them I was still available for duty. I think that was the scariest damned phone call I’ve ever made. I did not want to go on active duty. I had been on inactive status the previous two years and was planning on getting out. But I was a captain in the Reserves, and I had an obligation, so I called and said I was still in and would go wherever they needed me. It was a few months before they called me back and asked me to anywhere, though. When they finally did contact me, the only place they wanted me to go was Germany for a three-week exercise. Apparently the Army was short on bodies to run this particular shin-dig. Most of the active duty units that normally participated were all in Afghanistan.

That was the only place I ever went for the Army after September 11th. I was supposed to go to Korea later that summer to fill in a spot at another exercise, but I was pregnant with Cassie by then and so sick all the time that I could barely stand up. So I called my Reserves contact and asked to sit that one out. Then the same day I would have arrived in Seoul, I ended up in the emergency room with a torqued ovary. My obstetrician had to operate on me while I was four months pregnant to put that puppy back in its place.

I left the Army Reserves not long after that. Between the scare with the ovary and other problems that cropped up during my pregnancy, I realized there was no way in hell I ever wanted to be separated from my child. I resigned my commission, wondering if I was a coward for getting out when I knew so many other women with children were going to war. Some days I still wonder.

I live a nice life, all bitching and moaning aside. I have two happy, healthy children and a husband who loves me. I have a nice house and plenty of nice things to go with it. I enjoy my work and my biggest worry is finding enough time in the day to accomplish everything I want to do. In many ways, five years after the terrorist attacks on September 11th, I’m still cocooned in my quiet little world. I wonder how long that might last.

***

Some silly artwork on a serious day. I drew these last night, just to goof off for a bit. The little witch reminds me of Cass.

Ugly toons, drawn 10 September 2006

Steve Irwin, Crocodile Hunter, Dead At 44

The news was a bit of a shock this morning. Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, died from a sting ray barb to the heart yesterday while filming a documentary off the Great Barrier Reef.

I have to admit, this makes me more than a little sad. I’ve always admired this guy. He seemed like such a goof, but he really lived an amazing life. He was a man who knew what he wanted to do and he went out and did it. How many of us can say that?

It’s tragic that he died so young. Some might say he had it coming because of all the dangerous things he did – catching crocodiles, working with poisonous snakes, etc. But keep in mind anyone could die at any time. Is it really so bad that he died doing what he loved doing best? True, he left behind a wife and two small children, but this man could just as easily been hit by a bus yesterday as he could have been killed by a sting ray barb.

Everybody dies, but not everybody truly lives. I can’t remember who said that, but I do think Steve Irwin is one of the folks who grabbed life by the balls and lived it to its fullest. I’m sorry for his wife and kids, but I’m certain they have no regrets for him, just as I’m certain they’ll carry on by living their lives with the same kind of gusto Steve had. I wish we could all live our lives that way.

Here’s some artwork from this weekend. It’s another work in progress, and I’ll post the finished piece when it’s done. The character is inspired by a fairy tale about seven brothers who were transformed into swans by their wicked step-mother. Their sister changed them back by weaving each brother a coat out of nettles, but the coat for the youngest lacked a sleeve, so he was left with one wing in place of an arm.

The Swan Prince, WIP – 03 Sep 2006