So as I’ve mentioned before, I was home-schooled through 6th grade.  This was back in the 80′s when hardly anybody was doing it and the people who were generally looked like this.We were not those people.  I might have rocked some knickers, but never culottes. My mom was a nature-lover from San Francisco. Tall. Beautiful. Quiet. Talented in too many ways.My dad was…..hard to portray in one frame.  The best way to describe him in a Redneck-Renaissance Man.

He was a preacher.

And a musician.

And a connoisseur of automatic weaponry.  And always, always the comedian.So my brother and I were home-schooled by these people and in the beginning there were no issues. It was fun.  We’d have school in the yard.But eventually the thrill faded.I entered teenage-hood and my parents popped out 4 more babies.  They were little and I was big and my brother was a joust-head.  I was suffering greatly.And so my parents made the gut-wrenching decision to let me go to real live school with real live people.  I was a dramatic girl, which stemmed from a psychological quirk that I was soon to discover.  It went like this….And then…….I barfed.And I barfed.

And I barfed and I barfed and I barfed. For an entire month before school started, this is the way every single morning went.Years later I came to recognize these episodes as panic attacks that lasted about 6 hours every morning. SUCH a bummer.  But I learned to fight it by spending every ounce of my mental, physical, and emotional energy trying to avoid certain thoughts.But the most ridiculous things would set off the barf-alarm. Like my siblings watching cartoons. One particular commercial would come on for a Playdo set that allows you to make miniature food items. Like bananas. And cupcakes. And turkey legs.

The Love Bucket was my best friend and worst enemy.  I guess you could say it my first introduction to the Frenemy.You think that’s bad???? That wasn’t the worst of it!  Not anywhere close.  Remember that story about George Bush choking on a pretzel and having a vasovagal reaction which caused him to pass out?  Well, apparently I have a vasovagal reaction to throwing up.  So every single time I barfed….

…I went completely unconscious.  Most of the time I woke up with my head jammed between the toilet and the bathtub.  It was a very confusing time for me.The worst scenario was when the Love Bucket was missing for some reason and I had to book it to the bathroom, knowing I might not make it.My parents were mystified.Anyway we finally found a wonderful Chinese doctor who told me I had a bad case of “wisso-wasso” and so that’s what we told people my 7th grade year. And my 8th grade year.And my 9th grade year.But by my 10th grade year, I was Iron Man.And to this day, I’d choose many many many many things over barfing.

Its been a busy week. I’m working (REALLY) on two paintings that I need to finish this weekend.  I ran out of white today and thought about going to Walmart to get a whole gallon but then I remembered that Walmart hates me my mother-in-law.  Especially the paint department.  I didn’t do anything to them.  Last time I went in there for paint, I was with my mother-in-law, Honey.  She was painting her living room and wanted me to help her pick out the right colors. So we went to Walmart.We decided on a fabulous green!But the paint mixer was irritable and tried to have words.And I’m pretty sure she was in a coma and didn’t know it. It took like 5 years to get the paint mixed.ARG!!!!!  Blastypants!!!!!

Needless to say, by the time we got our paint, my Green-Paint-Enthusiasm had waned somewhat.And Honey was all…And of course every single line in the whole stinking store was packed with everyone and their granny-on-a-motorized cart.  So we went through the completely empty self checkout line.  They scare me a little, but Honey……she has the technology skills.But events conspired against us.And the situation got real weird, real fast.What does a person do in this situation?

The paint made its way across the 47 thousand dollar machine and down the sides. Within 15 seconds it was coming out the receipt slot.Slowly, Walmart employees began appearing around us. Nobody spoke.  What was there to say?But after a good while, accusatory stares were tossed around.And then judgement was cast.And because of her poor mallet-skills, Coma-Girl was brought over and forced to wipe up the mess with a roll of paper towels.  How do you wipe up a PILE of paint?  It just smeared and smeared. Its like being asked to soak all the water out of a swimming pool with a roll of toilet paper.

Anyway, get decided to take our ONE can of green and get out of there while we were ahead.And I tell you all this because……….

The point of the story is………….

LOOK!!! I drew a BIRD!

After much self-reflection, I’ve come to the realization that I have pet-peeve issues. It’s not that I have too many of them, it’s that I have virtually none of my own (and that totally drives me nuts. In fact, that could be my pet-peeve…). All of the obvious, gnarly problems in life bother me, but I wouldn’t necessarily put “murder” in the pet-peeve category. Or “muggings”. Or “arson”. Or “pumpkin-smashing”.

I try to pin-point something that bothers me in EVERY circumstance. A blanket irritant, if you will.

It’s just not a good representation of how I feel.

Its not that I’m apathetic or that I don’t have negative responses.  But left to my own devices I tend to go a different direction with my thoughts.

I’ll have a strong desire to cram things into my face.Or a desire to never eat again as long as I stinking live.Or I’ll enter a stage of manic, narcissistic pride.

My bigger problem is that although I like to believe I’m a critical thinker, I tend to jump aboard other people’s pet-peeve bandwagons.  I’m a pet-peeve poser.Things don’t bother me until they bother somebody else.And the more passionate about it they are, the more vehemently I agree.

Most of the time, anyway.I’ve been thinking that if I got a few peeves of my own, I wouldn’t be so quick to glom onto everyone else’s. What I’ve concluded is that I don’t enjoy situations that make me feel….weird.  Or extremely self-conscious.Or panicky.No, I’d rather feel like the flawless sun-ray of perfection that I am. Because that is ALWAYS fun……and so so accurate.

Oh my gosh. Look at this precious precious outfit! I know what to do with this microscopic swatch o’ heaven! I’m gonna put it on a little baby angel sugar-pie squirrel!

There’s one now sittin in the grass lookin like the sweetest precious fluffcake on the planet!Little sweety lumpykins!

I’m gonna fetch him!Oh the honey-dumpling is so precious! Lets get you some clothes on!The little tiny baby fuzzy face doesn’t give up, does he.Gosh it takes a long time to put the precious outfit on the precious precious precious!

Here squirrel, hold this nut!No sir!

Little dumpling head! Almost done. Be a patient critter.DONE!Boy!!!!

Siegfried was never that hard to dress!

Procrastination is the KILLER OF ME!!!!

It grows in one area of my life until that area springs a leak and then it spills all over the place. The two sides of my brain wage a civil war and we get nothing done until there are peace-talks. I have this obsessive-compulsion drive to start exciting projects.Some of them I even finish.The poor, poor Dark Knight. I feel for him. I really do. I write about this because this is the current state of affairs in my house. I have a closet full of paintings that scream at me whenever I walk by....and I make them empty promises.But how can I paint when there is so much cleaning to do????And how can I clean when I need to go in to work and arrange some furniture??? Its a vicious cycle!  The more it builds up, the more I procrastinate! It fries my brain. I develop stringent opinions on things I care absolutely nothing about in order to avoid thinking about my responsibilities.And then, FINALLY, I have a complete and total meltdown.I clean the dirt!I paint the paintings!And then I hit a brick wall and my cleaning and painting inspiration is shattered.And then……And that, folks, is where I’m at right now.

Update: the Novel is finished. Now I’m considering translating the Spice Weasel sketch into an oil on canvas.