i see people staring

I was recently selected as one of three hundred people in my state to participate in a national study on alcohol and drug use. I was selected at random, in case you were wondering.

"I'm gonna be a statistic!" I announced cheerfully to Mountain Guy.

What followed was a little less exciting: a three hour long interview wherein I was asked, in great detail, about my habitual use of minimal alcohol and a once-every-five-months cigarette. I'm fairly certain I had to answer twenty questions about the one mixed drink, as per my average, that I had this month.

Most questions were easy, but when we got to what I assume was the mental health section, the interviewer tossed me this curve ball:

"Do you frequently feel that people are staring at you?"

Hmmm. Now that isn't so easy. I realized immediately that the question was aimed at identifying some sort of paranoia, but in truth, not only do I frequently feel that people are staring at me...I'm pretty sure they are!

And I've got proof beyond the voices in my head. Mountain Guy has noticed it, too.

"Man, you are popular today," he remarked after leaving a store recently.

"You notice people staring at me?" I asked excitedly, as if I were asking if he also saw the zombies picking out pineapples in the produce section. Sometimes I forget I'm not the only one in my world.

"Yeah," he said.

Suddenly, I had so many questions. "Does it bother you? Are you embarrassed? Would you rather walk ten steps behind me?"

On that last one, he looked at me like he sometimes does, much like a parent looks at a disobedient child when disapproval and amusement are fighting for the upper hand.

"No," he continued, "I like to watch the way that you handle it. I like that you take the time to talk to people."

But I'm intrigued by how other people see me. Not so much strangers, but the people who frequently walk next to me.

With sexy symmetrical boyfriend

Because when I see a photo of myself, in all seriousness, I find myself staring, too. Video footage is even worse. I'm almost transfixed. Man, I look like such a freak, I think to myself. Then I look at my boyfriend and my friends, and wonder how I managed to have such good-looking friends, and such a sexy and symmetrical boyfriend. How can they even be seen with me?

Particularly Mountain Guy, who feels a little nervous around people even when they aren't staring. For an introvert, he couldn't have picked a worse girlfriend. Come to that, sometimes I think I couldn't have been a worse candidate for all the attention. But God is funny like that. 

And before you sit down to write me a self-esteem building email, let me reassure you that I am only left to conclude I must have the best personality on the planet. Yes, the inflated ego soars again. Well, Quasimodo might have one on me. But seriously, how else do you explain all my popularity?

I really can let my imagination run away with itself, and before I know it, I'm living in a bell tower in Paris.

Paranoia? Nah.

OneArmGirl   

artwork is work, too

I'm getting back in touch with my artist self this week.

Agent A. and I have come to Taos for a retreat. If you don't know, Taos is a well known hot bed for artists and, come winter, skiers and snow bunnies. Two of my favorite writers of all time, Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg, have lived in this northern New Mexican community.

Child's play?

Still, it was an adjustment, leaving the hustle and bustle of our lives to come to this quiet country home that allegedly housed John Nichols while he was writing The Milagro Beanfield War.

"Is that a real thing?" Mountain Guy asked me when I proudly stated this accolade.

"Yes. Robert Redford made it into a movie," I retorted, as if the mere mention of Redford was enough to legitimize anything. I once met a realtor who called him 'Bob' and said they would go riding together. Bob, indeed.

So, here we are in the house of a writer who wrote something that Robert Redford made into a movie. Personally, I would choose Newman any day of the week over Redford, but the house is pretty cool.

The woman who owns it now has my taste, if I had a lot more money. It's amazing how expensive it can be to make a place look old and beat up. I call it rustic funk. Let's just say there is a lot of distressed wood, antique furniture and hearts.

In our landlady's shop today, I saw a bumper sticker that said "Artwork is work, too." I would have bought it, but I don't believe in bumper stickers. I have a bumper sticker on my car that says "Just say no to bumper stickers." No, I don't, but I wish I did.

But if I were the bumper sticker type....I couldn't agree more, though by times the work of an artist looks a lot more like play. Julia Cameron says an artist at work is much like a child at play: exploring and experimenting and napping frequently.

The value of inspiration cannot be underestimated, especially in this artsy town, where the creative energy is palpable. All around us, from the tree house outside to the folk art in nearly every store window, the result of artistic play is apparent.

Rustic funk?

And so, Agent A. and I are hard at work––exploring coffee shops and boutiques, experimenting with mosquito repellant (rather unsuccessfully, I must report), and pretty much napping whenever the urge comes on. It's been a beautiful thing.

And surprisingly, we've been very productive, making great headway in the various reading matter we had gathering dust at home; and while Agent A. practices clothing model sketches, I've attempted a portrait sketch myself. No, it is not ready for you yet.

Now, I think I'll sit on the patio and reward myself with a glass of Merlot. I'm sure Redford would approve.

OneArmGirl

drive-by gumming and other stories

Two weeks ago, I promised to tell you what a kid said when he leaned out of a car window and threw his gum at me, then I forgot all about it. I guess that's what you get when all you have is talent around here.

Thanks to a faithful (and astute) reader, that promise will now be kept...

I was out walking in my neighborhood, looking for a copy shop. What I found instead was an empty building with a copy shop sign. And as I was turning away from the door, a car drove by and a young man leaned out one of the back windows and yelled, "I'm going to throw my gum at you!" And then he did.

And that's it. Fortunately, the car was too far from me for the airborne gum to land anywhere close to me. I stood there for a moment, wondering if I had missed something. Realizing no enlightenment was going to come, I walked away. But I had so many questions. Primarily: Why did he throw his gum at me? Why did he let me know that was what he was going to do? Was he acting alone, or were there accomplices? Was there some deeper philosophical significance? How long had he been chewing the gum?

I have yet to come to any satisfying conclusions. But if you ever find yourself the target of a drive by Trident-ing, know that you are not alone.

-----------------------

Little Gen and I had coffee with our mom-away-from-mom this week. As is common among friends catching up, Lori asked what I've been up to lately. Why do I always feel pressure to have something new and exciting to say when someone asks me this question?

Truthfully, I still feel like my life is in kind of a holding pattern. But it's not a bad pattern. I'm growing tomatoes and squash and herbs in my garden of variously shaped pots. And I'm hiding from the afternoon sun as much as possible, in my apartment, under a fan.

I've been to three baseball games in the last two weeks, which is more than I've been to in probably ten years. I'm starting to feel like a regular at the park. And let me tell you, gone are the days when you could get peanuts for a couple bucks. Now you're looking at five bucks for a bag of cotton candy, which you may note, is mostly air. 

In the evenings, I like to have a beer, maybe on the front stoop with Mountain Guy. Yes, we tried to break up, but it didn't exactly take. Mostly it intensified our attraction. We just look way to good together. Plus, we kind of enjoy each others' company.

The day after school let out for the summer, we took his girls to the butterfly exhibit at the botanical gardens. The enclosed canopy has recently come to life with transformation. We couldn't have been inside for more than five minutes before MG reached out his hand and a butterfly landed on it. Afterward, we celebrated new beginnings with a peanut butter and jelly picnic on the lawn.

New beginnings of what, you ask? I doubt the butterflies worry about that.

OneArmGirl        

two and counting

It's been a big week at OAG Headquarters.

On Sunday, I was a bridesmaid in my friend's wedding. That makes twice, in case anyone is counting. It was a lovely, long, joy-packed tearjerker of a day, as one might expect. The ring-bearer flat out refused to perform his duty, but on the bright side, I behaved relatively well considering my general impatience with matrimonial ceremonies.

Camped in the tree

Part of my low tolerance for pomp and circumstance can be blamed on my dad being in town and having less time to spend with him. The other part could be linked to excessive hairspray inhalation.

After the wedding, we raced out of town for better viewing of a full solar eclipse, which just happened to be ideally observed from our little spot on the planet. Like a scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, we stood looking through small pieces of welder's glass toward the western horizon as the moon passed in front of the sun, leaving only a ring of light. 

But amidst the hubbub, Dad, Little Gen and I were able to escape for a night of sleeping under the stars. I have not been camping in a very long time and once we arrived at the site, unpacked our limited supplies, and concluded which tree was the men's and which was the women's restroom, I found myself at a complete loss. I'd already eaten most of a pepperoni pizza and as much junk food as I could safely tolerate. So I laid back on my cot and looked at the clouds. I'd forgotten how nice it is to look at clouds. I'd highly recommend it for whatever ails you.

I spent the earlier part of this week recovering from the weekend. I slept a lot. I visited a wildlife refuge and most of the animals that lived there were sleeping, which just made me more tired. I think the bear may have been hibernating because I didn't even see her.

I woke up this morning with new resolve. I was ready to get back to business. And I did manage to delete a few old emails by lunchtime, but lately the things that used to be so important seem to be much less pressing.

But this was only the prelude to the grand finale. I was sitting at my computer, ruminating on the weeks events, when I heard a huge crash, followed by a splash, which turned out to be the entire contents of Little Gen's makeup bag falling into the toilet. Then, while driving to Target (partially to replace her now muddy rouge), she lit a cigarette to smoke away some blues, gagged, choked and vomited on her lap. And as she was regaling this story over dinner, I attempted to light a candle and lit my hair on fire instead. Thankfully, Little Gen jumped up immediately and clapped her hands on my flaming locks.

[This was followed by several minutes of uncontrollable giggling.]

This week marks the second birthday of the OneArmGirl blog. As I sit here typing with the smell of singed hair wafting in my nostrils, I wonder if I should just celebrate with gratefulness that it didn't all come to an end in a fiery ball of burning hair. 

But I'll be happy if next week is just less eventful.

OneArmGirl 

un-post

Thank you for visiting the OneArmGirl blog.

Due to an unforeseen over-booking of this week, involving a visit from my father from another state plus my participation in a wedding this weekend, I have failed to produce a post in a timely manner.

So I decided to give you the week off. Please enjoy a break from the regularly scheduled ponderings of one woman sans appendage.

I suggest using this time to re-paint your toenails...or whatever the male equivalent of that is...

Or just enjoy this family vacation photo from the past:

Come back next week to find out what a kid said when he leaned out his car window and threw gum at me....

kitty love

For some time, I've joked that I will never marry, and become the proverbial old cat lady. Now it's happening.

Chester came into my life last week when I asked my neighbor across the street why her hand was bandaged. She explained that she'd recently acquired another cat; she already has two and a dog. In the process of acclimating the new kitty to his surroundings, she'd suffered a flesh wound when he got scared and attempted to permanently implant his claw in her left hand.

"Why don't you leave Chester with me when you go to work," I volunteered.

"OK," Lisa agreed.

And so, come Monday morning, there he was in my kitchen. I suddenly realized I had no idea what to do with a cat. But it turns out, you don't do much at all. You pat him on the head, give him some food and water, scoop out the litter box from time to time, and go about your normal business. After our first day together, he went home, but the next day, I called Lisa and asked if Chester could spend the night.

I should clarify that I've never owned a cat before. I once adopted one little white campground kitten into my cabin for a week, and even asked about taking her with me when I left, but I've never ever thought of myself as a cat person. 

In fact, I've always been a proud dog girl, slightly distrustful of people who prefer cats. But I've taken to Chester surprisingly well. I'm even a little giddy, anxious to get home so I can scratch under his chin, just the way he likes.

I seem to have a habit of borrowing other people's children and animals. I can't decide if this grows from compassion or commitment issues...or both. I currently have a horse, several dogs, three adolescent girls and one little boy periodically in my charge, none of which really belong to me. 

And now, for the time being, I have Chester.

I just Googled 'cat colorings' and discovered that Chester is a 'Black Tabby Classic with White.' I do like to think I have 'classic' taste, and so far, I love this cat. But I don't think you'd catch Chester in a cat show because, while he may have classic coloring, he's not your average tabby––he's missing a tail. Well, I suppose I don't actually know if he's missing it, but it's definitely not there.

When I went over to Dragon Boy's house last night, he had several hypotheses about this.

"Well, I've been thinking about what might have happened to his tail," he said, "like maybe a dog bit it, or someone cut it with scissors, or he got hung from a tree by his tail, or..."

I had to stop him before he gave me any more fodder for my imagination. Kids can really traumatize a person.

Chester, however, does not appear traumatized in the least. In place of a tail, he's got a tiny nub that wiggles around, giving the impression that he's wagging it. Sometimes he tucks his forepaws under his chest, making himself into a cat torso with a head.

Aside from dabbling in optical illusions, Chester's daily activity appears to be a repetition, in varied order, of three occupations: investigating whatever catches his fancy, plopping down on furniture or floor without warning, and taking cat naps.

Not a bad life, if you ask me.

I was watching Chester today, thinking about how one day he was on the street, just a little tail-less kitty with no prospects, and now here he is, the ruling feline of my apartment. What a lucky cat, I think. But maybe he's just a survivor. Maybe he always knew things would turn around. He seems perfectly at peace with no tail, content to bat a flightless moth around the floor and drink out of the toilet.

Makes me wonder what I'm so hung up on...

OneArmGirl

bloggy good birthday

The day of my birth falls on the exact day that Hitler's life ended. I feel that this is important, but I don't know why.

This year, it also just so happened that the Pioneer Woman visited my city on my birthday. A little history: ThePioneerWoman.com began as a blog by a woman named Ree Drummond about life on the ranch that became her home when she decided to leave her city-slicker life and marry a rancher.

The Pioneer Woman outlines her love story in a now published memoir called Black Heels to Tractor Wheels. I started reading her blog a year or so before I started my own, and she quickly became my inspiration and motivation.

So when I found out she was coming to my city on a book tour for her second cookbook, on my birthday no less, I had to get tickets. I sucked my best friend Agent A into the plan (it's easy to get your best friend to do what you want on your birthday) and last Monday evening, babysitter for Dragon Boy arranged, away we went.

As we waited in the quickly filling auditorium, A occupied herself counting the number of men in the audience. I think we were up to twelve at last official count.

The audience appeared to be mostly comprised of middle-aged women and we joked about how we are almost there. It's true, on the drive over, we discussed child-rearing and whether or not it was too late in the day to drink caffeine. 

And then she came out on stage, the Pioneer Woman in the flesh...the woman who's life I've been vicariously living for years. She actually has a semi-serious case of stage fright, and so she brought a nice powerpoint presentation to take us on a visit to her life...her kids, her dogs, and of course, Marlboro Man, her sexy ranch man husband. Note: Marlboro Man is not his real name (gasp! I know) but, I believe, alludes to his resemblance to the stereotypical rugged cowboy rather than a tobacco addiction.

ThePioneerWoman has come a long way since its inception as the humble blog of a woman out on the prairie. There are now separate pages for the categories of photography, cooking, homeschooling, and home and garden. I stop by the site from time to time, but just thinking about keeping up with all the latest makes me want to go take a nap. 

Mrs. Drummond wrapped up her talk by singing "Endless Love" to a picture of her basset hound, Charlie. It was really touching.

(Note: Charlie does not usually wear glasses.)

Afterward, there was a book signing, but we didn't stay. I'm not much into book signings. I felt a little goofy being there, to be honest.

I've never been very good at being star-struck, though I can attribute several of my blog "techniques" to the PW. For example, I've adopted her habit of making up handles for her friends and loved ones; she has Cowboy Josh, I have Little Gen. And these names become regulars, recognizable and memorable because they generally incorporate characteristics of the people they denote.

It was still daylight when we left the auditorium, and since we already had a babysitter, we decided not to waste a perfectly good opportunity for girls night out.

Here is more or less what followed...

We ordered...

    

We drank....one drink each...

And then Agent A snapped this photo...

 

...of me eating a green chile cheeseburger.

And then we went home, because when you are thirty-two, a blog celebrity, a cosmo and a cheeseburger is a wild night.

OneArmGirl