The Nest

I sat in my least favorite breakfast restaurant, my legs sticking to the vinyl seats, stirring my already stirred chocolate milk with a spoon. “Now, Laurnie Beth,” my mother starts, “I was thinking about this the other day. You know there’s TWO dates that they print on food, right? There’s TWO.”

I stopped stirring my chocolate milk. “One is the SELL by date, and one is the USE by date. Did you know there’s a difference?  There’s a big difference. SELL by is not USE by. You can still eat something after the SELL by date, but if it’s the USE by date, don’t buy it. Or eat it! Don’t eat it! Sometimes those grocery stores are tricky.” I stared at bewilderment at my mother. Not because I was amazed that she wouldn’t think that after eighteen years of life on this planet, I would know the difference between the words “sell” and “use” (well, okay, maybe a little bit of that), but because it was at that point I realized just how worried my mother was about my moving to LA. And how could I blame her? Being the littlest of five kids, my eldest sibling being 20 years my senior, this was going to be just about as big of a change for my mother as it was going to be for me. Come August, I will pack up my closet as well as other select items of great importance (my Sega Genesis, comic books, all of my hair bows, and, of course, my art box), and move myself far, far (alright not THAT far) away to LA. I have wanted to live in Los Angeles for as long as I can remember, and that is finally coming into fruition. And though I am sincerely and substantially stoked about moving, there are, of course, those things which I will be sad to part from. They say home is where the heart is, and I don’t know anybody who has more heart than my parents do.

So, this is what I made my mother, who cares so much about me that she worries about my understanding of grocery shopping terminology. The five little eggs. of course, represent the five little babies she and that darling father of mine raised up. But on each egg, in order to really ensure some sentimental Mother’s Day tears would be shed, I put something to represent a memory from my childhood. Glitter for the gold, sparkly swimsuit I refused to take off for any reason when I was four, pearls for Shabby Hattie- the most darling antique shop anyone ever owned that just so happened to belong to my mother and sister, a bow for the giant pieces of headwear that woman forced me into as a child, Queen Anne’s Lace for our flower-picking walks we would take, and paint chips for how my mother would let me paint all over my bedroom walls as a little one.

I am leaving, and I can’t wait. But I am so thankful for the parents that I have. I am so thankful that I have a mom who worries about me getting “sell by” and “use by” dates mixed up. I am leaving the nest, and I am so very grateful for the wonderful people in my life who encouraged me to go where I want to go and do what I want to do.

Here we go.

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I purchased this shirt after hearing a story on the news about a man in Japan.

For these past few days, he has been riding on his bike nonstop amidst all the rubble with a picture of his wife in his pocket, searching everywhere to find her.

I can’t even imagine what that must feel like.

Simply put, we have to do something.

Send your help. Say your prayers. Do anything you can.

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Guilty Pleasures

I have created a guilty project.

Everybody has that something. It is unshakeable against all better judgement, and, no matter how hard you might fight, you find yourself with no choice but to return to it with nothing but a hope that no one will find out. For some people, it’s Bridalplasty. For others, it’s cheesy romance novels with Fabio on the front cover. To have a guilty pleasure is to lower yourself to being who you really are.

So, it seems that

deep

down

on the inside,

I am a black sparkly canvas featuring japanese children’s health magazines and little happy sushis.

Old habits die hard…

when you’ve got a sentimental heart.

It seems to me that I may not be comprised of skin cells and blood, but, quite possibly, of glue. Or gum. Or putty. Or even an already-licked lollipop- anything that stuff seems to stick so very stickily that there could very likely never be a way to get it unstuck. If I ever loved a thing, I still do. Experiences, people, places all stick to me as though I’m a contestant on the Million Dollar Sticky (remember that part right before Matilda blows the TV up?).

I’m still shaking Polaroids that were already developed.

LB Yours.

The thing is, all men are walking around with promises of love and betterment taped to their lips. The trick is not to figure out what they are promising, but to figure out which ones are lying. Maybe it’s even just to figure out which ones are lying the least (and/or which ones have the least intimidating ex-girlfriends). Either way, romantic relationships are nothing more than a million little problems that you tape together, clumsy-fingered and hopeful, in desperate attempt to make something worth your while. Every relationship is a problem. For instance, a relationship that starts out beautifully with cutesy little notes, constant communication, and a daily dedication to see each other no matter how small a time period, is really only ammunition for when the relationship gets bori- *ahem* older and leaves one party (or both parties) wondering why (significant other) doesn’t (some sort of gushy/cute something) anymore/as much as they used to. That’s the thing. Even positive things in a relationship will somehow find a way to work against you. But that’s okay. Because you still have tape, and you are still creating something wonderful.

Tape together fights with fingers laced up in each other’s,

scares with a smooch on the noggin,

doldrums with a dance,

and always play fair (don’t forget you’re on the same team)

 

because he’s a problem worth solving.

 

(thank you to http://kissssing.blogspot.com/ for the precious pictures)

Look on the bright side

Though you might not find what you expected.

If you can dream it….

(Like the lovely photo? Then hop on over to http://www.lifeofjaime.wordpress.com)

You can get into art school.
Yesterday I found out via electronic mail that I was accepted to OTIS College of Art and Design.
Holla.
At.
Chaboy.
I don’t know if I have ever felt more relieved.
It felt as though after all of the work I have poured into pushing for something that was likely never to come to fruition, after yelling to the whole world that I can achieve my dreams, I finally received a sign that the world agrees with me.

Thank you, world, for your confidence.

So this post is for Walt Disney, who built everything from nothing, just as I plan to do.
I dreamt it. I did it. Hello, art school.

Scissors

I thought for a brief moment that a smile was tugging on the corners of my mouth. Alas, instead, it was only but a yawn. I had been mistaken.

Finger Paints

The way of an artist is an entirely different way. It is a way of surrender. He must surrender to his own mind.

-Agnes Martin

This blows

Just hold on, I guess.
Today was a bad day. Today was a no good day. But I will suck it up, because sometimes we don’t really have a choice.