I always said I didn't like children other than my own. Maybe I lied.
I volunteered to help out(with grades K-2) at my daughters' school today for their annual "fun field day." for those of you with no imagination or prior experience, this is where they have water balloon tosses, three legged races etc...
I woke up this morning and groaned inwardly when I thought of what I was to face today. Why oh why did I think this was a good idea? Maybe guilt over my lack of school participation got the best of me or maybe I secretly knew that it would be fun.
Anyhow, I got there, dressed in all black my tattoos on full display and made my way to the line of parents waiting to their visitors pass. I felt a bit of nervousness at having to be around all of those moms, most of them either older than me or obviously more normal and married than me. Fuck it, I thought. I am here for my kid and they can stare all they want...and they did. I got to the front of the line and the teacher just looked at me blankly with the obvious question in her eyes. "Who are you here for?" she asked and I told her my name and she said, "oh, You're Briana."
yeah and?
so after the awkward introduction and reassurances from my end that yes, I did belong here, I was sent to go work at the three legged race post. I looked over and saw another mom already there wearing a white blouse tucked into khaki shorts, her giant diamonds glinting in the sun as she put her hand up to shield her eyes as she got a better look and realized I was making my way toward her.
I got there, introduced myself and we chatted awkwardly. Eventually I got her to settle down and accept that I am quite normal really(or can at least pretend to be) and then...the kids came filing out. There were hundreds of them it seemed to my frightened eyes but in reality probably only about 75-90. They were all pretty little and really excited. You could see it vibrating in their little frames as they hopped from foot to foot, the boys shoving excitedly at their buddies, and the girls holding hands, their eyes alight with anticipation. There was a short speech from the PE teacher and then they blew a whistle and the kids came barreling across the field scattering into all different directions as they tried to decide which game they wanted to play first. At this point, they were content to choose whatever thing they came across first and so the three legged race got some action. I was armed with special little velcro straps to bind the children together and at first I was nervous. How in the hell can a self absorbed weirdo like me do this well at all? well the answer was apparently, pretty damned well. After strapping the kids together and blowing the whistle, the began frantically hopping, tripping and dragging(in one little boys case as he fell and got dragged to the finish line by his buddy) their way to the yellow cone and back. I watched this time and again, laughing so hard my face hurt, while I urged them on, clapping, whistling and cheering. I enjoyed watching the methods of the boys vs. the methods of the girls. The boys would just barrel their way through the course, hopping and dragging one another as fast and furiously as possible while the girls would hop gingerly along until they got to the other side and then they more often than not would confer at that point and come to the conclusion that holding hands and timing their steps would be more effective. more often than not, these two different methods would result in the boys getting to the finish line first while the girls hardly fell down and they definitely had a better understanding of M.O. I know for a fact that I had to escort 3 separate boys to the first aid station and only one girl. I must say, I was really enjoying myself. my partner parent on the other hand seemed slightly bored and annoyed by mine and the children's hyperactivity. Maybe I am just immature?
At this point one of the teachers came up to us and asked if one of us would like to take over for one of the parents that had to leave early. I just stood there not wanting to move but when my partner parent asked what activity we would have to man, the teacher said sheepishly, "hockey" We both looked over and saw a writhing mass of boys hitting eachother with sticks and flinging the ball all over the blacktop. I asked what we would have to do and the teacher, with a question in her voice said, "make sure they don't kill one another and that each one that wants to play gets a turn?" Sounds easy right? I looked at the lady I was working with and she quickly said, "I'll stay here if you want to go." I knew I was doomed after seeing how she had behaved most of the morning so I said o.k. and made my way over to the basketball court. the lady manning this station looked at me in relief and quickly scooted off, practically running to her car in her haste to get the hell away from the chaos. After dodging a few balls and wayward sticks thrown in rage, I realized I was going to have to organize some shit. there were only boys playing and I knew I could handle it. Boys do not get their feelings hurt all that easily. Their main objective was just to play and get points(in what way I do not know seeing as how nobody seemed to understand the whole net thing) and to not have anybody else get a longer turn than the other or to receive a better stick than them. The only problem with this was that their way of scoring points was not entirely working seeing as though nobody wanted to be the goalie and nobody understood who was who. they were just randomly dogpiling as they all frantically tried to gain control of the ball. I had to keep in mind that they were all under 8years old so they only had a rudimentary understanding of the whole thing. I blew my whistle and all of the boys stopped, looking at me with confusion in their eyes as I explained not only who was who but also, which net they had to aim for depending on what team they were on. I had to come up with a way to rotate the boys so that nobody got the boring job of being goalie for too long(boring because half the time, the ball never made it anywhere but beyond the court and into the wooded area). I cannot express how much I enjoyed this. All these sweaty little boys, taking this silly game dead serious until they just lost interest and dropped their stick in the middle of the court and ran off to some other fun thing. I of course was the one that had to brave my way to the middle of the madness to claim the extra stick so that one of the many boys hopping from foot to foot on the sidelines could have a turn. You have no idea how often i heard" I've been here forever and he cut!" or "he's been playing forever and it should be my turn!" and so on and so forth.
The funny thing is, I still enjoyed myself and found myself really good at cheering them on and keeping them focused as well as organizing this random game of hockey that had an ever changing team depending on the moment. It seemed that when the game really got going and points were actually being scored more kids would gravitate toward the game, begging to get in but the moment things fell to chaos, nobody was really interested.
So the point I am making is this, maybe I like kids after all. Or maybe I just like kids in large groups?
either way, I may definitely consider volunteering again next year.
Fuck, who knew?
Friday, May 22, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
the anti-me
Although I've suspected that my brain may be atrophying due to the nature of my job and the company I am surrounded by, surprised me last night in my sleep.
I of course began my dream at work because I had just left there in my waking life. It was the same and lame as always but for one small/huge detail. There was now a Jagerator(awesome machine that dispenses jagermeister) in the far corner of the meat dept near the door where the customers cannot see. We were all there late because we had to clean up the dept to make way for our new addition and in doing so, we also had to be subjected to a long lecture from the boss about how the Jagerator was something that we did not have free reign over. We would have to ask his permission each time we wanted a sip from it. I have no idea what other purpose this thing was supposed to serve other than to torture us because the little cups that we were to have our "sips" from were the size of a tablespoon. As I stood there pondering this and all the many ways around it, my boss finished his monologue and stepped out the door with a wave of his hand which I guess was to imply that he was leaving. The moment the door shut behind him, Cowboy(the oldest man I work with) said,"BAH, FUCK IT" and got out his coffee mug and started pouring. we all sheepishly followed suit and proceeded to get twisted. eventually I decided that I wanted to leave but could not drive so Maggie and her boyfriend Phill offered me a ride because Maggie was not drunk. She happened to have a pickup truck in which I got to ride in the back, feeling the breeze on my face and in my hair. I felt drunk and happy even though my house seemed as though it was really far away in a very hilly neighborhood that did not really look familiar but my dream mind assured me that the drunkenness was the thing skewing my knowledge of reality. The neighborhood was full of mansions and I was happy to think that I was rich but then Maggie finally pulled into the one driveway that accompanied the smallest house on the block. the house was a brown seventies style one story track home with an odd, carport/porch with a buzzing, dingy, yellow light that I could see the bugs swarming around lazily. I jumped out of the back of the truck and swerved toward the door, Maggie and Phill following me. I went through the way of the carport and found myself in an old brown and yellow kitchen where I opened the beige fridge only to find not much of anything but a can of budweiser and some limp carrots. I slammed the door and walked out into the living room where there was a man that I did not recognize stretched out on a lazy boy snoring as the TV blared an infomercial about Ginsu knives. I walked down the hall toward the room at the end that had a light on and hardcore music growling from behind the cracked door. I pushed open the door as Phill and Maggie stopped in the hallway about 3 ft back, lingering uncomfortably as if they knew what I would find.
within the room there was a four poster bed with a wizened little black woman lounging in it, her old fashioned nightgown hitched up to her waist, her offwhite baggy, holey underwear bunched up, showing the harsh shape of her pelvis underneath as she held a black little baby around six months old that was fat as hell across her stomach and cradled it with her left arm. Beside her was a little dirty redneck looking white kid huddled under a a brown, scratchy looking blanket with one hand stretching out and over, holding onto the fat babies ankle. The music was still deafening yet I could hear them discussing the effect that the screaming may have on the baby. I turned away in embarrassment ushering my awkwardly hovering friends into what seemed to be my room.
Nothing in the room was really familiar. It was all ALMOST familiar but just fell short of anything I really recognized. There was a single bed against the far wall, a little to the right and covered with a dingy white afghan that was littered with stuffed animals. next to the bed was the kind of nightstand I had when I was a little girl but slightly different. It was classic seventies, with the white wood and gold edging and each drawer was decorated with a fancy little handle that had carved little angel faces in it. on top of the nightstand was a boombox that was little and pink with unicorn and butterfly stickers on it. I knew something was not right so I told Maggie and Phill to sit down while I found some clothes to change into so we could leave. the room was awkward and small with a dirty dark pink and white shag rug that they sunk down to while sitting as close as possible as though they were apprehensive about something. maybe they were picking it up from me? or maybe it was just something strange in the air of the house. I made my way to the closet to the left of the door and could still hear the screaming metal from down the hall and now what seemed to be a small child screeching. I began to search through the closet that suddenly looked just like my closet from the room I grew up in but none of the clothes made any sense. they were all floral prints in pinks, blues, yellows and mauves yet...they were the exact cut of each article of clothing I actually own in real life. even the shoes were mostly the same but all the wrong colors and sizes. at this point I spotted a beige art portfolio on the top shelf of the closet and thought that I should look into it and make sure that my art was still intact. I opened it and lots of brightly colored papers filled with butterflies and hearts and big bright shapes of nothing in particular floated to the ground. amidst them was a passport. I opened it and some photographs fell out and I picked them up and upon looking at them realized that they must be of my oldest daughter but she was an adult so I was even more confused at this point. It was then that i decided to look at the passport. The passport belonged to Barbara Martinez. She looked just like my daughter and her birthday was August 14 1987. Suddenly it all made sense. I walked into the wrong house. This was Barbaras room. not Briana. an honest mistake I guess. My face grew red as I turned to my friends and told them what had happened. you know what they said? "Oh yeah, we were wondering if that was what had happened!" as though this were a normal occurrence?
the subconscious is a strange thing.
I of course began my dream at work because I had just left there in my waking life. It was the same and lame as always but for one small/huge detail. There was now a Jagerator(awesome machine that dispenses jagermeister) in the far corner of the meat dept near the door where the customers cannot see. We were all there late because we had to clean up the dept to make way for our new addition and in doing so, we also had to be subjected to a long lecture from the boss about how the Jagerator was something that we did not have free reign over. We would have to ask his permission each time we wanted a sip from it. I have no idea what other purpose this thing was supposed to serve other than to torture us because the little cups that we were to have our "sips" from were the size of a tablespoon. As I stood there pondering this and all the many ways around it, my boss finished his monologue and stepped out the door with a wave of his hand which I guess was to imply that he was leaving. The moment the door shut behind him, Cowboy(the oldest man I work with) said,"BAH, FUCK IT" and got out his coffee mug and started pouring. we all sheepishly followed suit and proceeded to get twisted. eventually I decided that I wanted to leave but could not drive so Maggie and her boyfriend Phill offered me a ride because Maggie was not drunk. She happened to have a pickup truck in which I got to ride in the back, feeling the breeze on my face and in my hair. I felt drunk and happy even though my house seemed as though it was really far away in a very hilly neighborhood that did not really look familiar but my dream mind assured me that the drunkenness was the thing skewing my knowledge of reality. The neighborhood was full of mansions and I was happy to think that I was rich but then Maggie finally pulled into the one driveway that accompanied the smallest house on the block. the house was a brown seventies style one story track home with an odd, carport/porch with a buzzing, dingy, yellow light that I could see the bugs swarming around lazily. I jumped out of the back of the truck and swerved toward the door, Maggie and Phill following me. I went through the way of the carport and found myself in an old brown and yellow kitchen where I opened the beige fridge only to find not much of anything but a can of budweiser and some limp carrots. I slammed the door and walked out into the living room where there was a man that I did not recognize stretched out on a lazy boy snoring as the TV blared an infomercial about Ginsu knives. I walked down the hall toward the room at the end that had a light on and hardcore music growling from behind the cracked door. I pushed open the door as Phill and Maggie stopped in the hallway about 3 ft back, lingering uncomfortably as if they knew what I would find.
within the room there was a four poster bed with a wizened little black woman lounging in it, her old fashioned nightgown hitched up to her waist, her offwhite baggy, holey underwear bunched up, showing the harsh shape of her pelvis underneath as she held a black little baby around six months old that was fat as hell across her stomach and cradled it with her left arm. Beside her was a little dirty redneck looking white kid huddled under a a brown, scratchy looking blanket with one hand stretching out and over, holding onto the fat babies ankle. The music was still deafening yet I could hear them discussing the effect that the screaming may have on the baby. I turned away in embarrassment ushering my awkwardly hovering friends into what seemed to be my room.
Nothing in the room was really familiar. It was all ALMOST familiar but just fell short of anything I really recognized. There was a single bed against the far wall, a little to the right and covered with a dingy white afghan that was littered with stuffed animals. next to the bed was the kind of nightstand I had when I was a little girl but slightly different. It was classic seventies, with the white wood and gold edging and each drawer was decorated with a fancy little handle that had carved little angel faces in it. on top of the nightstand was a boombox that was little and pink with unicorn and butterfly stickers on it. I knew something was not right so I told Maggie and Phill to sit down while I found some clothes to change into so we could leave. the room was awkward and small with a dirty dark pink and white shag rug that they sunk down to while sitting as close as possible as though they were apprehensive about something. maybe they were picking it up from me? or maybe it was just something strange in the air of the house. I made my way to the closet to the left of the door and could still hear the screaming metal from down the hall and now what seemed to be a small child screeching. I began to search through the closet that suddenly looked just like my closet from the room I grew up in but none of the clothes made any sense. they were all floral prints in pinks, blues, yellows and mauves yet...they were the exact cut of each article of clothing I actually own in real life. even the shoes were mostly the same but all the wrong colors and sizes. at this point I spotted a beige art portfolio on the top shelf of the closet and thought that I should look into it and make sure that my art was still intact. I opened it and lots of brightly colored papers filled with butterflies and hearts and big bright shapes of nothing in particular floated to the ground. amidst them was a passport. I opened it and some photographs fell out and I picked them up and upon looking at them realized that they must be of my oldest daughter but she was an adult so I was even more confused at this point. It was then that i decided to look at the passport. The passport belonged to Barbara Martinez. She looked just like my daughter and her birthday was August 14 1987. Suddenly it all made sense. I walked into the wrong house. This was Barbaras room. not Briana. an honest mistake I guess. My face grew red as I turned to my friends and told them what had happened. you know what they said? "Oh yeah, we were wondering if that was what had happened!" as though this were a normal occurrence?
the subconscious is a strange thing.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Gimme a break!
Today I spent my time going from gallery to gallery. The day was muggy and I was sweaty and desperate. I feel as though I have made some headway but not enough. I see now that this is going to take more work than I anticipated. Why oh why did I think I needed a break? Nothing worse than walking into a nice clean gallery, covered in paint, sweat and tattoos knowing that nobody knows you or believes you when you say that you can bring it. sooo, I will just have to prove that I can. BUT, for those of you that know my work and know something that i may not when it comes to galleries that may be looking for some cartoony, brightly colored paintings filled with naked women and blood well then hey, you know where I be. There, I have just proved to myself that I can be shameless.
HA.
HA.
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