As I lapse into a coma on the couch after eating one cookie too many, I'm reflecting back on the holiday season of 2009. Here's what I've come up with (in no particular order):
1) How 'bout dem Blackhawks? I was delighted by the premier episode of Blackhawks TV which aired on Christmas day, giggled at the Happy Hullidays commercials and have relished every moment of the past few games. These guys are the real deal and it just might be their year. Regardless, it's so much fun to watch.
2) Shopping for jeans is the bane of my existence. As a nice little perk, we're allowed to wear jeans to work all next week. So-- duh-- I need to buy some new ones. During shopping trips on Thursday and Saturday, I tried on 23 different pairs. Pocket placement is so key-- it can spell the difference between "hot ass" and "all ass." Unflattering jeans can bring me to tears.
3) Nothing is a better gift than pictures of my niece and nephews. Every year, Dawn gives me a Shutterfly album of a year's worth of pictures of Justin and Kaelyn. Justin's 8 and plays hockey now, which fills me with so much pride. Kaelyn's 4 and is becoming quite an artist. Dawn also accuses me of passing on some other not so desirable traits to Kaelyn-- her "dark side" (she loves stories about monsters), her sweet tooth and her tendency to use "bad words." Hey, I can't help my genetics, can I? Little Henry always looks so happy and wears his new Cubs sweatsuit with such style and grace. His blond hair sticks up in all directions and never fails to make me smile. I'm not much of a kid person, but I truly adore these three.
4) I didn't do my massive cookie bake this year, but I did follow my yearly tradition by making my Grammy's cranberry torte. Before she died, she wrote our favorite recipes on index cards. Cranberry torte is the first thing we eat on Christmas morning. I loved my grandparents immensely and I think about them a lot. This is a beautiful way of honoring a very sweet memory.
5) John's Christmas village is another tradition. He's extremely anal about setting it up and it takes him hours to plan and execute the design. Frank Lloyd Wright would be jealous. I sometimes mess with my darling spouse by moving a figurine or two out of place. Cruel, yes, but a heck of a lot of fun.
6) I'm somewhat envious of friends and family who send holiday cards with pictures of their dogs dressed in holiday sweaters, antlers or santa hats. I would love to do that with Sheila, Baylee and Jessica (0ur cats), but the one time I attemped it, it cost me some flesh. Cats just don't do hats. It's a feline thing.
7) How much is it going to suck to take all of these decorations down?!?!
Happy 2010, everyone!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Continuity
If you don't enjoy reading about someone waxing philosophical in a memoir-like way about sports, turn back now. While at the Bruins vs. Hawks game the other night, I got to thinking about how there are very few things in life that are constant. I could only come up with one in my own life... hockey.
As a young child in Massachusetts, we skated almost as soon as we could walk. Dad and Grampy enjoyed ice fishing; my sister Dawn and I often accompanied them and spent time whizzing around one frozen pond or another. We had our own rink, too. Dad rigged up two by fours and plastic sheeting to magically convert the summer garden to an ice rink, complete with a spotlight for night skating. We'd come in only when we could no longer feel our extremities.
Two important people outside of the family shared my love of hockey... childhood friend Suzanne and our babysitter Mary. My very first love interest wasn't the boy next door, a kid on the bus or a member of the Partridge Family. It was Gilles Gilbert, goalie for the Boston Bruins. Sometimes I'd watch the games with my grandfather from the foot of his recliner, but more often I'd drag my 13" black and white tv from my bedroom to the kitchen table. I needed the flat surface for my writing. Every game, I meticulously kept a score sheet-- goals and assists, penalties and various notes. Every single game. I stored them in a three-ring binder. Then I'd draw pictures. Goalies mostly (Gilles Gilbert, surrounded by red and pink hearts).
As adolescence loomed, we had a very unsettling move from Massachusetts to Pennsylvania and suddenly my life was in turmoil. I missed my friends. I missed the Bruins. A book called "The Picture History of the Boston Bruins: From Shore to Orr and the Years Between" went with me everywhere and became a source of comfort for me. I still have it today.
After recovering from injuries sustained in a serious auto accident, I decided I wanted to play organized hockey. Even though my mom was a divorced parent trying to raise three young girls on not a lot of money, she drove me in all kinds of weather to Johnstown so I could play bantam hockey at the War Memorial. I was the first girl to ever play in what was (up until then) an all-boys league. Quite frankly, they didn't know what to do with me, but they knew they couldn't refuse my participation, so play I did (but they graciously waived the jock strap requirement). I changed clothes in the ladies bathroom since I couldn't go into the locker room. At first, my teammates resented all of the attention I got, but then Coach Barry appealed to their burgeoning chivalry and soon enough they saw me as a little sister in need of protection. Suddenly I had a team of big brothers and I gloried in it. I really was little-- just over 5 feet and barely 100 pounds. I was a good skater-- better than many of the boys-- but if the opponents caught me, I didn't fare so well. I had waist-length hair then, which I braided and tucked into my helmet to discourage hair pulling.
Around this time, I met a lifelong friend through hockey. Michaela. She lives in New York and I answered her ad for a hockey pen pal in some hockey magazine or newspaper. In the days before the internet and 24-hour sports channels, she became a news lifeline about my team. My grandparents did the same. Every week my grandmother would send me a letter with two dollars and clippings about the Bruins from the newspaper. Sometimes she'd write editorial comments in the margins in her flowery penmanship-- "Oh my!" beside a picture of a fight. I still have some of these.
During my high school years (junior year, I believe), I took a significant interest in rookie Al Secord, who was destined to become my second great hockey love. Although I'm not a fan letter sort of person, I wrote to him and much to my surprise and delight (remember, those were more innocent and simpler times) I got a handwritten letter from him in addition to an autographed picture. In the letter, he told me that I was the first fan to ever write to him. I was convinced that I would marry him.
Back in the late 70's and early 80's, we went to Pittsburgh when the Bruins played the Penguins. Pre-Mario Lemieux, it was possible to walk right up to the players after the game if you knew which gate to wait at. That way, I was able to meet and get autographs and pictures of some of the big names of the day-- Gerry Cheevers, Terry O'Reilly, Wayne Cashman, Jean Ratelle, Brad Park... and Al Secord. I introduced myself and he knew right away who I was. More on him later.
Freshman year of college I was seriously messed up from a non-hockey related broken heart (long story...), then I was committed to my studies and friendships, so hockey took a back burner for a few years. Then it was graduate school, marriage and a move to Chicago. At the time, the Blackhawks were in the cellar and tickets were fairly easy to come by, so once again it was full immersion.
Roller hockey evolved and along with it came a team called the Chicago Cheetahs. I hadn't heard much about it, but a friend of mine (who knew my hockey history) urged me to attend the first game at UIC because there would be a "big surprise." So I did. You probably guessed the surprise. One of the Cheetahs was Al Secord. One again, he remembered me, as he did a few years later when he played on the Chicago Wolves.
In the 90's, John and I made a yearly tradition out of attending the Blackhawks Winter Ball, which benefitted Maryville Academy. It's like going to the prom with the entire Blackhawks team and their wives/girlfriends. Again, much excitement and picture taking-- Denis Savard, Bob Probert, Ed Belfour, Chris Chelios. Another brush with hockey celebrity came when John became Jeremy Roenick's podiatrist during the year that the NHL went on strike. Roenick actually conducted negotiations on their office phone while he was waiting for treatment. And at John's request, he left me a surprise voicemail on my work phone saying "your husband is causing me tremendous pain."
Chicago Stadium morphed into the United Center and the Hawks tanked, then rose again, which brings us to the present. A busy work schedule, a household to maintain, keeping up with friends, family and Facebook fill my days. Although the faces of the players (aside from Chelios's) are now older than mine, my interest has not become stale. I still thrill at the speed of the puck flying down the rink. The majesty of an untouched sheet of ice. The colors and sounds of a fast-paced game. Throughout my lifetime... past, present and future... the humble game of hockey-- lesser-appreciated cousin of football and baseball-- has made my good times better and my bad times lighter.
As a young child in Massachusetts, we skated almost as soon as we could walk. Dad and Grampy enjoyed ice fishing; my sister Dawn and I often accompanied them and spent time whizzing around one frozen pond or another. We had our own rink, too. Dad rigged up two by fours and plastic sheeting to magically convert the summer garden to an ice rink, complete with a spotlight for night skating. We'd come in only when we could no longer feel our extremities.
Two important people outside of the family shared my love of hockey... childhood friend Suzanne and our babysitter Mary. My very first love interest wasn't the boy next door, a kid on the bus or a member of the Partridge Family. It was Gilles Gilbert, goalie for the Boston Bruins. Sometimes I'd watch the games with my grandfather from the foot of his recliner, but more often I'd drag my 13" black and white tv from my bedroom to the kitchen table. I needed the flat surface for my writing. Every game, I meticulously kept a score sheet-- goals and assists, penalties and various notes. Every single game. I stored them in a three-ring binder. Then I'd draw pictures. Goalies mostly (Gilles Gilbert, surrounded by red and pink hearts).
As adolescence loomed, we had a very unsettling move from Massachusetts to Pennsylvania and suddenly my life was in turmoil. I missed my friends. I missed the Bruins. A book called "The Picture History of the Boston Bruins: From Shore to Orr and the Years Between" went with me everywhere and became a source of comfort for me. I still have it today.
After recovering from injuries sustained in a serious auto accident, I decided I wanted to play organized hockey. Even though my mom was a divorced parent trying to raise three young girls on not a lot of money, she drove me in all kinds of weather to Johnstown so I could play bantam hockey at the War Memorial. I was the first girl to ever play in what was (up until then) an all-boys league. Quite frankly, they didn't know what to do with me, but they knew they couldn't refuse my participation, so play I did (but they graciously waived the jock strap requirement). I changed clothes in the ladies bathroom since I couldn't go into the locker room. At first, my teammates resented all of the attention I got, but then Coach Barry appealed to their burgeoning chivalry and soon enough they saw me as a little sister in need of protection. Suddenly I had a team of big brothers and I gloried in it. I really was little-- just over 5 feet and barely 100 pounds. I was a good skater-- better than many of the boys-- but if the opponents caught me, I didn't fare so well. I had waist-length hair then, which I braided and tucked into my helmet to discourage hair pulling.
Around this time, I met a lifelong friend through hockey. Michaela. She lives in New York and I answered her ad for a hockey pen pal in some hockey magazine or newspaper. In the days before the internet and 24-hour sports channels, she became a news lifeline about my team. My grandparents did the same. Every week my grandmother would send me a letter with two dollars and clippings about the Bruins from the newspaper. Sometimes she'd write editorial comments in the margins in her flowery penmanship-- "Oh my!" beside a picture of a fight. I still have some of these.
During my high school years (junior year, I believe), I took a significant interest in rookie Al Secord, who was destined to become my second great hockey love. Although I'm not a fan letter sort of person, I wrote to him and much to my surprise and delight (remember, those were more innocent and simpler times) I got a handwritten letter from him in addition to an autographed picture. In the letter, he told me that I was the first fan to ever write to him. I was convinced that I would marry him.
Back in the late 70's and early 80's, we went to Pittsburgh when the Bruins played the Penguins. Pre-Mario Lemieux, it was possible to walk right up to the players after the game if you knew which gate to wait at. That way, I was able to meet and get autographs and pictures of some of the big names of the day-- Gerry Cheevers, Terry O'Reilly, Wayne Cashman, Jean Ratelle, Brad Park... and Al Secord. I introduced myself and he knew right away who I was. More on him later.
Freshman year of college I was seriously messed up from a non-hockey related broken heart (long story...), then I was committed to my studies and friendships, so hockey took a back burner for a few years. Then it was graduate school, marriage and a move to Chicago. At the time, the Blackhawks were in the cellar and tickets were fairly easy to come by, so once again it was full immersion.
Roller hockey evolved and along with it came a team called the Chicago Cheetahs. I hadn't heard much about it, but a friend of mine (who knew my hockey history) urged me to attend the first game at UIC because there would be a "big surprise." So I did. You probably guessed the surprise. One of the Cheetahs was Al Secord. One again, he remembered me, as he did a few years later when he played on the Chicago Wolves.
In the 90's, John and I made a yearly tradition out of attending the Blackhawks Winter Ball, which benefitted Maryville Academy. It's like going to the prom with the entire Blackhawks team and their wives/girlfriends. Again, much excitement and picture taking-- Denis Savard, Bob Probert, Ed Belfour, Chris Chelios. Another brush with hockey celebrity came when John became Jeremy Roenick's podiatrist during the year that the NHL went on strike. Roenick actually conducted negotiations on their office phone while he was waiting for treatment. And at John's request, he left me a surprise voicemail on my work phone saying "your husband is causing me tremendous pain."
Chicago Stadium morphed into the United Center and the Hawks tanked, then rose again, which brings us to the present. A busy work schedule, a household to maintain, keeping up with friends, family and Facebook fill my days. Although the faces of the players (aside from Chelios's) are now older than mine, my interest has not become stale. I still thrill at the speed of the puck flying down the rink. The majesty of an untouched sheet of ice. The colors and sounds of a fast-paced game. Throughout my lifetime... past, present and future... the humble game of hockey-- lesser-appreciated cousin of football and baseball-- has made my good times better and my bad times lighter.
Friday, December 11, 2009
My friend Vinny
Those of you who know me well know that I like to talk about my friends a lot and that I hold all of them in very high regard. One friend I haven't talked about yet on my blog is Vince. Although we grew up probably less than 2o miles from each other, we "met" by random coincidence on Runners World message boards. And we both love hockey. And we both graduated from the same college. And we're both Type A obsessive, slightly neurotic people (but in an endearing way). And we both love to write.... it's truly amazing how similar we are in so many ways.
This May I got to meet him and his wife for real when they came to town so that Vince could run the Chicago Marathon. Since our friendship didn't really develop in a traditional manner, I was slightly apprehensive about meeting him. Much to my delight, there was zero awkwardness and it was like we had known them for a lifetime. We had a lovely meal at Leona's and the next day I got to see him speed by around mile 18 in the marathon. He qualified for Boston and I like to think that my cheering him on helped just a tiny fraction!
They're coming back in May to run the Soldier Field 10 miler with Teresa and me. I look forward to spending more time with them. Anyhow, Vince's blog is now listed here on my page. Check it out. In addition to being a very talented runner and a friend I like a lot, he's a damn good writer.
This May I got to meet him and his wife for real when they came to town so that Vince could run the Chicago Marathon. Since our friendship didn't really develop in a traditional manner, I was slightly apprehensive about meeting him. Much to my delight, there was zero awkwardness and it was like we had known them for a lifetime. We had a lovely meal at Leona's and the next day I got to see him speed by around mile 18 in the marathon. He qualified for Boston and I like to think that my cheering him on helped just a tiny fraction!
They're coming back in May to run the Soldier Field 10 miler with Teresa and me. I look forward to spending more time with them. Anyhow, Vince's blog is now listed here on my page. Check it out. In addition to being a very talented runner and a friend I like a lot, he's a damn good writer.
Wrapper, beware!
Many people are surprised when I admit that I abhor wrapping gifts. They figure that, since I'm an artist, I must enjoy the challenge of presenting something in a beautiful way. That's so not true. Rather, the entire process fills me with overwhelming dread. Here are some of the common pitfalls that vex me and send my anxiety level into the stratosphere. Perhaps you can relate to some or all of them.
1. Spatial Relationships - What do you do if you cut the paper too small? Ignore it and leave a tacky-looking gap that essentially broadcasts for all to see how inept and lazy you are? Try to patch it up? Sure, that approach gives a passing nod to the fact that you actually give a shit, but it also says that you're still too lazy to do it right. Start over, cutting a new piece of paper? Then what do you do with the short sheet? Hope it fits something else? Or just throw it away? That's wasteful and an admission of failure.
2. Tape Allocation - If you use too little, that sends the following subtle message to dirty little peekers like my sister Dawn-- "Go ahead, pick at it a bit... bend that corner back and maybe you can see what it is without actually opening it." Do that and you're being an enabler. On the other hand, if you take the Homeland Security approach and seal off all the entrances, you risk pissing off impatient friends and family who don't have all day to search for a point of origin for that good first tear.
3. Paper Design Selection - Does it really matter? Will my 8-year-old nephew feel offended if I use Sesame Street wrapping paper showing Big Bird in a santa hat? Is he too mature and cool for that? And if I have some paper left over from last year, will anyone remember if I use the same design again?
4. Tissue Paper from Hell - Who started the sick tradition of nesting a gift of clothing in a neat over-layer of tissue paper before sticking it in a box? Mine never looks exquisite or elegant. It just looks wrinkled and sad, like an old lady's face before Botox.
5. Bows are a Stupid Gimmick - They just fall off anyway. Or get smooshed beyond all recognition. Or eaten by the cats, who, in turn, promptly regurgitate all of the fa-la-la on the carpet.
So, that's all I have to say on the subject. Take your stuff to Borders and have a teenager in an elf suit wrap it for you. Or stick it in a bag with some of that artsy confetti stuff and call it a day. Or don't wrap it at all. Whatever.
1. Spatial Relationships - What do you do if you cut the paper too small? Ignore it and leave a tacky-looking gap that essentially broadcasts for all to see how inept and lazy you are? Try to patch it up? Sure, that approach gives a passing nod to the fact that you actually give a shit, but it also says that you're still too lazy to do it right. Start over, cutting a new piece of paper? Then what do you do with the short sheet? Hope it fits something else? Or just throw it away? That's wasteful and an admission of failure.
2. Tape Allocation - If you use too little, that sends the following subtle message to dirty little peekers like my sister Dawn-- "Go ahead, pick at it a bit... bend that corner back and maybe you can see what it is without actually opening it." Do that and you're being an enabler. On the other hand, if you take the Homeland Security approach and seal off all the entrances, you risk pissing off impatient friends and family who don't have all day to search for a point of origin for that good first tear.
3. Paper Design Selection - Does it really matter? Will my 8-year-old nephew feel offended if I use Sesame Street wrapping paper showing Big Bird in a santa hat? Is he too mature and cool for that? And if I have some paper left over from last year, will anyone remember if I use the same design again?
4. Tissue Paper from Hell - Who started the sick tradition of nesting a gift of clothing in a neat over-layer of tissue paper before sticking it in a box? Mine never looks exquisite or elegant. It just looks wrinkled and sad, like an old lady's face before Botox.
5. Bows are a Stupid Gimmick - They just fall off anyway. Or get smooshed beyond all recognition. Or eaten by the cats, who, in turn, promptly regurgitate all of the fa-la-la on the carpet.
So, that's all I have to say on the subject. Take your stuff to Borders and have a teenager in an elf suit wrap it for you. Or stick it in a bag with some of that artsy confetti stuff and call it a day. Or don't wrap it at all. Whatever.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Next!
This evening I finished the under-drawing that forms the framework of my next painting. Rushing the drawing bit me in the butt for the last painting, so I was focused on not making the same mistake twice. I think I used more eraser than graphite!
A few things about this work will be experimental for me. First, the ground. I usually use hand-stretched canvas (mostly linen primed with 2-3 coats of gesso), but this time I'm going with canvas board. I'm sure I'll miss the tactile "bounciness" of the canvas, but this was handy and cheap for what will be essentially a test. Secondly, I'm putting the acrylics aside and will attempt this one with Windsor & Newton water mixable oil colors. I love the buttery quality you get with oil, but the turpentine isn't all that fun to work with. I'm hoping that this will be a successful marriage between the feel of oil and the convenience of acrylics.
This painting already has a name. It's called Nenikikamen. Loosely translated, it means "we are victorious," which is what Phidippeides uttered at the end of the first marathon.
Wish me luck!
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