16 September, 2011

please print name

A couple of weeks ago I asked my parents, in a nonchalant, lazy manner, "Hey, could I maybe, like, move my drawing table up to the wood room* and make it, like, maybe a craft room or something?"
Don't be fooled as my poor parents were by the offhand air this question exudes. It was a carefully calculated sentence.  To go into the intricacies of it would take far too long, but the main points I tried to get across were:
1. "could I" I was careful not to use the word "we" - thereby implying that I would do all the work.
2. A craft room.  Having a craft room has always been my mother's most heartfelt desire.  Whether my definition of "craft room" and hers were completely in alignment was a question I did not raise.

And you know what?  The poor dears agreed.  Muwah ha ha ha haaaaaaaa.

I asked, again casually, if I could put up decorations.

And again the poor dears agreed.

This particular piece of decor is actually a torture device.

I mean.  What kind of sadists are these Schaum people?  First they fill their books with hideous illustrations that are physically painful for the visually sensitive child to behold.  Then they force the already hurting children to play songs like "Penguin Polka" and "Hot Dog."  "Hot Dog" had particularly charming lyrics which, if I remember rightly, ran something like:

Frankfurter sandwich
Hot dog!
Spread on the relish
Hot Dog!
Let's have another 
Hot Dog!
Frankfurter sandwich 
Hot Dog!

My mother and sister would sing and perform an interpretive dance when I practiced this particular song.  And they honestly wonder why I quit piano.

I took a picture of this black portfolio because it is a sort of symbolic thingy, don't you know.  I paid 27 bucks for it, which for stoney broke me is a fortune, and it's the only attractive portfolio I've ever seen - and when I was contemplating the purchase I said nervously to my sister, "But if I buy it I can't change my major." I don't know why she laughed.  It's perfectly true.  Because of this black portfolio, I am stuck as an art major whether I like it or not.   You can't buy a nice portfolio and then switch majors.  It makes you a pretentious moron if you do.  And that is a lethal combination.

And here we have an enormous desk, on which is the homework I am supposed to be doing.
So.  That's that.  I spend almost all my time in here.  It's very nice.

*This is the only room in the house that has wood floors.  In a moment of mental abstraction (Miss Prism) I called it the wood room, and the name has stuck.  Gah.  It's not even very easy to say.  And I have yet to think of a better name.   I'm trying, but drawing a blank.  "The studio" sounds moronic and pretentious, nobody appreciated a sort-of Dr. Seuss/hotel/school plan to call this "room 1" and the guest bedroom "room 2", and I'm out of naming steam.

01 September, 2011

I wish I actually, like, composed posts thoughtfully instead of going me me blah blah band I like blah blah. But oh well.


So... I still like my school.  How weird is that?  So far, I've only met one moderate creeper, two weird-talkers (those people who whine about things semi-under their breath apparently to no one - and also sort of to everyone within hearing distance at the same time.  And if if you make eye contact you just know they will talk to you.  You know the type I mean?), and one foot jiggler who also makes moist noises with some part of their face. I didn't look to see which part because I didn't want to know.
But besides that - and that's not even bad at all - the people have been truly delightful.   Though, I have noticed that at least 90 percent of the guys are shorter than me.  Dash it, at least 90 percent of the men in Arkansas are shorter than me.  I'm not kidding.  The male portion of the population is just abnormally diminutive.

Citizens!  Hark! A new law has been enacted as of right now forbidding short women from marrying tall men, because then tall women have to marry short men and consequently feel like galumping giants for the rest of their lives! So! That's all!

Actually, I don't care that much.  I'm going to marry Adrien Brody, so it doesn't matter.

Anyways.  I like my French class, and considering my woeful encounters with French classes in years gone by, it feels like little short of a miracle.  My drawing class is getting better - we had to draw the negative space around a chair today, which was challenging and very good for me.  2-D design is even harder, but I worship my tattooed teacher, and am going to work my rear off.  My art history teacher is possibly the most tactful woman on earth.  The most boneheaded remarks you can possibly think of?  Not a problem! She manages to disagree without actually saying so in so many words.

I need to keep chanting, "it's okay to be a beginner" to myself every time I feel like flinging inanimate objects.  A beginner at art, a beginner at reading the Bible - just a beginner. "Ohmigosh I need to be reading, like, Augustine's Confessions and sketching magnificently every hour of the day!"  Seems to be my internal monologue on a regular basis.  And that's just not fair to my poor self.  I'm taking basic classes and I'm a newbie Christian - I've got to give myself some grace.  And I've got to get you into my lie-eef!

Well... I did my French homework, so I'm going to bed.  

* If I ever wanted to be a real art student and got the obligatory tattoo...