Smiling Horse Art

Hey! Over There! The Parties Over HERE!

2007-04-25T23:11:00.000-04:00

Hey - I thought I would give a shout to all of you who have subscribed to this blog recently - and I know you do, because I know everything. I've not posted on this blog for ages because I moved to greywarenart.blogspot.com. So I highly recommend you jaunt on over and visit me there! Thanks!

Yes, You ARE Late to the Party

2006-10-20T22:33:00.000-04:00

Um, I know it seems like I've been quiet. But I haven't, actually. I've just not been talking here. For reasons too obvious to mention, I'm trying to incorporate my two blogs into one . . . so check it out at greywarenart.blogspot.com. And be sure to yell and scream if you don't like the idea.

I might say "too bad" or I might return to being funny here and artistic over there. Who knows?

Rebel Hearts in Recliners

2006-09-27T21:54:00.001-04:00

"Augustine" - 11 x 14" colored pencil on paper.
Click here to buy.

Today I saw a huge motorcycle in the grocery store parking lot. Gleaming, red, chrome covered, imposing. C'mon, I saw Top Gun. I grew up in the 1980s. Of course I want a bike. Gimme a break! So it was with a general love of the species that I approached said motorcycle. To me, motorcycles embody a sense of rebellion, freedom, independence, hardiness, tomboyishness. If you're on a motorcycle, it seems to me it says you're your own person and you laugh in the face of the creature comforts that four wheeled conveyances offer.

And then I saw that the motorcycle had a cup holder.

Somewhere, a childhood fantasy went phhbbbbt, shot down by a tiny arrow marked with some corporate logo.

Somehow, when I'm fantasizing about the freedom of the open road and the rugged bike rider, I don't picture him reaching down to his trusty cupholder and grasping his Starbucks coffee. Or 7-11 Big Gulp, take your pick. Are you kidding me? Try a flask, you pansy!

Links for this post:
Tom Cruise Lookalikes
Music for Cowboys who Drink Starbucks & Shop at Eddie Bauer

Extreme Motorcycle Mug Holder - Now that's rugged, baby!

Art Boogers

2006-09-18T22:04:00.000-04:00

"Three's a Crowd" - 2.5 x 3.5"
Click here to bid.

Tonight I would like to take you behind the scenes of art-making to the soft, unprotected underbelly that no one else sees. See, here's my secret. When I tell people that I'm going to go spend an hour creating art, I spend 15 minutes actually painting or drawing, and I spend the other 45 minutes doing an activity I believe some people refer to as "dicking around." (pardon my French). So I'm uniquely qualified to work at the DMV.*

*Don't hurt me, DMV employees! I really love the DMV -- that's why I spend so much time there every time I go. Oh, no, wait, that's just the insanely long line. Never mind. Let's talk about something else.

So yesterday my non-art activity of choice was getting rid of my art boogers. What are they, you ask? This, my friend:

Dried crusties of paint that have not been used or cleaned up at the end of the day. Paint dries faster in the heat, so I had really developed a back log of boogers by the end of my outside horse show that I was painting at last weekend.

As you can imagine, these little crusties are a lot more resilient than most nosejobs and are more like the sort you'd get after a good long sleep: those ones that crust your nose over entirely so that you look like you've got leprosy.*

*everyone with leprosy, I love you as well. Don't be offended.

So it takes more than a tissue to get these suckers out. It takes . . .

And finally, whoo! Doesn't that feel better? Don't let Mom catch you with that one!

Home Buying for the Creative Person

2006-09-12T22:07:00.000-04:00

Okay, for the record, it not "talking to yourself," it's "thinking out loud." Nor are my methods "crazy." I prefer "ingenuitive and ahead of their time." And finally, I was not giving that man in the Honda the finger, I was swatting a very small fly that didn't require all of my hand to squash.

I mean, as an artist and writer, I'm not that different from other people. I watch prime time TV (while painting the edges of canvases black). I cook and clean (leaving a ten foot berth around my art desk lest I vaccuum something worth more than $100). I have average hopes and aspirations of owning my own house (and once I accomoplish that, I'm going to take over the world).

So, as an artist, I know creativity when I see it. These last few weeks as my husband and I (I almost said "my husband and me", the grammar gods would've struck me down) have been looking at houses, I have seen more creativity than in any art gallery. Honestly, where do they get these descriptions from? Much less their prices?

CUTE LITTLE COLONIAL FOR FIRST TIME BUYER = confused rambler with the square footage of a college dorm room; feeble attempt at landscaping has resulted in copious numbers of pink annual flowers.

PRICE JUST REDUCED = still overpriced.

SHOWS LIKE NEW = doesn't smell. Anything without this modifier smells or has bad wallpaper.

SITUATED IN COMMUNITY WITH ALL THE AMMENITIES = monthly HOA fees approach that of your car payment.

and, of course, my favorite:

DON'T LET THE OUTSIDE FOOL YOU = the inside has been carved into rooms than a multi-chambered nautilus. Each bedroom is approximately the size of a dining room table with closets just large enough to fit one in-law.*

*Just kidding, in-laws! Don't hurt me!

Eh, I'm about to give up on the whole process. I like my car. I could live there. At least it has the guts to call itself an "economy" car instead of "roomy little investment or first-time buyer" car.

LINKS FOR THIS POST:
Home Owners' Association Horror Stories
The Chambered Nautilus, a poem which we have all be forced to read.
History of "The Finger"

More Power to You

2006-08-31T22:37:00.000-04:00

"Untitled Work in Progress" - 8 x 22" pastel on illustration board.

Well, I'm now a "Powerseller" on eBay. I can already see the questioning/ disinterested look in your eyes. "What, dear Maggie, is a Powerseller?" "Does it mean you sell while swinging your arms vigorously to burn more calories?"

What it means is that I work too darn hard, that's what it means. It means I have now breathed more pastel dust, painted my arms more, made more colored pencil lines on my desk, and ordered more canvases than the entire population of Bozeman, Montana will in their entire collective lifetimes. Of the two hundred and fifty words that my two year old daughter knows, about fifty* of them pertain to the making of some kind of mark on some kind of surface.

*The rest of them are the words that I say when I find the marks she's made on the wrong sort of surface.

Some artists say they live for art. Ha! I am art. The twisted little U my body makes poised over my easel like a vulture eyeing a speck on the side of the road (which later turns out to be a tire patch, but my vulture eyes didn't know it at the time, so it doesn't count) is art made real. Real, baby!

That's why now, at 10:43 p.m. at night, while the rest of the world is watching CSI and eating Ben & Jerry's ice cream directly out of the carton, I am using a papertowel and Q-tip to get most of the pastel dust out of my keyboard before I go to bed. And why, as I trudge slowly upstairs to my room (body still in previously mentioned U-shape) I will scratch the black paint off my elbow so that my husband doesn't have to keep staring at me tomorrow morning until I figure out that it's there.

So! That's what Powerseller means, my dear readers! It means totally-obsessed-in-for-the-long-haul-paint-on-your-elbow-seller. Just in case you wanted to know.

Links for this post:
The real definition of powerseller
Bozeman, Montana
My eBay store with all my cool loot

Artificial Intelligence

2006-08-30T23:21:00.000-04:00

"Guess Who?" - 2.5 x 3.5" colored pencil on drafting film
Click here to bid.

Okay, you know what I hate? I mean, other than bell peppers? Those stupid verification codes on online blogs and stuff like that. You know, you've entered all your personal data or your message (which took you years and years to write and was very meaningful), and then it says:

enter the verification code as you see it below:

What you then see is a combination of crooked letters and numbers that looks like it was written by a drunk freshman in an elementary Greek class. But if you squint funny, you can sorta make out E98Tyhi, right before your eyes cross and you pass out. So you obligingly tap tap taperoo (five points to the reader who can tell me what movie that's from) E98Tyhi into the box, hit "submit," and you get a message that says:

JUST KIDDING! WE MEANT TYPE IN THIS CODE INSTEAD:

And it gives you some more letters to try, but not before wiping out all of your information and your message, which you have to retype before you try to break the code again. You go through this process about four times, and then you reach the Point of Decision. You know the one. Where you decide whether the message or the order, or whatever it is that you're trying to send, is really worth it.

Of course, for me, it becomes a matter of principle. I'm gonna beat you, you d$%^ computer! So I clunk away for a half hour (While my husband says, "Maggie, I thought you were supposed to be painting, stop playing on the computer") until finally I am rewarded with a page that tells me yes, I'm a sucker, and yes, I have finally invested enough time for my response to be counted worthy. GOAL!

Yeah, I hate those buggers. Wait, maybe I hate voice mail with options more . . .

Excuses, Excuses

2006-08-26T19:41:00.000-04:00

"Shooting the Breeze" - 16 x 20" acrylic on canvas.
Click here to bid.

I know, I know, I’ve not been around. You’ve probably been wondering if I turned into one of those vacation statistics. You know, these bad boys:

902 shark attacks in the last century
676 boating fatalities in 2004
203 beaten to death by angry old Pittsburghers standing in line in 2005
9 cases of plague in the U.S. in 1999*

* I made one of these up. I'm sorry.

Not so, I’m afraid. Rather I’ve been plagued by work, that thing that God gives you to punish you for being bad as a child. No, that’s not exactly true. Because as a professional artist I can’t really say that my work is work. More precisely I’m being hounded by deadlines.

Did you ever notice that 50% of the word deadline is made up of death? Coincidence? I think not. In the past week I have discovered just how resilient the non-college body is to sleep deprivation, caffeine intake, general stress levels, and jamming your elbow on the same darn piece of bedroom furniture in the morning. The answer is . . . I think at age 24, I might be getting old.

Well. I’d write more, and more humorously, on this concept, but I have a deadline to meet.

Links for this post:
Just to keep you occupied until next time I manage to post
You Won't Get It Until You've Spent At Least An Hour On The Site
Scratch N' Sniff Webpage

Bon chance, mon ami!

2006-08-04T22:36:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I took French in seventh grade. So sue me.

I'm off to Myrtle Beach in 11 hours, so I wanted to pop in to remind you all to behave while I was gone. Stay cool, don't listen to Daniel Powter, and practice safe cookie dough consumption.

When you next read my words, they'll have tan lines.

Gift Horses Have More Fun

2006-08-03T22:53:00.000-04:00

So, lately I’ve been thinking of leasing a horse. Hey, stop laughing.

No really, stop.

In my day, which was about two years, five months ago, I used to ride horses rather a lot. English, if you please, over large jumps. And now that I’m an equestrian portrait artiste seeing all these horses makes me want to get back into it. So, as I said, I’m thinking of leasing a horse.

What’s the big deal, I hear you asking. Well, leasing a horse is not like leasing a car. Not unless you’ve ever asked these questions of a car dealership:

1) Will this Mazda open its doors into my husband’s car or otherwise try to damage it if they are parked too close in the garage?

2) Does the blue Honda Civic over there ever chew on parking meters if left parked too long?

3) I have a two year old daughter, so safety is important to me. Is this Mercedes afraid of crowds? Back over people if you approach it too suddenly?

4) When was the last time you drove this car? Does it require an experienced driver?

Because the last thing you want to end up with is a psycho monster horse beast with three legs.*

*like my last one

And the sad fact is that, despite what Disney might have you believe, 75% of all horses are indeed psycho monster horse beasts with three or so legs. And the rest are $25,000. Most of the leases I’m looking at are higher than my car payment. I’m thinking of checking myself into a psychiatric ward. Or a debtor’s prison, whichever one has better sweet tea.

Anyway, long story short, I will continue to page through classifieds in search of more misleading ads and wander stall aisles in search of horses without the personality of Fidel Castro. Or perhaps I’ll place a classified ad of my own:

WANTED: Experienced rider with empty wallet seeking lease horse for dressage and jumping. Must not have death wish. Must not have homicidal urges towards man or beast. Must be able to stand still. Must be on fewer medications than my aunt that nobody talks about.

Any takers?

Links for this Post:
Leasing a Horse (does not mention how test-riding is taking your life into your hands)
Drawing of Demon Horse
Person Who Was Stepped on By Elephant, which have bigger feet than horses, but still . . .

Wrinkled Old Monkeys

2006-07-30T17:00:00.000-04:00

"Earn Your Stripes" - 3.5 x 2.5" colored pencil.
Click here to bid.

So it is officially one week now until I head down to Myrtle Beach with the inlaws. My mother tells me helpfully: "when you're out on the beach, remember that in a month the tan will fade, but the wrinkles will stay forever."

As if I have ever sat on a beach and tanned my white hide in my life.

The truth is, I think I might be against most traditional beauty rituals. I mean, do girls and women ever look at old women and wonder vaguely how they got that way when they're slathering on their foundation and sitting out baking in the sun?

When mad scientists do their animal testing, they're only making sure the product doesn't make the animals blister or turn purple or die or something equally unpleasant. They don't put it on some high-maintenance monkey for 60 years and then test for wrinkles and blotches.

So that makes YOU the monkey, my friend! When you slap that L'oreal Too Hot For You Youthening Blemish Cream on your cheeks, ask yourself, "Do I feel lucky? Do I?"

Same for all that Bowtox, hair dye, tanning lotion, lipstick, firming powder, etc., etc. You don't see monkeys using that stuff day to day. So don't say I didn't warn you when you're 75 and bald, wrinkly, bumpy, blotchy, and saggy and bear an uncanny resemblance to a handbag.*

*an ugly handbag. the type you'd find on the clearance rack at target. no! at big lots.

Anyway, it was with completele confidence that I told Mom that I would not lie on the beach and tan the white wrapper that I happened to arrive on this planet in. Thou willst not find me an unnatural shade of bronze this summer.

Am I the only one?

The Hills & Valleys of . . .

2006-07-19T21:29:00.000-04:00

"The Opposite of Patience" - 8 x 10" colored pencil
Click here to bid.

. . . my mattress. Gentle reader, I am sleep deprived. My wedding bed has become a wedding trench. My husband and I may start at opposite sides of the bed, but as sure as any bill coming out of Congress will support big business, by the middle of the night, we are seeing things eye to eye. And nose to nose. And elbow to breast bone. And knee to thoracic vertebrae.

It's our fault, of course, for buying one of those mattresses out of a classified ad. Yes, yes, I know, but we were just starting out, and we were poor, and wait . . what's changed? Anyway. So, it was one of those classified ads that says something like "New Mattresses in Factory Packaging for $200 -- includes box spring and ear plugs to cover up my laughing as you drive away with my product!" Well, bright and dewy eyed with anticipation of mattressial (I made that word up, isn't it cool?) perfection, we met the mattress guy at the agreed location, which turned out to be a self storage facility. He was driving some sort of red convertible which I am sad to say he leapt out of when he saw us.

He led us to a storage cubicle and began to lift the door. Strangely enough, he didn't say, "Whoops, wrong one!" as illegal substances began to pour onto the concrete. Instead, he flung it open and revealed a little dark mattress showroom! Complete with a mattress to try out! So, my husband and I lay down on it and agreed that this was the most comfortable we had ever felt lying down in a self storage facility. So we bought the mattress and box spring. Strapped those suckers onto our groaning pick up truck (which has since gone over the Rainbow Bridge to where all small pick up trucks with not enough power go to).

And for the first few months, all seemed well. Then, a strange liquid began dripping from the ceiling. Oh, wait, I'm thinking of a different story. Actually, the bed began to make loud groaning noises whenever you sat on it. These weird moans from hell have only gotten louder as it ages and I'm now convinced that there are at least one or two trapped souls of the damned in my mattress. Only the top one. The box spring is spiritually vacant, as far as I know. Perhaps it's these damned souls that have created the valley in the middle of the mattress. Perhaps it's them that perform the Dr. Phil-like act of bringing me and my husband closer together every night.

Oh, mattress gods, please exorcise those trapped springy souls and give me back my supportive yet cushiony surface for my recumbant somnulant activities! I beg you! I'm desperate!

Links for this Post:
Another Pick Up Truck That Unsuccessfully Tried to Cross Rainbow Bridge
A Mattress Article Where A Guy in a Post Afterwards Suggests Filling Old Mattresses With Concrete
Band Called "Once Upon a Mattress"

Smirking

2006-07-15T21:03:00.000-04:00

Okay, I know it's bad form. But I'm only here to brag. Yeah, that's right, I said it. You can leave now if you're offended my total swelled-headedness, but I have a feeling that now you're curious to know what I'm bragging about.

Ha! What if I don't tell you now? What if I just log off and leave you to melt into an oozing green puddle of anticipation? (Green, you ask? It's spinach, probably. Or arugula.) Or at least have a nagging feeling of incompleteness for the next, oh, say two minutes.

But, gentle reader, because I am such a magnanimous blogger, I will not leave you hanging. Oh, no, I will tell you my wondrous news. Prepare yourself. Are you sitting down?

. . . .

My piece "Persephone" got accepted into the juried American Academy of Equine Art Fall Exhibition.

What do you mean "so what?!"

That's it! Get off of my blog! And come back when you can congratulate me properly!

I'm Red, White, and Blue

2006-07-02T21:25:00.000-04:00

"Niall" - 11 x 14" on Colorfix Paper -- click here to bid.

Well, today was another sizzling day at the horse show booth, and today I made the HA HA HA wise decision to wear shorts. Even under the protective shadow of my tent, my poor little pasty legs didn't stand a chance. Those suckers crisped nicely -- well, one did. My right leg somehow became something between vermillion and lobster and my left leg looks as pale and unfinished as before. In between that and the paint blobs that I had across my arms from my work in progress, and it's a wonder I sold any commissions at all today.

I should've just told people that I was being festive, on accountof the holiday. Red, white, & blue, you know. Lobster right leg. Pasty, almost British looking left one. Blue blobs on wrists. Yay! I'm a messy American! I love my country!

Boiled, Steamed, Fried

2006-07-01T22:17:00.000-04:00

Does anyone here remember what the symptoms of heat stroke are? Let's see, can you pick them out of this list?

1) dizziness
2) headache
3) fatigue
4) incessant painting
5) hairy back

After attending the Fireworks Summer Spectacular Horse Show today as a vendor (see my snazzy booth above?), I have four out of five of the list, and let's just say that I'm not looking for any waxing or shaving products. It was NINETY EIGHT degrees today. I'm a climatized creature. Hubbie enjoys air conditioning and all that entails and I'm used to a nice steady 72 degrees. Do the math.

98 - 72 = Maggie's skin slowly melting off her body.

Now, here's the rub. It was a very productive day for me, and I secured some commissions, but there's two more days of the show left and tomorrow it is supposed to be a high of

Gulp

One hundred and three degrees. That's one hundred and three Virginia degrees, mind you, which means each of those degrees is bathed in the humidity of a tropical rainforest. Any more humid, and I'm gonna start watching the trees for the tailed monkeys of the lower hemisphere. It took four glasses of water, a plate of rigatoni, three spoonfuls of raw brownie batter, and two brownies to restore me to my health this evening. I shudder to think of what I'll need tomorrow evening.

Wish me luck, oh gentle readers. Send me fortitude and cash gifts.

Later, alligator.

Famous But Not Rich

2006-06-30T08:18:00.000-04:00

"Under a Golden Sun" - click here to bid

So, I'm mildly famous. Leastways, I've been interviewed: http://makingamark.blogspot.com/2006/06/maggie-stiefvater-two-of-everything.html, so that makes me sort of famous. A little bit. For some reason, when I was a kid, I thought that once you got famous, you got wealthy too. You know, the phrase is "rich and famous" not "canned tuna for lunch and dinner and famous."

But now that I think of it, there are plenty of famous poor people. Mother Teresa. Ghandi. M. C. Hammer. I could be poor forever, despite my fame! Ack!

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not motivated by money. I'm motivated by canned tuna. Actually, I'm motivated by a desire to not eat canned tuna. You heard it here first. Make sure they put it in my special on the biography channel. I want one of those sexy voiceover guys too -- he has to purr it in that nice voice of his while they show still black and white shots of me eating canned tuna with my family. "But all along, Maggie knew that this life of canned meat was not for her. More importantly, she wanted better for her two wombfruit."

Links for this post:
An article called "Canned Tuna or Canned Poison?" I didn't bother to read it.
The Biography Channel
The Google Results for My Name

Are you an Artist, or is that Leprosy?

2006-06-28T20:30:00.000-04:00

First three paintings in Carytown Series
Click on image or here to bid.

So now that I'm painting every day and using lots of different colors and all that, my hands are never soft and warmly golden with summer hues. They are now crusty and flecked with black, blue, and that gross color of green that I use to underpaint bricks. I mean, I wash my hands, but apparently not enough. So when I venture out of my painting cave to go to the store, people look at me funny. They avoid me. They stare at my skin out of the corner of their eyes (my eyes don't have corners by the way. They're round.) and draw their children away from my path.

Does she have leprosy? A skin eating fungus? Or is she -gasp- an artist?

Wel, I'm going to shout it out for all to hear, in hopes that the staring with stop:

"I'M AN ARTIST, AND IT'S NOT LEPROSY, IT'S PHTHALO GREEN!"

Links for this post:
Phthalo Green (bet you didn't think I knew how to spell that, didja?)
A blog entry entitled Heartless, Skin-Eating Jerks
The Poem that tells you what Wednesday's Child is, because it's Wednesday

It's ALIVE!

2006-06-25T10:26:00.000-04:00

"Spot of Tea" - 5 x 7" on canvas panel.
Click here or on image to bid.

I found out yesterday that my CDs are breeding. I was shoveling through the stuff on top of my desk, most of which had gone native and put down roots, and I found a huge stack of CDs that I’d been carefully placing on top of each other whenever I swapped the music I was listening to.

Well, far be it from me to allow their little hides to get further scratched, so I pulled out my giganticus CD binders and began to laboriously put them away by subject. Yes, I said by subject. Hey, at least I don’t alphabetize them!

But I’ve thought about it.

Anyway, I had finished putting away the rock music and had moved onto soundtracks when I noticed that though I had just put away the soundtrack to The Two Towers, here it was in my hand again. My first suspicion was too much caffeine. I have two toddlers and a full-time art career – I slurp down caffeine like my dog slurps down canned cat food. But then I thought “too much caffeine? Is there such a thing?” and so I checked the binder.

Ack! (Technical term)

There was another one there! Rather than trying to explain this anomaly, I decided to follow the example of government scientists and ignore the problem. I put the duplicate Two Towers soundtrack on top of my printer (whispering “you are dead to me, foul anomaly!” as I did) and went back to sorting my other CDs. I had just finished with my country CDs and had moved onto “atmospheric chick music” when I noticed that I was holding Enya’s “Shepherd Moons” CD in my hand. This wouldn’t have been weird if I hadn’t just put it away. Double-checked the binder.

ACK! (Repeat of technical term)

There was another Shepherd Moons in there. And I found two Last of the Mohicans soundtracks as well! Now I should tell you that I’m not rich and I don’t buy CDs often, so the chances of me buying duplicates is nil. Zippo. Not possible!

So obviously, they’re breeding. Left to their own devices on my desk (which had returned to the natural state of all wood: untamed forestland), my CDs had gone feral and begun to reproduce. What frustrates me is that they apparently breed very true to type: i.e., Enya CDs make other Enya CDs. If only I could engineer a cross-breeding between, say, Coldplay & Breaking Benjamin to get a baby Fuel CD.

Oh well, I’ll take it as a breakthrough anyway. And if anybody wants to swap soundtracks and Enya CDs, I’ve got a litter.

Links for this post:
Most Boring Website Ever using phrase "technical terms"
Amazingly, an Enya Fan Site of epic proportions
Feral Guinea Pigs -- for no other reason than because I like the word "feral"

Subliminal Messages

2006-06-18T16:37:00.000-04:00

A short one here today, folks. Only two things to say at the moment:

1) I just found out from my web stats that someone found this blog by typing the words "torture chamber porn" into a search engine. If you are still reading, oh depraved reader, please accept my thanks for a very hearty 15 minutes of laughing. Okay, 10. Anyway, sorry about the lack of photos of naked folks in chains. Can I interest you in a drawing of a horse instead? Okay, don't take that the wrong way . . .

2) I now have a nice shiny new blog to showcase my daily art offerings and encourage all of you to bookmark this link and check it often, or better yet subscribe. The subliminal messages that I've written into the html on this page oughtta get you aclickin' anyhow. Here's the link: http://greywarenart.blogspot.com/. Don't worry, I'll still be writing here. I just needed a nice place to display my latest art without mentioning spoiled cream cheese or barf in the same blog. I have no idea why, but my friends were whispering something about combining the two being "unprofessional" "insane" and "completely something that you would do." Weirdly, I'm not offended.

Don't make me track you down and make you click.

Did Something Die, or is That Just Cheese I Smell?

2006-06-09T13:23:00.000-04:00

"Stained Glass Stirling II" -- available on eBay this week

The other day I found myself making dinner for myself and my small wombfruits while my husband was at work. The contents of my fridge reflected the relative weight of my wallet and as my older toddler Victoria grimaced at me from her high chair, I narrowed down my choices to either bread sandwiches or cream-cheese/ broccoli pasta. The beseeching look in Victoria's eyes seemed to say that she needed dairy. So out came the block of cream cheese ("hey, I didn't even know that I had this!") and the remaining spaghetti noodles.

After a short episode with fire and blackened noodles (did you know that noodles catch fire if they land on a hot burner!? Huh!) I began to prepare the sauce. I sauteed my nice fresh broccoli, which as everyone knows is one of the least offensive of all vegetables, and cut up some of the cream cheese into it. Add a dollop of milk and some Italianesque spices and I was hot to trot.

No sooner had I placed a dish of it in front of Victoria then I began to think about the origins of cream cheese. Okay, not all cream cheese, but definitely my cream cheese in particular. How did it get there? I really didn't remember. The last time I remembered for sure buying any was when I had intended to make my husband a cheesecake for Christmas, which as everyone might recall, is in December. Faster than you can say "will this make me barf?" I had dove through the top layer in the trash can and retrieved the cream cheese box. My eyes scanned the sides for the little bit of type:

Best Used Before:

December 2005.

2005! That was last year! I raced back to the leftover sauce in the pan. Was that the smell of rotten milk product riddled with ancient bacteria, or was that just cheese? I looked back to Victoria. She was carefully picking the broccoli out of her pasta and leaving the rest. Wise, wise girl. After I briefly wondered where Victoria had gotten her strange vegetable- eating gene -- certainly wasn't from me -- I snatched her plate from her and dumped it in the trash, making soothing noises so that she wouldn't riot. She contented herself with smacking the top of the baby's head while I boiled a new pot of spaghetti and buttered it for her. I know, I know. No protein. But better than bread sandwiches. And no funny smells, other than the cheesy goodness coming from the trash can.

Links for this post:
A Random Recipe for Broccoli- Cream Cheese Pasta
Funny Food-Poisoning Story that Uses the Word "Buick" for Puke Sound
Urban Dictionary Definition for "Spaghetti Burner"

Casualties of Cooking

2006-05-17T18:12:00.000-04:00

WARNING! THE FOLLOWING BLOG ENTRY CONTAINS GRAPHIC WORD-IMAGES AND MAY CAUSE VEGETARIANS TO VIOLENTLY PROJECTILE VOMIT ON THEIR KEYBOARDS WHERE THE ICKY BITS WILL BECOME LODGED BETWEEN THE ENTER AND BACKSLASH KEY FOR THE LIFE OF THE KEYBOARD.

Because I am such a wonderful housewife* (*see definition of irony below) I found myself in the kitchen today cooking the mind-blowingly delicious Cream of Chicken and Wild Rice soup recipe which you can find below. Anyway, since I realize that most of you are like me and will be too lazy to click on that link, I’ll tell you that the recipe involves a whole chicken, cut up. I bought a store brand cut-up chicken (which, like store brand graham crackers, is smaller, tougher, and uses corn syrup instead of honey) and lo and behold, when I cracked open the package I found that they had even included the chicken innards, tidily tucked beneath a disembodied wing.

I thought to myself, “This will make a nice snack for my dog. It will make her coat lustrous and healthy.”

Ha!

Double ha!

Still in my philanthropic Purina mode, I plopped that liver on a plate and stuck it in my microwave. Punched in one minute. It only took 23 seconds for the first exploding pop to sound. Barely had I time to raise my eyebrows (only a little, I mean, it was only a chicken liver) when the second explosion occurred. I ordered the microwave to cease cooking and opened the door.

Oh, I was not prepared for the gruesome battlefield within. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the foresight to take a photograph of the gory panorama for you, my reader, before I removed the liver. However, I shall paint a skilled word-picture for you.

Think chunks.

Fine spatter.

Everywhere.

That said, despite the thin coating of liver all over the inside of my microwave, the liver itself was still intact upon the plate. A miracle, obviously. I was unprepared to accept the responsibility that belief in such a miracle entailed, however, so I threw the liver into the trash. It was, I should add, still uncooked. It languished at the top of the trash, starting to ooze eerily after about three minutes. Once again, I should’ve taken a photograph – I don’t know where my mind was. Clearly this was a lost prop from a Chuckie movie and quite valuable. Had I gotten to my husband before he tied the trash bag shut, I would’ve sold it on eBay.

In short, it was an entertaining experience that I would recommend to anyone who has 14 paper towels and plenty of cleaner. Notwithstanding the dirty chicken smell that is now permeating my kitchen.

And on that note, happy cooking.

Links for this blog:
The definition of irony
Amazing splendiferous recipe for Cream of Chicken with Wild Rice
An absolutely disgusting photograph of a chicken liver

5 Reasons Why Pterodactyls Have More Fun

2006-05-09T08:59:00.000-04:00

Work in Progress, 11 x 14" on film

Five Reasons Why Pterodactyls Have More Fun

1. They’re a lizard. With wings. Need I say more? (http://www.paleodirect.com/ptero1.htm)
2. Though they’ve been extinct for 65 million years, they still vacation in Arizona and France. (http://answersincreation.org/argument/D74_creation_science.htm and http://www.users.bigpond.com/rdoolan/ptero.html)
3. Apparently they write songs like “Chicken Biscuit.” (http://www.pterodactyl.info/songs.html)
4. They can be prepared a lot like Alligator and Iguana in recipes. (http://floridakeystreasures.com/keys-recipes/misc.shtml)
5. And finally, they’re cute, cuddly, furry (despite being reptiles) and like a diner in a Taco Bell restaurant, completely stuffed. (http://www.jeannieshouse.com/lizards/pterodactyl.html)

By the way, I'm a starving artist, as you should know by now. Do the right thing. Go to my website and buy art. Now. Why are you still reading this?

Holy Hairball, Batman!

2006-05-01T20:33:00.000-04:00

Well, now that it’s May Day, my mind is beginning to turn towards summer and my upcoming annual family vacation to Myrtle Beach. With that gentle meandering of my mind towards August comes additional images of white sand, rainbow-colored beach umbrellas, European tourists who don’t know any better wearing Speedos, Americans who should know better wearing Speedos, my black bikini languishing in a drawer, and plans to eradicate every hair that ever planned to grow below my neck in the most inhumane and speedy way possible.

So, as far as I know, there are three general techniques one can apply to the idea of hair removal, all vaguely feudal.

1) Mow ‘em: grab yourself a razor in any number of feminine shades of pink or lavender and whack those pesky hairs off at ground level.
2) Yank ‘em: microwave, thick sticky stuff with cloying smell, and wooden paddles. Sound like a torture chamber set up or premise for a kinky porn flick? Of course not. It’s waxing. That’ll teach those bad boys to grow anywhere on your body.
3) Burn ‘em: if you ever get tired of method 1 and 2 (and gosh, why would you?) modern technology offers us the alternative of pointing a large laser at our body and frying each hair individually. This, my friend, is the culmination of molecular theory.

Of course, there is also a method which involves spreading something on your body you leave on long enough to eat the hair off at the root, allowing you to scrape the toxic cream and your little screaming hairs into a trash can. However, as this particular method sounds like animal testing gone wrong, I’ll tactfully ignore it, like that aunt no one ever talks about.

As a female, I have attempted all methods except for the giant laser pointed at my body. Why? Because I’ve seen too many James Bond films. As for the other methods, I’ve found pulling my fingernails out with a wrench preferable to mowing and yanking at my body hair. In fact, I’d rather watch a Hilary Duff concert from beginning to end – with the sound turned up – than shave or wax. Ahh! But society dictates smooth skin for us lucky females and I find, amazingly, that I agree. Women should be mostly hairless.

Men, please note that you are supposed to have hair on both your chest and legs. Feel free to pluck, wax, shave, or laser anywhere else, but please, oh please, do not shave your legs or chest. Nothing says “lives with cats” like having hairless legs.

Anyway, where was I? Right. Dueling with my hair. There’s no way to get around it, I guess. I mean, what’s your alternative? Go au naturale and be mistaken for a feminist or a European? Would that be so bad?

Uh.

I’m gonna go get my pot of wax.

Links for this post:
Hair Removal the James Bond Way

The Future is Drawing Near

2006-04-25T12:37:00.000-04:00

"Easter Gift" available on eBay here.

It is well known that artists such as myself are highly sensitive people, and as such, are often psychically inclined (though we cannot always spell "psychically"). So today I have a special treat for you. Taking a momentary break from creating wondrous and sensitive pieces of art, I have peered into the near future and translated what I have seen into concise horoscope readings. Please keep in mind that I am legally blind when not wearing my contacts.

Aries (March 21-April 20) : Aries is a “take charge” sign. Today’s your day. As a representative of the take charge sign, you will take your boss’s reserved parking space without grievous consequences. Good for you. Just don’t try it tomorrow.
Taurus (April 21-May 21): Reliable and placid, the average Taurus makes a good friend. But not you! Today you’ll do something so idiotic that even your unpopular friends drop you in favor of that pimply girl they met in college.
Gemini (May 22-June 21): Life is good for you and your double-sided personality today, Gemini. You will cut someone off in traffic, but you will be fiddling with your CD player and won’t see them flash their lights at you.
Cancer (June 22-July 22): You’re a deeply sensitive sign, Cancer, and an inability to deal with any more expense reports will lead you to rip your coworker’s head off and stuff the expense reports into the hole.
Leo (July 23-August 22): While you are an intensely creative sign and most of your friends appreciate that, lay low today. The local authorities don’t share their love of your latest piece of graffiti.
Virgo (August 23-September 23): Things are finally looking up for you, Virgo. You finished alphabetizing your CD collection and can move onto the pantry.
Libra (September 24-October 23): Watch for idle flirtations today; that woman’s real name will be “Brad.”
Scorpio (October 24-November 22): You will be Maggie.
Sagittarius (November 23-December 21): Optimism will fail you today, oh cheerful Sagittarius, because you will be the coworker listed in Cancer’s reading.
Capricorn (December 22-January 19): You are a rock, but not the Rock. When that guy challenges you in the parking lot, just walk away. Your face is too pretty to look good with a bruise there. Plus I think his mood ring might leave a scar.
Aquarius (January 20-February 19): You are psychically inclined (like myself) but unlike me, you might actually be right. So go with your gut. Buy the white shoes. They’ll go with everything.
Pisces (February 20-March 20): The emotional rollercoaster that is your life will stop abruptly at a Ben & Jerry’s parlor before continuing its frantic pace.

Links for today:
Fake Psychics at the UnFair
Lyrics to the King Missile song "Sensitive Artist"

Death in a Handful of Gear-Shifter

2006-04-19T22:01:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, as I was driving in my spiffy little Suzuki at a speed that had the same number of digits as the posted speed limit, I was passed by an angry looking woman in a minivan. A minivan! In case any of you readers are not from this planet, a minivan is an amorphous automated blob that indicates high estrogen-levels in the driver (Now, before those of you with high-estrogen levels get annoyed with me, notice that I haven’t said anything negative about said levels). With a roar like a caterpillar, the minivan tore far ahead of me.

Many times I have been urged to purchase one of these delights of modern transportation myself. “They’ll have so much room for your art booth supplies!” “You’ll have plenty of seating for all the kids you plan to have!” “Lots of room for luggage!” In contempt, I shake my head. My art booth supplies, as mentioned in previous posts, are happily, if noisily, strapped on top of my car. My two adorable ankle-biters share a quality with my Pfaltzgraf salt & pepper shakers: they’re the only pair I’ll ever have. And as for luggage – you’re looking at the girl who packs a backpack for a week-long vacation.

Now, I won’t say that I haven’t thought about getting a mini-van before. As a matter of fact, my fantasy mini-van was legend amongst my family members by the time I was fifteen.

It would be dark purple, with brilliant orange and yellow flames that burn the length of the van. A large wing would rise from the back and, on its bulbous rear, there would be a single bumper sticker that read “G.R.I.T.S.: Girls Raised In The South.” Tinting blacker than an American politician’s heart would coat every window. On either side, painted in neon yellow: “The Widowmaker”. This, my friends, is the stuff of myth and legend.

But as I’ve grown, my domestic urges have grown and changed. Unbelievably, I have outgrown the specter of the Widowmaker. My tastes have matured and solidified. Grown simpler, more organic. I have fallen into lock-step with my housewife peers. Now, all I want is a 1970 Camaro Z28 with a split-bumper, in black glistening perfection with a stripe whiter than bird doo.

Next time you are in a Wal-mart parking lot trying to make your precarious way across the asphalt, look up when you hear the pounding bass and squealing tires. Is it the Widowmaker, come to mow you over in righteous supernatural glory? It could be, but not with me behind the wheel. Nay, the legend has been passed on and the dream of the pimped out minivan is no longer mine.

So watch out, and stay on the sidewalk, because whoever’s behind the wheel might not be as handy with a steering wheel as I.

Links for this post:
Side-Effects of Too Much Estrogen
Funny Bumper Stickers
My Beautiful Dream Car

As Wrong as Black Shoes & White Socks

2006-04-14T10:34:00.000-04:00

"Bedivere," completed colored pencil on drafting film

Gentle readers, a cunning reader amongst you has pointed out to me that in my post "Easy as Puff-Pastry Enclosed Fruit" I made a grievous error.

I used similes in the place of metaphors.

Oh! The horror of it. First, I asked myself if I should show my face in blogosphering public again or if I, having proven myself to have the grammar skills of a 6th grader, should exile myself to some remote island with nice weather and umbrella drinks.

I decided that no, my listening public needed me and that the island exile was still a little out of my price range (believe it or not, I'm not rich yet -- I know, I know, it's bizarre). So I shall stay, and instead use my public humiliation to educate the similarly idiotic masses. So. Pay attention.

A similie is a comparison that uses "like" or "as," i.e.:

Like a dog returns to its vomit, so is a fool who repeats his folly.

and of course:

Like sand through an hourglass, so are the days of our lives.

The moral to be gotten from this first example is anyone who chooses to watch "The Days of Our Lives" more than once is a fool. Or likes to eat their own vomit; I'm not quite clear how one should read the similie . . .

Anyway!

A metaphor, of course, is a comparison which does not use "like" or "as":

His face was a blazing lightbulb about to burn out.

Oh yeah! That's quality description there! I get a clear image in my mind's eye . . . How about another?

The cat was magma, slinking blazing hot over the edge of the sofa to crawl into my lap.

Is it warm in here?

I feel confident that I have appeased the gods of grammar (henceforth referred to as GOGs) and can once again post with impunity. Thank you, oh keen-eyed reader, mouthpiece of the GOGs, for setting me once again on the straight and narrow.

Links for this post:
Grammar God Quiz
Days of Our Lives Webpage
A Photograph of a Cat Named Magma

With this Rib Bone I Thee Wed

2006-04-13T21:56:00.000-04:00

"Hi There" -- art card on drafting film available on eBay here: http://search.ebay.com/greywaren_W0QQfromZR40

I was reminiscing today about my wedding with one of my artist friends from New Zealand (who happens to be disgustingly talented, by the way: www.wendyprior.com) and I came to the same conclusion I did after I’d gotten married: weddings are boring. I mean, really. How predictable can you possibly get? Flowers, bridesmaids, mothers-in-law, kiss, blah, blah, blah. In the end it always ends up the same – the bride and groom get married. It’s like watching the same movie over and over again. Or at least like watching endless remakes, but the actors are never quite as talented as the original. You know – “Oh, Debbie and Earl did well, but you just can’t beat Adam and Eve’s version.”

If I had my wedding to redo, I think I’d add a little twist for the guests’ viewing pleasure. For starters, there would have to be a whoopie cushion placed on one of the bridesmaids’ seats. Then, in homage to Adam’s unwilling sacrifice, I think we’d have to exchange rib bones instead of rings. And for sure I’d need to have my dress train set on fire as we headed down the aisle out of the church.

All right, maybe that’s unreasonable. Weddings are supposed to be touching ceremonies representing the love between a man and a woman. So if that’s the case, the average love between a man and a woman is worth $30,000 and involves a lot of bickering over cake filling flavors and dresses that only flatter 50% of the bridesmaids.

Bah.

Maybe if I had it to redo, I’d try to take it back to its celebratory roots: slaughter a pig, stick it on a spit, and dance half-naked around a bonfire until eventually my husband dragged me off towards a tent by my hair. “If the tent’s rockin’, don’t bother knockin’.”

Hmm. That idea actually has promise.

Okay, okay, okay. I understand that there has to be a compromise, something between the $30,000 frou-frou cake-filling wedding and the pig-spit dancing fertility feast. But at this point, it’s beyond me to think of what that might be. I leave it up to you, oh single reader.

Because I’m already married and don’t have to worry about it. Ha!

Do You Hear Something?

2006-04-06T15:32:00.000-04:00

Here’s a pop quiz for you, my gentle reader:

What doesn’t whistle?

A) a dog walker
b) a train
c) an aardvark
d) my car’s roof-rack
e) a cockatiel

If you guessed c, you are wiser than me, because had I known that the answer was not d) I might not have bought myself a nice new roof-rack. But horse show season is looming and there’s no way that 6 feet Gridwall panels are fitting inside my small, sporty, speed-limit-abiding Suzuki (okay, so it is both small and speedy – I might’ve made the other part up). So I, being young, as Yeats would say, purchased a nice black roof rack to convert my speedy Suzuki into Work Animal.

But the bloody things whistle. Sometimes it’s just faint, like vague fairy music piping from somewhere above the front passenger seat. Other times it reaches the screaming-eagle-fever-pitch wail of a 747 either taking off or crashing. I wonder if it is actually faintly whistling in supersonic frequencies all the time – remind me to take my dog with me next time I go out.

Right now, however, the whistling roof-racks are falling into the category of “Necessary Evils,” along with toilet paper, gasoline, and American Idol. Because, you see, my first horse show of the season is next week, and I can’t afford to break the racks into tiny little pieces in a desperate, raging attempt to stop my eardrums from exploding. So on they stay. And next Saturday, if you happen to be at Fox Chase Farms in Middleburg, Virginia, you will see me proudly displaying my wares. Don’t be offended if I don’t answer any of your questions; it’s probably because I’ve forgotten to take out my ear plugs.

Links for this entry:
Fox Chase Farms
My Website
Unexplained Whistling Associated with Bigfoot Sightings
Specs on My Car, Including Top Speed

Easy as Puff-Pastry Encased Fruit

2006-03-31T13:05:00.000-05:00

I am on somewhat slippery ground with my latest work in progress, above, because it's colored pencil on drafting film. Colored pencil I can do. Drafting film is something new for me, urged upon me by my well-meaning artistic friends. And I like it, I really do, but it's really different. It's a little bit like doodling on a white board; the transparent surface is as slippery as a new-made dolphin.

Which brings me to my topic for today: metaphors. Today on television was a well-known children's program which I will not insult by naming but will hint that it includes "Exploring" and a bug-eyed child named "Dora." My daughter's eyeballs were glued to the television. My husband's eyes -- well, slightly less glued and definitely less focused.

"Maggie," he said. "Check out those pigs. They look like they've been hit in the head with a brick."

This instantly reminded me of everything I had learned about metaphors in college. Most importantly, that they are supposed to define an unfamiliar situation by presenting it in familiar terms. I told my husband I had never seen anyone hit by a brick and therefore had no idea what he was talking about. He said, "Well then, hit by a two by four." This wasn't working, so he finished, "Suffering from one of the long-term effects of Graves Disease."

Ah! He meant their eyes were bugging.

Why didn't he just say so?

Because, dear reader, metaphors and similes not only clarify our words, they color them like the color-testing bar that graphic designers use. They show our personality like hanging a tacky tapestry with your family's faces embroidered on it above the sofa. Without metaphors, our narrative would be as dull as the edge of a cinder block used to vandalize cars in a parking lot. We need them. Like we need twinkies, air, and fuel filters.

Art is a metaphor, you know. I think.

Why I Would Die in a Natural Disaster

2006-03-20T22:40:00.000-05:00

I have decided that I would probably perish in a natural disaster. Because of my dog. As you might recall, I wrote previously about Peanut, my Jack Russell Terrier (and her shocking affair with my cat), but never before have I revealed her stunning and almost supernatural abilities.

These supernatural abilities include finding Froot Loops too old to have a trackable scent, pulling up the blanket around her neck so that only her head pokes out, knowing uncannily when any shower is turned on and jumping into it, and rolling over on command into a variety of pieces of furniture that she hadn't noticed before (this is how it goes: "Roll over, Peanut! Good gi-GOD that must've hurt!).

One ability's presence which is noticably absent is that of foretelling the unusual weather events. Apparently, that ability comes along with the ability to tell the difference between a threatening hulking man and our ten year old neighbor and the one that tells her that her own fart is not something to bark at. Some owners claim their dogs can even see ghosts; these dogs bark or growl at nothing, staring for hours at thin air with a wary air.

Well, Peanut must be that kid from The Sixth Sense, because if her barking, shivering, and staring eerily was anything to go by, she sees dead people everywhere. Our kitchen. The bedroom. The backyard. Under the cat's litter box. Her farts.

Actually, considering the nature of her farts, that's not a far stretch of the imagination.

Anyway, now you can see why I would surely perish in a natural disaster. Desensitized by my idiot dog's shaking and whining, I would obviously miss the particular shake or whine that meant a volcano was about to erupt. Alas, our entire house would be coated with molten lava and I wouldn't know until I realized it was finally warm enough inside for me to take my sweater off.

At least Peanut would still be able to find the Froot Loops under the magma after all was said and done.

[dog]
[art]
[humor]
[terrier]

Seeing Spots

2006-03-18T22:16:00.000-05:00

I went to a local schooling show today here in town and took somewhere between 60 and 3,100,698 digital photographs of the classes, of which between 0 and 1 of them turned out. Who would've guessed that digital camera + poor indoor lighting + zoom = photographs that look like an equestrian version of the show Ghost Hunters?

The Sad Part Is, I Was Sober

2006-03-17T22:54:00.000-05:00

Today was my first "icky" piece in a while. I confess I was distracted and stitching two kind of dodgy reference photos together, but still, no excuse. I mean. Look at it. It's compositionally challenged, sketchily executed, and all in all Rot. Far from the Maggic (sic -- see earlier post) I have produced in the past. The sad part is, I was sober when I drew it. I am too ashamed to even place these two horses -- shall I even call them "horses?" - on eBay for sale. As I pass in the eBay halls, bidders would pause in their browsing to point and laugh. Other sellers, the powersellers in particular, would scoff and shake their heads in pity: "Does she even know? That it's Rot?"

No. This piece shall sit on my desk as a reminder of my fallibility, my humanity, and my level of artistic ability when I was 11 years old. Enough said.

For all was not lost today, I did create a masterpiece earlier in the day! And I had the foresight to take a photo in its beginning stages so that others might learn:

Can you beat its form? Its color? Its sheer interest factor to the passersby? No. Obviously a masterpiece in the making. But hold your breath, here's the finished work:

Sigh. Many cookies died in the making of this work in progress photographic series. You may now take a moment of silence to remember their brief, shining lives, and to stuff another cookie into your mouth while hoping tomorrow will bring glad tidings of better artistic pursuits.

The Art of Being a Girl

2006-03-15T21:16:00.000-05:00

Inexplicably, I once again found myself watching America’s Next Top Model. Why, I ask myself in a high-pitched diva voice, do I, a die-hard tomboy, watch such feminine pop-culture drivel? Do any of the contenders on that show even know how to spell "drivel?"

Perhaps it’s because it makes me feel good about myself. I’m thin and sexy and all that garbage, right? And as a tomboy I have the added advantage of accomplishing all that garbage in under ten minutes in the bathroom – which is how long it takes me to get bored with the process.

For me, the most confusing aspect of what makes a girl a girl is make-up. I really don’t do that make-up thing, but during the winter when I am snowy – ok, pasty – I slap some powder foundation on. Easy. Ah ha! But the catch is that you must now randomly choose a powder to match your skin tone based on the cosmetic companies’ highly imaginative names. Am I "Ivory"? Or perhaps "Pale Rose"?

I’m an artist and I know all about painting people’s faces. And in my position as Expert here, I’ve decided to suggest some new names for make-up tones.

2% Milk
Crypt
Mottled
Vanilla Ice Cream
Vanilla Ice Cream with Real Vanilla Bean Specks
Maple
Pepsi
Dirt
Stuffing Mix
Manilla Envelope

I think that about covers it. Literally.

Procrastination

2006-03-12T21:24:00.000-05:00

"Eleanor" -- neverending work in progress

I have a real problem with procrastination. Unless I have a deadline for something, it doesn't get done. Confessing this in an internationally published medium is probably bad business, but at least my clients can consider themselves warned. Tell me you need the piece of art for a birthday. A wedding. Before you leave for France. Before you retire -- heck, before I retire.

Take this blog entry for instance. I tell myself that I should write one every day, and look at me. Here I am trying to think of something cunning to write at 9:32 p.m. when my brain has long since turned into rotten banana pudding. Well, how's this for motivation? I give up! No cunningness here! Nothing but random nouns, verbs, direct objects, all strung together to form something that looks like the English language but is really quite meaningless. Sort of like when you use an online translator to read those foreign language forums with the interesting photographs. See, procrastination would have been such the better option here.

Work In Progress!

2006-03-10T21:49:00.000-05:00

I decided, on a whim, to take a gillion photographs of my latest art card in progress and explain each of the steps in hopes that will be of use to budding colored pencil artists out there. The rest of you who are more accomplished will merely laugh at how much time I took uploading images.

So, here goes.For starters, an art card is 2.5 by 3.5 inches, by definition. Because this space is small -- okay, insanely small, I use a very smooth paper, in this case, Bristol Smooth. In such a small piece, it is also doubly important to keep your pencils sharp, and to also have a limited palette to avoid looking too busy.

Ideally, your reference should be well lit with a nice shadow/ light pattern, because a small work tends to look better if you've got a play of light going on. For this one, I chose a photo I took of my criminally insane cat, Moose, because it has relatively dramatic lighting and his criminal tendencies are not as obvious as usual.

STEP ONE:You can see that I do just a basic line drawing to make sure that I don't get a case of Giant Cat where the important bits don't fit on the page. And I start with the eyes, because . . . well, just because. I'm using black pencil for this. Oh, by the way, these are all Prismacolor pencils.

STEP TWO:Right away, I make an effort to establish values. I want to get an idea of where my darkest darks are going to go, so I put down black underneath the darkest areas. If I were doing a larger work, I'd underpaint with some really cool color like Tuscan Red or something, but frankly, I don't have the patience to do that on a piece of paper the size of a baseball card.

STEP THREE:Color! I've put the colors that I've used so far in the blurry photo as well: Yellow Ochre, Light Umber, Sepia (for the eyes), and Warm Gray 20% for the beginnings of his white fur.

STEP FOUR:I'm using the same colors throughout the piece to give unity. So I'm using the Light Umber from his eyes on his coat, and I've added some Cool Gray 70% in the darkest shadows as well as some Warm Gray 70% in both the shadows and the brown bits of him. Note that I'm using a very sharp pencil and taking care not to let pencil strokes show. Pencil strokes on big works = cool. Pencil stroks on little works = my toddler's crayon drawings.I start putting in the background since the entire right side of him (well, I guess, his left) is white and I'd like to know where cat ends and background begins. Once again I'm using the same colors as before for the background -- Light Umber covered with some Yellow Ochre and Sepia for the shadows.

STEP ? WHAT STEP AM I ON?The Umbers and Sepias and stuff aren't cutting it for me, so I reach for something Super Cool, in this case, Black Grape, which is an awesome color for most things, including bruises, eggplants, and eyeshadow (not that I wear any, but it would be cool if I did). I throw it everywhere, into the blacks of the fur and the shadows of the background and around the side of his head.

STEP SIX:This is another great photo, ain't it? Just showing that I'm putting some Blue Violet Lake into the gray shadows for some depth.

STEP SEVEN:Ummm . . . more of the same? No new colors as I'm working around, but I try to establish where his butt is before I get there so that I don't get to have fun with erasers later.

STEP EIGHT:I underpaint his butt with Sepia, trying to stay interested in large amounts of fur. Dark shadows go under his feet to the tune of Black Grape, Sepia, and Black.

STEP NINE:I go over fine lines and sharpen them and reestablish darks where my large shovel-hands have rubbed them out or let lighter colors get on top of them.

STEP TEN:I slap that baby on eBay and look for my next victim . . . mmm, I mean, "subject."

Diet Foods

2006-03-08T19:17:00.000-05:00

Today my husband told me about how the USDA or whoever it is that rules food in this country had revised the food pyramid. The section for meats and fats, he said, was about "this big." The gesture he made with his thumb and forefinger was about the width of an earthworm's breastbone.

As a lover of both burgers and fatty burgers, I shrugged and said that it wasn't going to change how I eat. I'm 105, think lunch should be renamed "cookies," and have no intention of ever giving up the pleasures of steak. As a skinny mom of two children, I've often been asked how I stayed thin. Common questions are:

Should I start exercising?
Should I eat smaller portions?
Should I eat low fat or no fat diet foods?

Here, for the first time in print, are my helpful answers.

If by "exercising" you mean "getting off of your couch to get a drink instead of asking your spouse to do it," then, sure, that sounds good.
Smaller portions is a good idea. I recommend 5 cookies instead of 10.
As a general rule, I'm not a fan of low-fat/ no-fat versions of real foods -- they taste like kitty kibble. Actually, that's downgrading kitty kibble (have you smelled that stuff? It's actually quite appetizing first thing in the morning when you haven't eaten yet). Here are some no fat foods that will help you lose weight, though:

styrofoam peanuts
untreated lumber
baby wipes

So, there, in short, are my answers to your top dieting questions. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some chocolate chips that I need to make into something.

My Shameful Dog

2006-03-07T20:33:00.000-05:00

My latest art card for eBay (here:http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=7396860285&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1) reminds me a lot of my own Jack Russell Terrier, Peanut, though it’s not her. My own dog is somewhat of a pimple on the face of caninekind. Actually, more like pimple on the earlobe of caninekind, because she’s too small to be easily seen and on the surface she doesn’t seem to reflect badly upon the rest of her doggie kind.

But I am about to reveal to you a photo displaying shocking indiscretions on her part that indicate why she is indeed, Hardly a Dog and Definitely Not a Terrier. Brace yourself; it’s not pretty.

Yep. Yep, it’s bad, isn’t it? Hurts your eyes. And what would you think if I told you that she not only slept with this cat, but regularly engaged in horseplay across the floor with him? She thinks nothing of sharing her food with him, sharing the couch with him, and sharing her Caninehood with him.

Unfortunately, I’m now too attached to the little beggar to do the proper thing and send her to a Cattery to spend the rest of her days in reclusive shelter away from the prying, judging eyes of other dogs.

Art with Built In Calculator Function

2006-03-06T14:21:00.000-05:00

Okay, this baby is my latest art card, "Spring Scene," and it’s listed on eBay here: http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=7396505118&rd=1&sspagename=STRK%3AMESE%3AIT&rd=1. For those of you who don’t know what art cards are, they’re little bits of original art the size of baseball cards. Or -- because most of the world doesn’t collect baseball cards -- original art the size of your cell phone.

Actually, even that’s maybe not true anymore. Have you seen that ad on TV for a cell phone that’s small enough to fit flat in your pocket while at the same time downloading thousands of Mariah Carey songs to play as ring tones at embarrassingly quiet moments?

Well, this is slightly larger than that. And it doesn’t download songs. Or have a built in calculator. Sheesh, what good is it?

Note to self: build in calculator and CD player into next piece of art.

What this is good for, however, is teaching me to draw on really, really small spaces. When you've got a piece of illustration paper that's 2.5 by 3.5 inches, and you're trying to draw two horses on it, you learn really quickly which lines are the important ones and which ones will create a drawing that looks like your 18 month old created it.

I'd like to think they've really improved my technique, since I have now drawn and sold roughly 2 gagillion of them on eBay. That's a lot of little lines.

And from now on, they'll have a built in calculator function. We have to stay up to date with technology, don't we?

Poor Uses for Your Fingers

2006-03-04T21:21:00.000-05:00

"January," pastel, $300 -- check out my website for more

Today I was taking some of my pieces of art over to the Annual Art Exhibit here in Fredericksburg (including January at the top of this post), and as I did, I accidentally cut someone off in my car.

Okay, I admit. "Accidently" would be a better way to say it – note the quotes. I knew that they were sorta close and that it would be a teensy, tiny bit rude to pull out, but I didn’t anticipate that they were going 42,081 miles per hour in a 45 mile per hour stretch of road. So it was sort of accidentally, right? To make a long story short, they gave me the finger. Two, actually, because they removed both hands from the wheel to use both hands.

So this started me thinking. What exactly is the purpose of an indecent gesture while driving, anyway? I mean, at best, I’ll laugh, at worst I’ll return the favor. I’m the laughing sort (you couldn’t tell?) and this really got their goat, because they gave me the finger again.

*the make and model of my car shall remain nameless for the purpose of this post*

So where was I? Oh, right, fingers. So the problem with fingers is that it really accomplishes nothing, other than proving that you do indeed have a middle finger. Now, if you had a bullhorn, you could really show them who was boss. Roll down the ol’ window and whip that sucker out and shout, "You cut me off, you insolent little spit of a girl! I hope you run out of gas! I hope your mother-in-law comes over to your house and cuts you off on the way!"

Now, that would be something worthy of the term "road rage." Giving the finger just doesn’t count.

Dust to Dust and All That Rot

2006-03-03T12:23:00.000-05:00

"Walking Backwards" -- currently on eBay (check out my link on right!)

Lately, in my old age of 24, I have been inspired to take up pastels, lured by the rumor that they are faster and looser to work with than colored pencils.

Let me describe pastels for you. They are sticks of packed dust. So, when you apply them to a pastel paper -- which for the record is quite like sand paper -- what do you think that you get? Think of desert winds whipping across treeless expanses. Think of drifts of nature's goodness filling in the cracks of rural Oklahoman homes. Think of "like sand through an hourglass, so are the Days of Our Lives." Ahhh -- now you begin to catch on.

So when I sit down at my desk and begin to scribble away with the pastels, oblivious to everything but the Creation of Art (or, occasionally, the Creation of Very Bad Art), it is not until my nose and ears have become completely clogged with the Colored Dust of Death that I begin to notice that I have a problem. Namely, the drifts of blue and grey and green dust which are now piled around my desk, my keyboard, and my person.

After a mere hour of pastel work, my home is no longer a humble townhome. Rather, I find German tourists with speedos asking me if I could move out of their sunlight so that they may tan their backs. Camels treck across my living room, infinitely at home in the rolling dunes. Sand people from Star Wars peek from behind my television set, muttering words in another language that if I'm sure translate into, "Nice digs! Great sand!" Cameramen from the Washington DC station arrive to get firsthand shots of the beginnings of the next Dust Bowl.

"Mrs. Stiefvater, how is the next Dust Bowl affecting you? Are you and your family planning to move from the area to someplace -- less dusty?"

I will shake my head sadly and show him my box of Rembrandt pastels. "No, I'm afraid I bring the Dust Bowl with me."

Yet I cannot bring myself to stop using them. The pleasures of smashing dusty pigments down into paper and telling them to Stay There, Or Else are too great to be numbered. I only wonder if other budding pastellists have these problems as well. Somehow I just can't picture my colleagues, surrounded by a swirling cloud of pastel-dust. Her fingers permanantly blue. Her white dog stained green. Dusty pawprints from the cat on her tables.

Oh, the trials and turmoils I go through for my art. Now I'm going to go get a shovel so that I can find my monitor, preview this post for spelling errors, and see about cleaning the dust out of my ears.

Crazy vs. Eccentric

2006-03-02T08:35:00.000-05:00

It seems to me that in the relatively short course of my tender years I have been called "crazy" a disproportionate number of times. My husband alone has probably referred to me as crazy at least 714 times. Myself, I prefer the term "eccentric." Why I should not be referred to as "eccentric" rather than "crazy," "insane," "a couple bubbles off plumb," or "not quite right" is a constant (well, somewhat constant) (well, more like whenever I should chance to think about it) source of curiosity to me. So, I began my research and I have chosen you, gentle reader, to share with me what I have discovered.

My studies led me to create a comparison between a crazy person and an eccentric person. As you can see, the differences are almost imperceptible:

CRAZY

Talks to Rabbits
Wears Blue Only on Odd-Numbered Days
Bites if Touched
Long-Term Relationship with Cher
Refers to self as "Prince of Wales"

ECCENTRIC

Talks to Rabbits
Wears Blue Only on Odd-Numbered Days
Bites if Touched
Long-Term Relationship with Cher
Actually is "Prince of Wales"

So based on my research, I have determined that one's Eccentricty directly correlates with one's Moneybagicity. Problem solved.

Time to get rich.

Making Maggic

2006-03-01T21:33:00.000-05:00

Well, so now you've found out that I'm an artist, for better or for worse. And yes, it is as you pictured in your mind: many days I do not bother to change out of my sweatpants as I sit creating masterpieces in choking clouds of pencil dust, only bothering to get up to eat raw cookie dough while I play things like Enya, Death Cab for Cutie, and Palestrina on my boom box. And yet, I'm not really a pathetic person. You would probably like me. And I make great cookies.

So take a gander at my latest, of which I am ridiculously pleased. Maggical, even. I've decided that since my name is only one letter away from the term magic the two are obviously darn well near interchangeable. Now, I name all of my horse pieces long and complicated names from literature and history, and this is Persephone. I would explain who Persephone is, but I have a short attention span, and you have Google. Isn't she Beautiful and Lovely? Here is a short illustrated description of this work in progress, in case you are wondering how it goes:

First, a preliminary drawing, involving broad swathes of the main color I see when I look at the horse. On colorfix paper, you can do that with colored pencils without the fear of the light colors rebelling and refusing to appear for duty. Well, I block out the pure whites without anything underneath them. Colorfix paper is not quite that maggical.

Second, because I have done well and not lost my temper with any inanimate objects including my pencils, I break for cookies. This step takes many days.

Thirdly, I add my darkest darks, add the midtones and little hairy bits, and then reestablish the lightest bits. And then I finish up by standing back against the wall across the room from the picture, squinting at it, and tweaking the colors. This step also takes many days. My legs get very tired.

But such is the price of Maggic.

Welcome to the Odd World of Maggie Stiefvater

2006-03-01T20:40:00.000-05:00

As my first ever post on my first ever blog, I would like to bid a hello to all of the virtual viewers out there -- to those who have paused in their chatter in chat rooms ( ;) lol to you), to those you have interrupted their browsing on eBay (I have a "buy it now" price but I doubt you can afford it . . . ), to those of you who have taken a momentary vacation in their search for old high school mates (I went to Keystone High -- I don't think I'm who you're looking for), and to those of you who can't figure out how the heck you have arrived at my blog (who is this person, anyway?)

Well, I am Maggie Stiefvater, an eclectic and eccentric artist-for-hire, horse-lover, novelist, history-lover (more like history-stalker, since my love appears to be unrequited and one-sided), and romantic idealist. My life is my art, my music, my writing, and my blog is about it. And anything else that falls within the deadly range of my pen/ keyboard. Let's have fun with it, shall we?