Despite all my writing about The Weird Woeful World Of Dating, and the Eccentricities And Escapades Of A Suddenly-Single Bohemian Being, I do, actually have a real life, and it's actually pretty cool. imho, anyway. :)
I've been working on some kid's books. Most recently, Booger McGrath, who wouldn't take a bath. And Polite Penelope Pelch, who had a series of indiscretions (of the bodily-function sort), one day at school.
And several others, going further back: Spivy Sparks, who has a middle of the night adventure, in an oh-so-(not)-scary way. The Mystical Miss Tickle and Her Incredible Dog, Kitty. Parker Tickle (a spin-off of the not even spun yet - Miss Tickle...), Ollie Hackles... Morton McCort... to mention a few more that are in the works...
And while I'm in the midst of working on those, I'm also designing, and need to put together (for real), some marionette-style characters (yes, I'm serious, the brain goes where it goes, God knows...), that have been prancing around in the design area of my head (this is in the right Neocortex, up past the Medulla Oblongata, and the Pons. btw: I think my Pons is slightly out of order right now... just sayin), for the past month or so. I'm dying to get these characters put together. [*rubbing palms together, with anticipatory (but non-leering) look*]
Anyway, here are some of the Spivy Sparks prelim illustrations...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
My house was built in 1936, and I love the charm of it. The closet space is
a tic limited though, what with people owning a lot less clothes back in
them days, and what with me having far too much stuff I don't need.
Anyway, I digress, this piece of scribbling is in regards to dating, so let
me get back to that: because of my small closets, and because I'm a single
woman I use all the closets in my house for my own personal use. Try to hang your coat in the front entry when you come to visit and you'll find it's already packed full of my shirts and sweaters, sorry.
This weekend, my girlfriend Jody and I are going to the winter carnival
festivities, and I thought I might need my snow-pants (purchased as part of
a lot of expensive snowmobiling gear for a weekend with a one-time date,
just fyi...), so I was rifling through closets and corners trying to find
them. My house is fairly clean, but because of the skimpy closet space, I
have some seasonal clothing in baskets, tucked away here and there.
I saw a basket full of swim suits and summer clothes (stacked in size order,
the smallest sizes being at the bottom of the stack. Ladies, I know you know
what I'm talkin' about...).
Anyway, I took this basket out from a closet to look for the elusive
snow-pants, and was surprised to find a pair of men's underwear crouching
behind it.
After a second or two of bewildered scrutiny, a few things ran through my
head:
1.) I haven't had a man at my house in a real long time, at least one who
stayed over, and obviously came with a packed bag (unless he left sans
undergarments).
2.) I have dated a couple of sexy asses (yes, I meant that, both ways) in
the past two years, but I'll be darned if these undies rang a bell wit me,
as to who the owner might be.
3.) I notice things like that, so it's unusual I wouldn't remember. These
were dang sexy underwear.
4.) Hit me like a slap in the face - could it be that I'm SO completely
recovered from my forlorn previous loveships, that I just don't give a rap
WHOSE they are? Kicked right out of the old memory bank, if you will.
Yes. It could.
On the other end of that rainbow - I was driving to work this morning, and I
must have shifted my arm quickly to turn the wheel (probably to avoid one of the several hundred giant potholes on the Penn Ave ramp onto 62, btw, wth?), and the suddenness of that move sent the aroma of the leather jacket I was wearing, over me, in a burst of memory. Consequently, my mind instantly played a mini-movie of the cowboy and yes, tears sprang to my eyes, however briefly. It took me by surprise.
Is this an argument for my friend's friend's theory? I don't know.
Is it just part of life; healing, progressing, adapting, having um... feelings and emotions? I'm more inclined to think so.
a tic limited though, what with people owning a lot less clothes back in
them days, and what with me having far too much stuff I don't need.
Anyway, I digress, this piece of scribbling is in regards to dating, so let
me get back to that: because of my small closets, and because I'm a single
woman I use all the closets in my house for my own personal use. Try to hang your coat in the front entry when you come to visit and you'll find it's already packed full of my shirts and sweaters, sorry.
This weekend, my girlfriend Jody and I are going to the winter carnival
festivities, and I thought I might need my snow-pants (purchased as part of
a lot of expensive snowmobiling gear for a weekend with a one-time date,
just fyi...), so I was rifling through closets and corners trying to find
them. My house is fairly clean, but because of the skimpy closet space, I
have some seasonal clothing in baskets, tucked away here and there.
I saw a basket full of swim suits and summer clothes (stacked in size order,
the smallest sizes being at the bottom of the stack. Ladies, I know you know
what I'm talkin' about...).
Anyway, I took this basket out from a closet to look for the elusive
snow-pants, and was surprised to find a pair of men's underwear crouching
behind it.
After a second or two of bewildered scrutiny, a few things ran through my
head:
1.) I haven't had a man at my house in a real long time, at least one who
stayed over, and obviously came with a packed bag (unless he left sans
undergarments).
2.) I have dated a couple of sexy asses (yes, I meant that, both ways) in
the past two years, but I'll be darned if these undies rang a bell wit me,
as to who the owner might be.
3.) I notice things like that, so it's unusual I wouldn't remember. These
were dang sexy underwear.
4.) Hit me like a slap in the face - could it be that I'm SO completely
recovered from my forlorn previous loveships, that I just don't give a rap
WHOSE they are? Kicked right out of the old memory bank, if you will.
Yes. It could.
On the other end of that rainbow - I was driving to work this morning, and I
must have shifted my arm quickly to turn the wheel (probably to avoid one of the several hundred giant potholes on the Penn Ave ramp onto 62, btw, wth?), and the suddenness of that move sent the aroma of the leather jacket I was wearing, over me, in a burst of memory. Consequently, my mind instantly played a mini-movie of the cowboy and yes, tears sprang to my eyes, however briefly. It took me by surprise.
Is this an argument for my friend's friend's theory? I don't know.
Is it just part of life; healing, progressing, adapting, having um... feelings and emotions? I'm more inclined to think so.
I've heard this topic tossed around by a fair amount of people: how long to
wait before starting to date after the demise of one's marriage. I see far
too many variables in that statement alone, to waste a whole lot of brain
space on the question. I tend to be analytical, an over-thinker anyway, so I
feel pretty safe in going with my own base instinct. But strictly for
argument's sake...
I've heard lots of other people's opinions about it: Two years seems to be a
generally accepted time frame to heal oneself from the wrenching effects of
divorce.
My friend has a theory, he got it from HIS friend, who did some looking into
it and came up with this statistic derived from research done by (my friend
recalls) UCLA's psychology program.
I quote my friend: "Statistically, there seems to be a point, after a
divorce, which is about 25% of the length of their marriage/significant
relationship. Remarriages/significant relationships that happen *before*
that time have a very high divorce rate; ones after about that time have
relatively low divorce/crash 'n burn rates."
Okay, in my case that's 6.25 years.
Easy for a man to say.
For a woman things aren't that easy. I was 45 when my marriage ended. Add on my allotted suffering/recovery time and I'll be 51 or 52 when I can finally think about dating someone really cool. Unfortunately, for a 52 year old woman, that's gonna be a 70 year old gentleman, (or in my case, a real old wrinkly biker dude with fading shriveled tattoos. Or whatever.).
I notice some guys feel fairly strongly about that rule of thumb, or
something similar. Fine. I'll just hang around with some 'disposable dates'
till my time span's up. Kind of a dating purgatory, I guess. Oh wait, I
meant that in a semi-sarcastic (and funny!) way - but I just realized - it's
exactly what I HAVE been doing.
wait before starting to date after the demise of one's marriage. I see far
too many variables in that statement alone, to waste a whole lot of brain
space on the question. I tend to be analytical, an over-thinker anyway, so I
feel pretty safe in going with my own base instinct. But strictly for
argument's sake...
I've heard lots of other people's opinions about it: Two years seems to be a
generally accepted time frame to heal oneself from the wrenching effects of
divorce.
My friend has a theory, he got it from HIS friend, who did some looking into
it and came up with this statistic derived from research done by (my friend
recalls) UCLA's psychology program.
I quote my friend: "Statistically, there seems to be a point, after a
divorce, which is about 25% of the length of their marriage/significant
relationship. Remarriages/significant relationships that happen *before*
that time have a very high divorce rate; ones after about that time have
relatively low divorce/crash 'n burn rates."
Okay, in my case that's 6.25 years.
Easy for a man to say.
For a woman things aren't that easy. I was 45 when my marriage ended. Add on my allotted suffering/recovery time and I'll be 51 or 52 when I can finally think about dating someone really cool. Unfortunately, for a 52 year old woman, that's gonna be a 70 year old gentleman, (or in my case, a real old wrinkly biker dude with fading shriveled tattoos. Or whatever.).
I notice some guys feel fairly strongly about that rule of thumb, or
something similar. Fine. I'll just hang around with some 'disposable dates'
till my time span's up. Kind of a dating purgatory, I guess. Oh wait, I
meant that in a semi-sarcastic (and funny!) way - but I just realized - it's
exactly what I HAVE been doing.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Late January in Minnesota. It's been a nice winter so far. Maybe because of the place I'm in, in life right now, I'm more acutely receptive to seeing the good in everything. I don't know. Anyway, I have this sense that all is right, and well, and wonderful. I'm not outside much, really. Haven't been sledding, snowmobiling, or even skiing this year. I'm content to tread my eliptical machine down in the basement of my warm house, rather than venture out for walks in the ice and snow and dark. I'd say I'm more than gettin' through. I'd say I'm happy. I'd say I'm very happy.
And I'm hungry too; for spring, for thawing and melting. For the first clear cold water at the edge of the lake. I'm craving birdsong, leaf buds, the first green shoots of irises, and God - almost too far away to dream of it - the smell of just-cut green grass... that sharp, sweet green scent of early summer which pours us over the waterfall edge of the first season into full blown summer here in Minny. Cabin weekends, and lakes, and warm rain sweeping across the water, thunderstorms at night, tackle boxes, and picnics, the crack of a baseball bat, a small town parade, campfires and marshmallows on a stick, weeds and wildflowers. Hot days when the asphalt in the city shimmers, nights trying to find a cool place on my pillow. Reading a good book late, late into the night. The deep dark expanse of sky, endless stars. The infinity of summer.
In the cold, silent, white slumber of winter, here in Minny, there's a promise.
And I'm hungry too; for spring, for thawing and melting. For the first clear cold water at the edge of the lake. I'm craving birdsong, leaf buds, the first green shoots of irises, and God - almost too far away to dream of it - the smell of just-cut green grass... that sharp, sweet green scent of early summer which pours us over the waterfall edge of the first season into full blown summer here in Minny. Cabin weekends, and lakes, and warm rain sweeping across the water, thunderstorms at night, tackle boxes, and picnics, the crack of a baseball bat, a small town parade, campfires and marshmallows on a stick, weeds and wildflowers. Hot days when the asphalt in the city shimmers, nights trying to find a cool place on my pillow. Reading a good book late, late into the night. The deep dark expanse of sky, endless stars. The infinity of summer.
In the cold, silent, white slumber of winter, here in Minny, there's a promise.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Meat Raffle Sestina
Father Seamus holds outstretched arms
to offer a blessing over the bingo cards and the frozen
meat. The rectory, next door to the VFW, awaits, warm
and inviting, his house/spouse but he’ll take just a kiss
of scotch before he goes, thank you Myrna dear. Red colored
blush rises in her face, he’s so handsome for a priest! He’s gone
before she can think of a flirty reply. Gone
are the days of suitors and Saturday night dates for her. Arms
reach wildly for the best bingo cards, colored
bingo stampers grabbed from the bar by hammy fists, the frozen
meat packages present an exciting array on the table. A kiss
for luck from Betty, the caller, for those who want one. “Warm
your hands here, Annie!” Eddie pulls up his sweatshirt, warm
belly thrusts toward her. He smiles, a few teeth gone,
“Later then, eh?” he winks, then blows her a kiss.
Eddie has tattoos of naked women on both arms.
Annie smiles, red-nailed hand gripping her beer, hair frozen
from gel and spray, two hours getting ready, lips colored
with Satin Yearning Pink. Arnold, beside her, has colored
his card in a red bingo line and won the round. Warm
applause. Arnold buys Annie ten tickets for the raffle, the frozen
prizes coveted by the bar patrons and bingoers alike. Eddie, gone
to the restroom during Arnold’s shining moment, arms
himself with a basket of popcorn, presented to Annie with a kiss
to the back of her neck. She cringes, only slightly. He leans to kiss
her mouth, she can’t. Yet. He has dark colored
stains on his sweatshirt, under the arms.
She drinks her beer, eyes Arnold. The room feels warm.
The choice meats go first, she eyes the table, the steaks are gone
already. White packages tucked under arms, stacked on the bar, frozen
promises of later pleasures. Arnold leaves, she waves, smile frozen.
Eddie, drunk, brings her a beer, she gives him a quick kiss.
Not that bad. Now nearly all the meat packages are gone.
One of her numbers is called, she hands the colored
ticket to Betty, “Jerky or hotdogs, you choose, Annie.” Warm
from the beers, she allows herself into Eddie’s arms.
The bar patrons and bingoers gone, the bright colored
VFW sign outside frozen in her mind, Eddie’s kiss
sweet and warm, there in her car in his arms.
Mary Ellen Seidel
3/20/2002
Father Seamus holds outstretched arms
to offer a blessing over the bingo cards and the frozen
meat. The rectory, next door to the VFW, awaits, warm
and inviting, his house/spouse but he’ll take just a kiss
of scotch before he goes, thank you Myrna dear. Red colored
blush rises in her face, he’s so handsome for a priest! He’s gone
before she can think of a flirty reply. Gone
are the days of suitors and Saturday night dates for her. Arms
reach wildly for the best bingo cards, colored
bingo stampers grabbed from the bar by hammy fists, the frozen
meat packages present an exciting array on the table. A kiss
for luck from Betty, the caller, for those who want one. “Warm
your hands here, Annie!” Eddie pulls up his sweatshirt, warm
belly thrusts toward her. He smiles, a few teeth gone,
“Later then, eh?” he winks, then blows her a kiss.
Eddie has tattoos of naked women on both arms.
Annie smiles, red-nailed hand gripping her beer, hair frozen
from gel and spray, two hours getting ready, lips colored
with Satin Yearning Pink. Arnold, beside her, has colored
his card in a red bingo line and won the round. Warm
applause. Arnold buys Annie ten tickets for the raffle, the frozen
prizes coveted by the bar patrons and bingoers alike. Eddie, gone
to the restroom during Arnold’s shining moment, arms
himself with a basket of popcorn, presented to Annie with a kiss
to the back of her neck. She cringes, only slightly. He leans to kiss
her mouth, she can’t. Yet. He has dark colored
stains on his sweatshirt, under the arms.
She drinks her beer, eyes Arnold. The room feels warm.
The choice meats go first, she eyes the table, the steaks are gone
already. White packages tucked under arms, stacked on the bar, frozen
promises of later pleasures. Arnold leaves, she waves, smile frozen.
Eddie, drunk, brings her a beer, she gives him a quick kiss.
Not that bad. Now nearly all the meat packages are gone.
One of her numbers is called, she hands the colored
ticket to Betty, “Jerky or hotdogs, you choose, Annie.” Warm
from the beers, she allows herself into Eddie’s arms.
The bar patrons and bingoers gone, the bright colored
VFW sign outside frozen in her mind, Eddie’s kiss
sweet and warm, there in her car in his arms.
Mary Ellen Seidel
3/20/2002
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