the clay possum

Half-assed miniature re-creation of The Clay Possum. 
(My marsupial-sculpting skills have gone waaaay down hill since 1987...)

Third Grade. Art class should've been my favorite, but to put it quite frankly, our elementary school art teacher was an asshole. (Childhood friends, you know exactly who I am talking about.) He publicly ridiculed everyone's work and regularly made students cry. During each class, he would pick one student, do their entire project for them, and then make fun of everyone else's projects for not being as good. I don't know why this guy was working with children. Dude was a jerk.

Fortunately, I have no recollection of the asshole art teacher in the story I'm about to tell. I just remember eight-year-old me toiling over a hunk of red clay. I'm not sure exactly what the assignment was - perhaps it was just "make something out of clay", but I do remember quite specifically that I wanted to make something for my mother. A Christmas present? Mother's Day? Her birthday? A just-because gift? I'm not sure, but I do know that I wanted to make my mom something and I wanted it to be awesome.

I decided to make a possum.

Yes, a possum. You know, the rat-like marsupial that eats garbage and carries rabies? Yes, that possum. Made out of clay. FOR MY MOTHER.

Not only that, I designed my clay possum to be a candleholder. I just knew that the clay possum candleholder would look fantastic on our fancy mahogany dining room table - the table that we only ate at for special occasions. Possums were special because they carried their babies in a pouch and could hang upside-down by their tails. So what could possibly say special occasion better than my mother's heirloom china, grandmother's silver, and a clay possum with a candle stuck in its back???

At school, we got our hunks of clay, and I set about sculpting mine into a life-like (and almost life-sized) version of my beloved local marsupial. (Ok, it wasn't life-sized - have you ever seen a possum? It's the size of a cat! But my possum was easily the size of a well-fed rat. After all, I wanted this sculpture to be a centerpiece. A real show-stopper. Go big or go home! And if I could've requested 14 pounds of clay to truly make the possum life-sized, I probably would have.) I crafted its pointy snout and beady eyes. I rolled out a snake for its pink hairless tail. I carefully used a carving tool to scratch the texture of its wiry coat into the clay. Last, but not least, I dug out a hole in the possum's back to hold a single elegant taper candle. I carved my initials into the bottom and I was done.

It was a masterpiece. The best thing I had ever made.

I couldn't wait to give it to my mom. She would be amazed at how realistic it was. She would give it a place of honor on the fancy mahogany dining table. I mean, it would almost be like dining with a real possum!

Before I could give the possum to my mom, however, we had to wait several weeks for our sculptures to be fired in the school's kiln. I waited and waited for our next art class. I couldn't wait to see my masterpiece transformed from pliable clay into a piece of art that would survive for eternity.

At long last, the sculptures had been kiln-fired and were ready to be returned to a classroom full of budding artists. The finished pieces were passed out to my classmates one by one. But where was my possum???

Terrible news: My possum had broken in the kiln.

Also broken was my heart.

There was nothing left of my masterpiece but shards and dust. The possum sculpture had completely exploded. (An appropriate end for a critter who so often ends up exploded all over the road, though I didn't see it that way when I was eight.)

In retrospect, I wonder if the teacher had called my mother and warned her that a flaming possum was about to be staring her in the face as she ate Christmas dinner: "Want me to smash it with a hammer?"

I'm just kidding. I have the type of mother who would've proudly displayed anything I had made as a child. I'm not sure that she's ever heard this story before, as I was too heartbroken and ashamed at the time to tell her that her gift was a failure. But Mom, that kiln saved you from years of fugly adorning the dining room table.

And that might have been the best gift of all.

ten things I learned from my mother

Mom, 1974.

My mother had a milestone birthday last month. I was ready to celebrate - a small dinner party perhaps, or a family brunch? At the very least, a CAAAAAAKE! She turned me down. In fact, when I asked her what she wanted to do for her birthday, she responded "NOTHING!", "Forget about it!", "Absolutely no presents!", and even "I drew a frowny face on the calendar." :(

It was a bit of a buzz kill, but for once I listened to her. It may have taken me thirty-four years, but I'm finally learning to accept my parents for who they are, just as I've expected them to accept me (and my many quirks and bad habits). My mom is not a partier, and just because I want to celebrate, doesn't mean that she does. I can't change my mom and she can't change me. I love her for who she is and I love her for loving me even though I suck at keeping my house clean, am always doing things at the last minute, and never respond to voice mails.

My mom is an amazing woman. She's funny, she's feisty, and she's taught me the most important things I know. She doesn't want material things, so this is my gift to her:

Ten Things I Learned From My Mother

1. Be kind to animals. Respect nature. My mom grew up on a dairy farm, surrounded by cows and horses. She even had a pet hawk! She taught my brother (who now works in an animal hospital) and me to be animal lovers from the day we were born. She also taught us to be curious about the natural world and to respect nature: be quiet when you're out in the woods, tread softly and be gentle, leave things the way you found them.

My mother and grandfather, 1946.

2. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. When I was growing up, my mother wouldn't let us leave the house before eating a proper breakfast. She made breakfast for me every day - and not just a bowl of cereal, she often made eggs or french toast for me before school. (Lucky me!) Breakfast is still my favorite meal and don't try to get me to do anything or go anywhere in the morning before eating. (Warning: I'm cranky!)

3. Have a sense of humor. My childhood friends thought my mom was hilarious (maybe that was because she always said curse words while driving!) and she has a great sense of humor. She taught me to surround myself with funny people - my uncles and great uncles were jokesters and I scored myself a pretty hilarious husband. Life is just better when you can laugh.

Mom (on horseback) & cousin Emmy, late 1950s.

The horses are Sleep (the mama horse) and her daughters, Mamselle and ChaCha.

4. Don't spend money you don't have. To this day, the only debt I've ever had is my mortgage. I've always paid off my credit card. (In fact, it wasn't until my twenties that I understood what credit really was - I didn't even know that there was the option of not paying your credit card bill in its entirety every month!) When I graduated college, I slept on the floor in my first apartment until I could afford a mattress. I drove my first car into the ground, and when it died, I went without a car for a few months until I could pay cash for a new one. I may never be rich, but I can't thank my mother enough for teaching me how important it is to stay out of debt.

5. Reading is one of the greatest pleasures in life. My mom is a lifelong bookworm. Some of my most reassuring childhood memories are of the bedtime stories she read me each night. She taught me to love books from an early age, both by reading to me and by example - she always has a huge stack of library books in bed with her.

Mom, 1945-1946 - with my grandfather on Copper.

6. Stand up for the ones you love. It wasn't until I was an adult that I understood that my mom is an introvert and a homebody. Growing up, I was always so shy and felt I could never measure up to my mother - she always seemed so outgoing and confident. I finally realized that these traits were the result of her being a fierce mama bear and doing whatever she had to do to protect her children - even if it was out of her comfort zone. If someone messed with my brother or me, you can bet my mom was going to be in their face about it. She was loyal, she was protective, and she always did the right thing (even if some of these things were to the embarrassment of her children!) Thanks for sticking up for me, Mom!

7. Don't pay someone to do something you can do yourself. My mother has always valued her independence and her ability to do things herself - even if some of those things are completely dangerous. Gutters need cleaned? You'll find my mom on the roof. Toilet needs replaced? Break out the wrench, she's doing it herself! Need a new walkway? She's hauling concrete pavers on her back. Flames, electricity, hot water pipes - she's not afraid to tackle anything!

8. Correct spelling and proper grammar are important. My mom was an editor. In addition to teaching me to read and love books, she taught me the importance of learning to spell and write. She broke out her red pencil on the stories I brought home from school and taught me how to look things up in a dictionary. To this day, I value spelling words out and writing properly - you'll never catch me using "u" for you or "r" for are even in a text message. And while I'm sure an English major could bleed all over my blog posts (they are blog posts and not polished final pieces after all), I'm careful to proofread and like to think that I can write decently enough to put thoughts together in a coherent written format with minimal typos. (Also, I want to punch things when I see you're/your, it's/its and their/there/they're get mixed up. Don't even get me started on misused apostrophes. Anyway, I get this from my mom. Thanks for teaching me to not sound like an idiot, Mom!)

Mom on ChaCha. Her beloved red VW is in the background. (Not sure when this was taken. In the 70s?)

9. There's always room for ice cream. Also, make desserts from scratch. My sweet tooth is definitely a trait I inherited from my mother. My earliest memories in the kitchen are of baking with Mom. My mom still loves to bake and so do I - it's always a battle over who gets to bring dessert to family functions! When I was a kid, Mom took a cake decorating class and she made elaborate cakes for every birthday. (The 3-D Cabbage Patch Doll cake she made for my 5th? 6th? birthday was definitely a favorite!) She always made her icing from scratch, too, and I was aghast when I learned that some of my friends' moms used icing from a container. 

10. Be stubborn. Yes, this is a frustrating trait, but my mom has taught me that it's important to stand up for what you believe in. And if she calls me stubborn, I'll just tell her I get it from her!

As for her birthday, I finally convinced her to let me take her out for a sandwich and ice cream. There was no party, no balloons, no presents - just a few hours spent with my mom. We did it her way, and other than the fact that there was no caaaaaaake, it was pretty much perfect. So Mom, I'll let you keep on being a party pooper if you let me keep on avoiding my voice mails...

I love you.

go to your room!

Me, pre-trouble years (circa 1981)

As a child, I was no stranger to what they're calling nowadays "imaginative play." Which is a nice way of saying, I was good at getting myself into trouble. Now don't get me wrong - I wasn't a troublemaker. I was quite secure in my position as a straight-A, rule-following, goody two-shoes, teacher's pet.

But I was also quite creative. There were a lot of hatched plans and a lot of "I wonder what happens if I do this" or "I can make this myself." Hence, the trouble. Basically, all of these scenarios were early attempts at DIY gone wrong.

Most of these experiments took place behind the closed door of my childhood bedroom. And most of these experiments involved art supplies and cosmetics. Both of which are messy. Both of which can cause permanent damage to one's parents' home...

My favorite thing to do was "creating potions." This involved taking various cosmetic products and mixing them together to see what happened. I think I was inspired to conduct these experiments due to the way science was portrayed to children. "Chemistry" was pouring different substances into test tubes and then POOF! THEY TURN GREEN AND SMOKE COMES OUT. Since I didn't have "chemicals", I opted for a combination of nailpolish, perfume, and powder.  (Hypothesis: When I mix these things together, cool shit will happen.) Unfortunately, cool shit did not happen. (Results: It made a giant mess.) It made an even bigger mess if you accidentally spilled it on your bedroom carpet and then your mom found out. (Conclusion: Mom will be PISSED!)

(Note: You will later find out that Chemistry has nothing to do with green smoke or making potions. In fact, it involves balancing equations and moles and other things I still don't understand. It's math disguised as something that should be fun. Also, it doesn't involve nailpolish.)

Then there was the time my friend Becky slept over at my house. At god-knows-what-hour-in-the-morning, we decided it would be a good idea (and we weren't even drunk!) to use the box of kleenex in my mother's room to make paper snowflakes. IT WILL BE SO COOL, WE CAN *COVER* THE ROOM WITH SNOWFLAKES. IT WILL LOOK LIKE IT ACTUALLY SNOWED! Wrong. I also think that was the same night that we used a tube of Chapstick to MOISTURIZE OUR FEET. (Conclusion: Mom will be PISSED!)

And then there was the time my BFF Sarah and I decided to spend the afternoon after school working on some art projects in the kitchen. By art projects, I mean SPLATTER PAINTING, YES! And WHOOPS, how did that paint get all over the kitchen curtains and MY BELOVED PINK KITTEN SWEATSHIRT? However, there's an easy solution to the problem of getting paint where you shouldn't: Strategically arrange the kitchen curtains (which I should add, my Mom sewed herself) to hide the paint stains. Stuff the paint-splattered kitten sweatshirt under your bed. Until your mom finds out, because you know, moms are smart and kids are stupid. (Conclusion: Mom will be PISSED!)

Most embarrassing of all, was the time my kindergarten BFF and I were having a sleepover. This one actually occurred in her bedroom. Remember those little stampers that included both a stamp and ink pad together? Well, we had a green one that was shaped like a shamrock. And my friend's mom busted us late one night STAMPING SHAMROCKS ONTO OUR BUTTS.

I really have no idea if the moms were pissed about this one. Her mother was probably horrified that she had to tell my mother what we'd gotten into. (Lest I come home from a playdate and my mom wonder why I had a green shamrock on my ass. I'm pretty sure these things were frowned upon, even in the eighties.) But personally, I would have laughed my own butt off had my kindergartner been busted artfully decorating her butt cheeks. Then I would have been terrified that she'd end up with a tramp stamp. (Conclusion: Be grateful, Mom, that I didn't grow up to tattoo my lower back!)

I should clarify that these incidents did not occur when I was a toddler. You always hear the stories of little kids getting into baby powder or diaper cream and smearing it head-to-toe. And I always thought, I bet I never did that as a baby. No, I was worse. I did most of these things between the ages of five and ten. I knew better - which is why I closed my bedroom door before conducting said "experiments". Ironically, my punishment for most of these offenses was being sent to my room.

As a result of the trouble I got into in my own bedroom, I think my parents' plan for damage control was to encourage us to play outside. After all, how much trouble can kids get into outside? They can't ruin the furniture, the carpet, or the curtains, right?

True, but they can ruin other things..

There was the time that Sarah and I decided to use hedge clippers to cut a MAZE into my parents' bushes. That didn't end well. For either of us. (Sorry, Sarah!)

Then there was the time we decided to start an oak tree business. This involved the collection of acorns which were then placed into ziplock bags with a damp paper towel and allowed to germinate. Except that never happened because my mother discovered our cache of "baby acorn trees", yelled at us about wasting ziplock bags, and crushed our entrepreneurial spirit.

Then there was the time I used a nail to scratch my name into my parents' car. I'm pretty sure they should've killed me for that one. I wasn't intentionally being destructive; for some reason I thought I would be able to rub it off, like writing in dust. When I realized it was permanent, I calmed myself by thinking "They'll never know who did it." Because my childlike handwriting wasn't going to give me away or anything. Nor was the fact that I'd SIGNED MY OWN NAME ON MY CRIME. (Conclusion: Kids are really stupid. Also, Mom AND Dad will be really PISSED!)

And then there was the time I made napalm under our treehouse. No wait, THAT ONE WAS MY BROTHER.

In conclusion: Do not your children anywhere near nailpolish, chapstick, hedge clippers, or paint. Most definitely do not let them near your car. Do not let them have sleepovers. Or friends. Children are more destructive in pairs.

(Also, DIY tattoos are funny. So are butts.)

..............................................................................................................

The Scintilla Project | Day 4: Prompt #1. Talk about your childhood bedroom. Did you share? Slam the door? Let someone in you shouldn't have? Where did you hide things?

old man king cake

Happy Fat Tuesday!

Three years ago, I decided to go all out for Mardi Gras and make a big pot of jambalaya and bake a King Cake. This was problematic not just because I had never made a King Cake before, but because, being from Virginia, I had never even seen, much less tasted, an authentic King Cake.

I didn't let that stop me. Per my usual fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants and do-shit-at-the-last-minute fashion, I believe I embarked on this project around 9 pm on the Monday before. The date stamp on these photos shows the cake coming out of the oven at 3 am. And this was when I was working an office job full-time. WHAT?

Anyway, a King Cake is not just a regular mix-some-flour-sugar-eggs-and-milk-together-and-pop-it-in-the-oven kind of cake. A King Cake involves yeast. And rising. In fact, a King Cake isn't really a cake at all. It's more like bread. With icing.

Not only that, you have to roll the dough around a cheesy filling and then shape the whole thing into a ring. This did not work out so well. There was some swearing. There was some exploding of the cheese filling. And there was some mashing of the dough before stuffing the whole thing in the oven at who-knows-what Godforsaken hour. My King Cake was not-so-much shaped in a ring. It was more like a smashed U. Close enough.

When the King Cake came out of the oven, it looked like the face of an old man. The cheese filling had oozed out and it looked just like Old Man King Cake was sticking his tongue out at me. Jerk.

"Neener neener! You suck!"

As for how it tasted? It was decent the first day, but after that? Day-old King Cake tastes like dried-up stale coffee cake. Since I've never tasted a real King Cake before, I have no idea if this is authentic. Regardless, I won't be baking King Cake ever again. A donut from Krispy Kreme would make a good substitute.

And this year? I think I'll celebrate Fat Tuesday with a beer instead.