I was mowing the lawn one fine autumn day when I was nailed by a wasp – near my jugular, not once, but twice. Having exhausted every English combination of the f-bomb I could muster, I used the few REALLY naughty Norwegian f-bomb combinations I knew, then I kicked the lawn-mower.  The mangled toe and dangling spark plug wire took my mind off the neck welts long enough to see there was a budding wasp nest on the fence.

Having no wasp spray at the time, I warned my husband not to go to that section of the fence unless he was:

First…armed

Second…padded

Third…stupid.

Well, being the man of the house, he decided he could take care of the problem. He grabbed a golf club (a 9-iron, I believe), thus simultaneously fulfilling the first and third requirements. I can only assume that the third requirement prevented him from assuring he had also met the second requirement.

I’m not gonna miss this. I have never seen a wasp problem solved with a golf club.

He took a mighty swing at the nest, promptly diverting five wasps from building a nest to using him for target practice. He’s whipping that 9-iron furiously, missing the wasps, but doing  some very interesting things to the fence, as well as giving himself a couple good whacks when the defending wasps got through. He’s swinging the club, doing The Pee-pee dance (and giving me a damned good idea for an exercise video), and hollering at me, “DO something! OW…dammit…DO SOMETHING!…OOOOOOOW!”

Well, I WAS doing something…laughing myself dizzy.

“So…what do you want ME to do?”

“I dunno…grab a club and help me OUT here!”

Mmmmm Kayyyy…right. Oh wait! I have a better idea! I grab the hose, attach the jet nozzle, open the spigot all the way (and fulfilling the first and third requirements myself and securing my own ticket on the Stupid Train), and take aim at the nest.

“What the HELL are you doing, Lori?! Oh, no. Don’t! No, no, no ,no! OOOOW!” yells my husband the moment his face intercepts the stream of water.

Through some kind of wasp telepathy, five little heads swivel in unison in my direction, and lock on target. It’s not about saving HIM at this point… and now I’m bruising myself with the power jet. HE saw the opening, though, and bravely took it, positioning himself between me and the hose and the wasps. We made our retreat for the garage, with hose, 9-iron, The Pee-pee Dance, and wasps each playing its part in a bizarre, disjointed ballet. My last sight as I dropped the whipping hose and slammed the door shut was of five unharmed wasps flying home.

I’m heading off to my photography class – about a 40 minute drive away. I’m just getting up to highway speed when my rear-view mirror reveals something flipping up and down in my pick-up bed.  About a second later, a piece of cardboard as big as a SAIL comes flying out and scores a direct hit on an 18-wheeler’s radiator.

Uh-oh.

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It’s been too long coming, but it has come. The realization that I feared my art, thus the reason for not creating. There are circumstances beyond my control that contributed to stepping away from the art…and I no longer felt the solace that it had given me in the past during times of difficulty. For the first time in my life, I feared being alone with myself – which is the paramount requirement for making art, and yet turned away form the very people who could nurture and encourage and empower me. I walked away from my tribe because I no longer felt I belonged – and because I walked away, I did, in fact, no longer belong.

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I flew out of state to put on a workshop. All of my paints, my airbrush, carving tools. etc. were in my checked luggage.

It set off the bomb alarm in my airport.

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Something told me I shouldn’t go running that day – quad-pull notwithstanding (that’s another story in itself). I figured 5 weeks was enough time to heal. It’s a 3 mile route that takes me alongside the banks of the Snake River…beautiful. Read the rest of this entry

OK…here’s something I deal with almost every day while in the throes of making my art…I always seem to want to be wherever I’m not. It’s almost like the thought of doing whatever it is I’m not doing sounds better than whatever it is that I am doing. Most days, it’s relatively easy to resist putting down whatever I’m doing and trotting off. Other days…well, today was one of those “other days”…I trotted off.

I spent two hours in the yard and wishing I was in the studio. Fair ’nuff…leave the yard, go to studio. But once in the studio, I figured there just has to be some computer work that needs doing. So, I did that…all the while thinking how nice it would be to be back in the studio…so…back I go…

Man, some days, it’s a vicious circle. Just thought of something…my cats are the same way.

Thing is…the work isn’t being difficult…it’s the brain…

So…which is it…am I putting it off out of fear, or am I prolonging the pleasure of making the art? Sometimes it feels like both at the same time.

I received an email that is a new twist on an old scam. I’ve had my share of the Nigerian “Send Me Your Beautiful (insert name of piece)” emails. The catch is that the amount is always more than the artwork costs, so I must send back the difference. Now, I don’t know how many artists are that dumb or hungry to fall for it, but apparently there are enough to make the scam worthwhile.
ANYWAY, this new one comes along, and since it’s been a REALLY crappy month, and I’m REALLY bored, I figured “What the Hell…let’s play”. Read the rest of this entry

This is a long one.

Some people just have NO sense of humor. The worse it got, the funnier it got – to me, anyway. Read the rest of this entry

After a rather long, HOT and dry summer, things finally started cooling down around here. The morning this happened on was nice and cool – around 40 degrees F. Read the rest of this entry

We have an event every year in our town put on by our local Search & Rescue group. It’s called a Turkey Shoot and for $3.00 you get two shots to try to get a bulls-eye from twenty feet away using a .22 calibre rifle. You hit the bull-eye, you get a turkey. This is set up inside our City Hall building, upstairs in the basketball court.

I want a turkey…so my hubby ponies up the $3.00 hands me the rifle and steps back with a self-satisfied smirk, ’cause he KNOWS we’re gettin’ a TURKEY. I take aim, slow my breath, then slowly squeeze the trigger. It gets dead quiet in that room…I’m standing there trying to figure out why there wasn’t a bullet hole in the target, and who was such a CRAPPY shot that they put out a window.

It was about the time I hear my husband say, “Step away from the rifle and come along now, Babe”, that it occurs to me who that crappy shot was.

Guess that means I don’t get my second shot.

The mortified look on his face really made it all worthwhile…to me, anyway. I think next time I’ll use a bit of blackmail…if they don’t give me a turkey…I’ll come shoot for one.