I'm good...

Everything seems to be quite fine--I did score 2 pictures of real...live...Receptionurses...who said i could blog about them! :)

thanks everyone for your sweet words--
meg

Guess what I have?

I have a lump. In my right breast. And blogging about it is a heck of a lot cheaper than therapy...

And too--this is my hope, with this blog entry. I know that someone, somewhere, probably has a lump too--and you're afraid to check it out. You'd rather not know the answer...and believe me when I say, I do understand that fear. I often feel like an old wooden marionette that's been repaired and pinned together with duct tape and rubber bands... And there's always something new....always. But back to you:

Please get your lump checked. If I can, you can too--and I'll bet you "all the mommy in world" that I have worse luck than you do, in the field of medicine!--you're going to be fine. :)

I've known about Ms. Lump (as we'll call her) for a while--I wanted to enjoy and celebrate Maggie's 5th Birthday before I checked it out....and too, lumps change, throughout the month. So tomorrow, I take Ms. Lump & Mrs. Boob in, to a new doc., and we'll see what's what. And I must say--the receptionurse was SO nice...but is she always nice? Or is it just because I said it: lump, when I made the appointment...maybe it was because my voice broke just a little bit, there at the end?

receptionurse: And what do we need to see you for?
me: I have a....lump. A lump in my right breast.

No one ever wants to say "lump" out loud. Never made my list of things to do, that's for darn certain...but, ah! My list of things to do...

I found the lump via. self-examination (aren't I responsible?!) It was late...I found Ms. Lump...I went to bed (Joe was already asleep)--I turned on my reading lamp, opened my excellent book, and laid it over my breasts. Like a shield. It was so late--and Joe had to work so early--and I really, really, tried to let him sleep. But I couldn't. I turned to him and whispered:

I have a lump.

And then...I just laid there. And I thought of everything I haven't done--every memory I haven't made yet. Blessings, reunions, celebrations... I'm sure there's a song out there, somewhere in the world, that will be one of my favorite songs. I haven't heard it yet. I know there's an author I will adore that I haven't found yet--I think there's a pale grey dress, with a silk rose and matching cloche...it's beautiful. I haven't bought it yet, let alone worn it. There's a beach somewhere--and an ocean that curls over it, embraces it...I haven't walked along it yet. I haven't curled my toes into the sand or gathered sea glass and sea shells to give to my girls. And my girls! I'll have to stop there...

Am I over-reacting? Probably. But at least I'm consistent. And honest. Tell me you haven't thought every one of those thoughts--personal to your life--when you found your Ms. Lump. I know that you did. It's just that I'm brave enough to write it down, to say it out loud. Because if there's anything left that I believe in--it's the power of honest words. Especially if they float a little courage your way.

Make the call--
meg

A note for my daughters...

...on Mother's Day. (and I suspect that some other Mothers, flesh and blood or heart-Mothers, may relate to my sentiments)

mother: 1. A woman who conceives, gives birth to, or raises and nurtures a child.
"On" being "topic", versus the actual day... It's a lovely Friday morning. One of you is at school--one of you is asleep (of course!--who do you take after, I wonder?). I've thought of some things, over the past few months, that I have wanted to impart to you. Sometimes these thoughts occur when I am incredibly frustrated--sometimes they smack me in the noggin when I stumble across some drivel or another in a novel or a specific quote...

Some too, are when I check on you, just before I finally go to sleep. I always go to sleep last, you know....and I think I just have to check on both of you, bless you, touch your hair and get close enough to feel your warm breath before I can sleep myself. (By the by, I might break my leg at two in the morning since Chloe's on the top bunk now! The checking, blessing, etc. is mighty hard to do when you're 4'11" and terribly un-coordinated.)

Anywho--here's some thoughts from me, your Mom, and a few things I want us all to remember as the years go by.

1--I will make, and have made, mistakes. You will too. When that happens, we can embrace forgiveness or embrace resentment. Please remember, you always have that choice in your life, no matter the person or situation.

2--To Chloe: I will never forget the evening that your pink poodle hooded sweatshirt saved your life. I don't know if there's been a worse moment, grabbing the 1/2" of fabric just in time to jerk you back from heavy traffic. When I suddenly hug you as if I'll never, ever, let go--I'm probably thinking of this moment. It was actually worse than when Magdalen decided to be a robot and covered her head in duct tape (I know that you two compete...so far, you have "the worst moment"....and Mags finally has eyebrows again, for the moment.) I cannot imagine what I would do without my daughter who has "shown me the angels."

3--To Magdalen: I am so glad we both lived through your birth--I inadvertently received our medical records in the mail when you were about a year old?....I had no idea how "lucky" we were. And yes, even when Dad's been away for 16+ hours, when I'm bone-tired and you're incredibly naughty--and unrepentant--...when you glue things to things, find duct tape, make "soup", steal your sister's stuff (where is her pink ipod, missie?!), when you steal my stuff, steal dad's stuff...when you cut things into absolute ribbons that you should not (like curtains, or your hair--who will forget the "half-a-mullet", spring 2008?!). I'm still glad we made it--for you and me. You keep my body and my heart agile, and alive, in so many ways.

4--Be nice. And courteous. I'm not kidding here...the world would be a different place if we all woke up and thought--"Just for kicks...I think I'll be kind today."

5--This is a good one--and it's been passed along, from Gramma. When you're tempted to gossip...which can sometimes "creep into" a conversation...run the words you're just longing to say through this "filter": Is it kind? (see #4) Is it true? (if it's not, then you're lying AND gossiping.) Is it necessary? (why do you have to say it? If the world can keep spinning without your saying "it", then you don't need to say "it".)

6--The world will not stop spinning... Okay, it probably could, I suppose (though I myself think it will just blow up someday). If the world does stop spinning, you probably won't realize it--or you won't for very long. So, you've no excuse to not heed #5. I have to heed #5 as well.

7--I honestly don't care about your grades in school. Or, rather, there's a lot of things that are a bit of a "higher priority". Mark Twain said: "I have never let schooling interfere with my education." I whole-heartedly embrace this notion of Mark's...I do care that you educate yourself...you'll never, ever, regret learning. But no, you don't have to pay anyone or visit a classroom to learn. However, should I find myself paying for you to visit a specific classroom, you'd darn well better go! (Just ask Papa.)

8--Mark Twain is always right. I don't know why that is? It's almost creepy. Okay--it is creepy. But true. If you can't speak with me or your father directly, please consult Mr. Twain, with one exception--the legal age for drinking always trumps whatever Mr. Twain has to say on that topic. It's physiological, that age. (Yeah, yeah...I know you won't listen. But I had to say it. I'm your Mom.)

9--Learn one thing everyday. Sometimes, your "lesson" will be intentional--something you specifically wished to learn. But you know what the most powerful lessons are? The ones that keep you up at night. Those aren't worries or heartaches or regrets, my sweet girls--those are lessons. And they're usually free.

10--A "mother" in your life isn't always going to be just me, your Mom (and I'll try to choke down my jealousy). Please keep your eyes peeled for other "mothers"...these are your "heart-mothers". I have 2 Aunts (yes, I still have Judy), 1 crazy friend in Ohio, and 1 dear, sweet, friend from years ago, 2 sponsors, 4 teachers--all are excellent mothers, and have mothered me, in addition to own Mom. All have taught me useful "lessons", most have held me while I sobbed (even over the phone), all have rescued me from myself when necessary, and all have celebrated joy and blessing with me...and too, some have held on tight when I refused to rescue myself. That's a mom for you!

11--I really, of course, wish I did not have to even think about #11....but. Mistakes are, most often, like dominoes. At the very least they seem to come in pairs. However, a lot of times, certain mistakes can be avoided. And I'll tell you how to avoid some "biggies". Use a condom. Call for a ride. While, of course, I don't want to imagine you having to take either precaution...well. The world's a different place for you than it ever was for me--and it was still quite a world when I was a teenager. And too--you don't have to call me for a ride...remember you've kept your eyes peeled for those other "mothers"? If Grandpa Chapman can "be cool" when the cops bring someone home--in quite a state and wreaking of booze--if Harold can manage that--can be kind and loving and concerned (and NOT die of a heart attack!), then surely I can too. Please keep in mind, even with the various modes of transportation and precautions, you will still be in serious trouble.

12--Should you ever find yourself at a "place" in your life where it seems you have no personal dignity left, not one shred or pretense--you need to pay attention to that. And act upon it. Sadly, I--nor anyone else--will be able to "tell you" when you've reached that place without dignity.... I mean, sure I could tell you, but you won't give me any merit whatsoever in this "department of dignity". You'll have to figure that one out for yourself. When you do, I am here.

13--Do you remember when we watched Coraline together? You two loved it...and of course, I did too. But I think it's the "scariest" movie I've ever seen. I can only hope that I know about all of the little "doors" in our home and in your lives (and some of them, I do)--I hope, that if you must enter them, you'll at least let me hold your hand and walk through with you? And don't always assume doors have keys. Some "doors" are funny that way, and they might even trick you a bit...you can lock a door behind you, sometimes, and have no idea you've done so. (Chloe, you will understand this especially as we spent about an hour+ on the front porch the other day....waiting for Dad and his keys....good "teaching moment", eh?)

14--I'm always right. Okay, okay...my heart is always right. So that's why you can't do a staggering variety of dangerous things, read the books that I do (Grandma doesn't like me reading them either!), watch whatever you want, browse the web, etc. etc. Yes, I know it stinks. Too bad. Too bad for you and your sweet little girl hearts and brains. i.e., you will not be able to read this blog entry (#11)--but someday you may, if you like.

15--My High School speech coach gave me a little quote book when I graduated? (one of those "other mothers"...) She'd "marked" advice specifically for me...one of the highlighted advisements: Love someone who doesn't deserve it. This kind of goes back to #4...please, just "love". It's not something, "love" that is, that should remotely resemble a little scale with weights and numbers...ever. In example, there's not a number in this world that's big enough to describe how much I love you. See? I am always right.

16--It's funny...when you were babies, I could just about "fix" anything that was wrong...except you couldn't really "tell me", specifically what some of your troubles were.... As you grow older, as you are able to talk--heaven knows!--you're able to "tell Mom all about it"...and I can still fix a few things--quite a few, really. But the older you grow, the less I can fix, yet the more I can understand completely what you need. I don't know why that is...seems unfair. But I will try, I promise you that. And when I'm not nearby to "fix"? Well--I'll try to make sure I've equipped you with the tools you need to remedy what ills of this life that you can.

17--Be nice to your sister. Both of you. You do and will infuriate each other, compete, fight, love, and--finally--NEED each other.

18--This is all for now. You may read it when you're 22 (at least).

Love,
your mom
*************************************************************************

Since Chloe was born, I have kept an informal "mother's journal" of sorts...some of these thoughts are new, some are old...

I hope each of you has a loverly Mother's Day, one way or another, and try to let just a few of you "mothers" know how they're cherished...

meg

Editing is for sissies...

I forgot something--I could have just added it, but we'll make up for 2 month's silence today...

I did have...one...super....wicked....amazing....idea to make money. My sister and I were discussing all of the Twilight Paraphernalia that has besieged Our Great Nation...like Edward T-shirts (personally, I want "I'm betting on Alice" or nothing, but that's just me).

Now tell me, what good is Rob Pattinson's face if you can't actually see it yourself?

I'm sure you do see--easily!--what I mean....

So--you heard it here first--

Shoes. With Edward's face on the toes...but--here's where it gets good--Edward's face is facing the shoe-wearer. Gazing up at you....with that intense, vampiric yearning...his cold exterior belying and gently providing exquisite contrast to his incredibly warm heart.

I'm just saying.

You heard it here FIRST.

Maybe I should write teen fiction?

Would that I were a snarky image stealer(s) who's making a whopping on various venues right now selling bling-bling to Twilight Addicts (okay, maybe not....but they are making money!)

What? What's that you say? No, no...I took that picture of Edward myself. Really...it was right after we'd had the most delightful brunch (he paid)...I was wearing my favorite flowered clogs...he let me drive the shiny Volvo....then we went for a run and he played me the song he wrote for me. They're keeping that one in the movie.

blessings,

meg

PS--S., if you're reading this, and I know you are...you HAVE to admit that my on-film-vampire is hotter. And I really would let him bite me. (That's for K.)

I was going to post some footage--irrefutable proof, if you will. There's just too much to choose from...(and all of it -1 is illegal). And I will admit that the spoofs are hillarious.

The Inevitable Need for Groceries...

may trump The Unbearable Lightness of Being. For the moment.

I'd no idea, until yesterday, that's it been nearly 8 weeks since I've blogged...so that faint sense of relief you've been experiencing? The reprieve you've had from quirky music and senseless ramblings? That beautiful silence? Over. Again, for the moment...

I've actually spent the last weeks deciding what I might want to do with my life. Like a job or something. This is what I came up with....

• a hospice chaplain
• a hospice nurse
• a nail tech., specifically for hospice patients, nursing homes, etc.
• a teacher

So the chaplain thing...I suppose if no one I know, personally, ends up in hospice I might be able to pull that off (after all, I did work as a medical assistant one summer while pursuing a degree in acting....). A hospice nurse? IVs and 16 hour shifts wouldn't really "work", I'm afraid. ( I HATE all that is intravenous with near phobic intensity...IVs...blood draws. Anything vein-ish. I get grey...sweaty....sometimes I sing...). I did discover that if you drink a LOT of water right before-hand, the blood spurts out a bit quicker (yick-yick-yick!!!!). But then of course, you still have all the sweaty-groaning-grey-singing with an incredible urge to pee...

Needle Lady: Miss Wommack, are you okay?

Meg: (moaning and humming, head lolling on her sweaty neck....) Oh, fine....la-la-la...really fine...are you done yet?

Needle Lady: Almost. (we both know she's a liar. a freaking bad liar, at that.)

Meg: (between singing snatches of Hank William's "I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive")....(croak)...weather...two girls...(watery gasp)...are you almost done?

Why do they ask you questions during a time like this?! Yeah Needle Lady...I want to recount all that is dear and wonderful and beautiful about my life. Because, that's really the sort of thing I like to do before I moan, sweat, turn grey, pee my pants, pass out, and eventually die-die-DIE! We both know this is going to kill me. Why is it going to kill me? Have you seen that movie about the kids-who-don't-get-on-the-plane-that-blows-up and then the rest of the movie they're-all-dying-and-stuff because they've cheated-a-horrible-death? HAVE YOU?! No, I thought not...because, if you had read any of my charts, then you, Miss Needle Lady--or whatever you call yourself nowadays!--if you had read, then you would know, the clock is TICKING. TICKING!!! Ticking for me, personally--and this could darn well be the last TOCK, that's just my freaking luck. My destiny, if you will...

She passed away while getting a blood-draw...yes...very rare....the Needle Lady used a needle that was way too long and it stuck right through Meg's arm and into the electrical socket on the far wall...the Needle Lady was wearing Crocs, of course, so she was not shocked....but Meg in her flowered clogs. Well. No, no...it's okay to say it. She never did wear sensible shoes...the most terrible part--that haunts me to this day--is that the tourniquet inexplicably popped off her arm and blinded her. She died, blind and electrocuted...and you know, her veins did blow up, there at the last--just after they'd been sucked up through the needle and squished back the wrong way. She'd always said that would happen, and I never did give that notion of her's much credence... Ah, poor mite. Would that I had known...

(casual laughter) No, no, no...I don't really think all that. (she said, abashed and slightly emberassed at her deepest fears being displayed for all to see...).* ** (some college)

I watched a nail tech. appointment. It was mind-numbing, and apparently you have to be nice allllll day long. In person. Face to face. Creepy chemicals. There's hand contact. And I can't maintain, nor do I desire to maintain, "pretty" nails for any amount of time--in fact, I do believe it's been a solid sixteen+ years since my unfortunate first--and last--attempt at "nails". And I just don't think that would make a very good impression on my potential victims? It smacks of un-trustworthiness. Like if I owned a restaurant and never ate there? Or a swimming instructor who can't [swim]. Then too, I kind of avoid make-up that's colored. (Yes, I know how that sounds...). You see an appropriate, subtle, shade of eyeshadow. I see a Crayola Box of 64--can't help it.

And the teaching thing...again, with the nice-ness. Ah, well... The only idea I've had which I've actually considered is a Master Gardener certification. Which is all volunteer work, which sort of defeats the purpose of the whole job quest.... Although, I must say, it would be completely expected for me to spend a lot of time doing something that adds no income whatsoever to my household (oh baby, don't say that!).

So a week or so ago? I decided to just go ahead and be an artist. Which leads to all sorts of questions...what to make, etc., blah-blah-blah.... Does a girl just ignore the economy and proceed? In truth, I really do miss dollies...but the dollie-dreams in my noggin have grown wicked time-consuming and complex. The figurative is at that place--I know you know what I mean--where you grow, learn, get better, or scrap it altogether out of respect for the medium. If I'm "stuck" because I don't want to grow, that's one thing...but if it's simply because no one has money to buy art, that's not a good enough reason. In my book. (Book of Meg, Chapter 2)

I actually polled the living room last night--and I so wish I could remember what Chloe had to say about "what mom should make"! It was her wonderfully "usual" follow your heart speech. But hilarious, too. Ah, that girl... She wants me to make "felt mascots" from the Japanese craft book she got for her birthday. (I suspect her advice is not completely altruistic.)

So. I'm as excited as you are to see what the heck I come up with....and just for kicks, there's a poll. Because I've never had one on my blog...unless it's not there. Because every time I threaten a poll, I can't get it to "show up".

What I am sure of, what I am certain I have learned--the artist's non-creating cycle can be just as vital as the art itself. Though that sounds a bit nonsensical and psycho-babbley, it's true... I know I gather everything--every moment, every image, every face, every song or poem or book...even a word--artists of any sort gather all of these trinkets of inspiration, every day, and store them away. Sometimes I feel I'm a peddler doll--but nothing's for sale, aside from the results of my dream-hoarding. (okay...I'm certain I've lost Sherry at this point...."Nutmeg...it's wonderful...but how do you come up with this stuff?!..." And that's a comment pertaining to my work, and the drugs. Or lack thereof-- not Sherry.)

I'm seeing girls in masks with little wool caps...flowing hair...small hands that are still large enough to hold fast to what's important--elaborate costumes, aged and worn...unexpected patterns and forgotten colors...they might have pet ravens or cats or little poppets of their own? I think all of them are on some sort of journey...and they may "meet", intersect, as travelers will do.... There will be that tentative moment of inspection, the hopes of a million little-girl's-journey-hearts will hang in the balance of an unsettling universe; a world that is cold, palest grey, and fraught with existential angst...and then the cats will eat the birds? Stay tuned, if only for the blood-shed.

blessings,

meg

(the dream-hoarder)

*Joe might beg to differ a bit with this particular disclaimer...after plasmapheresis, multiple sclerosis, chemotherapy, two delieveries (ah, that was easy!--I got a prize at the end!)...one nasty cat bite, and--though I did not require medical attention--an incident involving a discarded croc which bounced the bathroom door into my head...it smacked my noggin so hard that there was a noise (so take your sensible shoes and sell stupid elsewhere). Well, after all that--he might have his own opinions. But he's not the most verbose fella (yes, that quality was attractive to me, for various reasons.)

**The Needle Lady will definately disagree with this passage--like I'm scared. Are you going to listen to the girl in the really cool shoes or The Lady With All of Those Needles in the Garfield scrubs? Yeah. That's what I thought. Oh, snap.

P.S....It occurs to me that some of my frequent-flier doctor's offices' actually read this blog. No...it's not you, I promise. The scrubs are a coincidence...an unfortunate, regrettable, coincidence...

Waking up...

Which is worse? To discover it's all been a dream...or to know, for certain, that everything is perfectly true?

















I remain, since the age of eight or so, thoroughly disgusted with this little tale's ending. "Just a dream"?! Oh, please...like I haven't heard that one before.







At the same age~~about eight~~I had a little toy porcupine that would clip onto an edge of fabric with her little arms (do you remember those?)~~she "lived" on the edge of my bedroom curtain...and at night, lying in bed with the moon sifting through those curtains and making a land of shadows on my floor and bed covers~~at night, I swear to you that my little porcupine girl became a rather large spider. Black, grey, spiky...with glimmering eyes and huge fangs. You could never have convinced me otherwise.

And after a few terrible nights, I began to trust that the spider would not bite me...in fact, she seemed to stand sentinel like a strange arachnid angel over my bed. Alice knows better. The ending of that book is to soothe worried grown-ups and placate stupid children (the sort that would rather watch a bit of nonsense on the television and have all of their ideas neatly presented and packaged for their convenience...).






But Alice knows, as do I, that there's a wonderland 'round every corner...



...hatters, chessie cats, queens, and guardian spiders...







Gentle reader,

it's








all








quite








true.



Megan Wommack ©2009





Alice is available at The Paper Poppet and on eBay.

*******************************************************

This piece has, once again, presented the usual "art & life dilemma"~~chickens & eggs, which first? And how very, very, much I feel like Alice! Eat the cake...surely cake is always good? But no...then you're a mile high, full of cake, and so very far away from the earth...and quite a lot of other things (and people!) that matter.

So... a remedy. Drink from the bottle (after all, the bottle says to drink.) And then you find that you're so impossibly tiny...so lost in the vast, huge, earth that you longed to return to....so "vanished". And all you've done is follow the instrutions: "eat me". You've read the label: "drink me". Then to discover yourself!~~ tiny and small~~with a small part of your heart remaining in the lofty clouds.

As much as I despise the "oh, it's alllll been a dream!" easy-out-ending...it is a relief to wake up. To stretch and embrace. To rest and work. To sleep...perchance, to NOT dream! To eat and listen and love... To discover wonderland~~with all of it's solutions, magic, and voodoo~~is not always the best place to be. I'd rather be ill and imperfect....no red queens or hatters, no chessie cats. I'll spare you all the details of my usual medical quandries...suffice it to say, the past few months have been completely horrid. And horrid is sooooo horrid when you expect horridity(?).

And all because I did follow the directions, read the labels, eat me, drink me....the resulting misery has done absolutely nothing to quash my massive authority problem. It's fanned the flames. And given me so many ideas--

My next treatment? I do believe I'm going to implement my own therapy program--Meg's Alternative Medicine, "MAM" for short (I'll have the site up shortly).

Twice daily, I shall sting myself with bees and apply a poultice of chicken poo thereafter. I will meditate upon my personal wellness while not listening to Yanni or Kitaro. I will avoid reading Slyvia Plath excepting the third tuesday of each even-numbered month, and on those particular tuesdays, I will only read the seventh line of each poem. Wearing my 3D glasses from Coraline.(There's no way I was going to re-cycle those after the money-grubbing ticket price. Let alone the gouging that goes on at the candy counters. You're worried about gas prices? I'm alarmed at the fee I'm charged for a HUGE half-empty box of junior mints!!!). Candy at the movies? "Civil Disobedience". I'm just sayin'....

Finally, I will read "The Godmother" every day:

"...I give her sadness,

And the gift of pain,

The new-moon madness,
And the love of rain..."

Dorothy Parker

NOTE: Should you be seeking an alternative cure for multiple sclerosis please be advised that MAM is in clinical trials here in the US, though there's a rumor that everyone's doing it in Canada. So in other words, don't take me too seriously. I take myself seriously enough for the both of us.

Blessings,

Meg

PS~~a riddle for you...not a hard one...do you "see it"?

A boat, beneath a sunny sky

Lingering onward dreamily

In an evening of July -

Children three that nestle near,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Pleased a simple tale to hear -

Long has paled that sunny sky:

Echoes fade and memories die:

Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,

Alice moving under skies

Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream -Lingering in the golden gleam -

Life, what is it but a dream?

Lewis Carroll wrote this about the "real" Alice...

i know the words....

"Hope is the thing with feathers,

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune--without the words,

And never stops at all..."

Emily Dickinson

°º©©º°¨¨¨¨¨¨°º©©º°¨¨¨¨°º©©º°¨¨¨¨¨°º©©º°

Just for today...i feel like i know the words to Miss Emily's tune...

nest~~joe~~maggie~~chloe~~remission~~friends~~family~~hope, indeed....

°º©©º°¨¨¨¨¨¨°º©©º°¨¨¨¨°º©©º°¨¨¨¨¨°º©©º°

I feel a bit like Alice...waking up from a strange dream~~but awakening to blessings and beginnings with a heart full of gratitude! For my wonderful family...the best customers in the world...and dear, sweet, friends...

You'll get to meet Alice soon. :)

Blessings,

Meg

Mornings with Maggie....

This is Maggie...she's four. Her "best powell" (pal) is her big sister Chloe, whether she admits it or not!--and Chloe is a studious seven and goes to school (willingly...can you imagine?!) And so, Maggie and Mama are left to each other quite an awful lot. Dad's at work, Chloe's at school...life gets dull.

The other morning I was treating myself to the end of a "gripping" novel. (It actually wasn't very gripping...it was, rather, so poorly written that I was hard pressed to keep track of the characters--but, nevertheless, I did want to know who-done-it.) Of course, all of you parents know that the more you'd like to ________ (fill in the blank) the less of a chance you have of getting _________ done. Children smell fear, weakness, embarrassing topics, and a parent's yearning to ________ , as much as they can smell warm cookies or broccoli. It's just a fact. And it's almost creepy, their senses are that fine-tuned. So, I guess Mags smelled me wanting to finish my book. Because it became desperately important that I play with her--specifically, to play "Doctor".

Now, I've been well aware of the thriving veterinary practice/doll hospital here in our home. How could I not be? The countless throngs of stuffed animals and dollies line every viable surface in our living room when the office is open...

I didn't realize they'd opened up the practice to humans as well--beginning last Wednesday, to be precise. But I was feeling well, thank you very much, and had no need of Maggie's services. I didn't want to play Doctor. I wanted to read my book. But here's the thing--

Dick Cheney could learn a lot about torturing prisoners if he just spoke to Maggie Wommack. Seriously. She never touches you, never withholds food or water--you're allowed to use the bathroom (because she just follows you right in)...she has a very humane, very effective, method of torturing her prisoners. She whines. She hints. She sometimes screams. She wails, she gnashes her teeth. She persists. She's relentless. And then? She wins. Almost always. In under five minutes, Maggie could have signed confessions from the most terrible of terrorists.

So fine. I'll play Doctor. But of course, I can't just, you know, go check in and be seen for whatever she's decided ails me (but I can tell you what ails me....Children. That's all that's wrong with me. Specifically, the four year old.) No, no. I can't just relent and get my shot. I have to find her a clip-board. And a pen. And paper, of course. (And at this point, it's very clear that my morning is turning into a depressing version of "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie".)

So we find the clip-board. And the paper. And the pen. (We're about 15 minutes into the whole thing, at this point, between the whining and the finding.) Then Maggie sits on the couch, and I go sit down in my chair...and, since I'm in the "waiting room", I get to read my book. Maggie spends some time talking to other "people" that are in her practice that morning...she seems to be a cross between a receptionist and a clip-board nurse. A receptionurse, if you will. And I must admit--she's a bit more engrossing than my not-very-well-written book.

Not only is Maggie a receptionurse--she's a mean receptionurse. I know you know the kind--brusque and blunt, the brightly colored, whimsical patterned, scrubs belying the cold-hearted malice that glitters in the nurse's eyes...eyes that are slightly shadowed by a mighty lot of bangs sprayed into an unnatural formation on the crown of said receptionurse's noggin. Mean as a baby snake and twice as venomous.... I'm, frankly, a little amazed at Receptionurse Maggie's mean-ness. Our pediatrician's office is great, my neurologist has thee sweetest staff...I'm baffled. When did she meet a nurse like this?

And just a note~~I once "dumped" my favorite OBGYN in the world, because she'd moved to another town and I had to call and get set up as a new patient. I only spoke to the nurse/receptionist on the phone (yes, I'm well aware that they're probably not lumped together that way in title. Just roll with it--I only have "some college")...I never braved an actual face-to-face encounter with that Receptionurse. The lady was so MEAN!!! Like I was some irresponsible girl who went out for a wild weekend and got myself a case of the uterus. Like I'd caught a cervix from using a public restroom without a little tissue donut-shaped seat-cover. Like only women of ill repute have vaginas. I felt like asking if I could just send my cervix over in a taxi so we'd never have to meet--I'd send my $15 co-pay along with my cervix, of course. Or could we just do this annual pap thing over the Internet? Whoops. I digressed, didn't I?

Anywho. Back to last Wednesday. We're 20 minutes into this game of "Doctor"...and mean Maggie is ruling the office with her iron clip-board. And I'm, happily, once again immersed in my not-so-well-written book. Thankfully, the heroine survived the crash--even though I had to go find Maggie's props...what a brave & resilient spirit my heroine has! She didn't die in the ravine while I was away....

Finally, it's my turn.

Maggie the Receptionurse: Wommack? Megan Wommack for Doctor Hottenflooperspoop? (or something along those lines...you work "poop" in whenever you can when you're 4.)

Megan the Patient: (sighs and places un-finished not-so-well-written book on arm of chair, crosses stage L. with resignation) Yes, I'm Megan.

Maggie the Receptionurse: Oh. (looks askance) I'm sorry. We're closed today.

?

???

Can a four-year-old really be that passive-aggressive? Did she plan it--and at what point did she begin to plan? When did she decide the practice was closed? Before she called my name? Shortly thereafter, as I walked the less-than-five feet to the couch? I don't know. But Maggie the Receptionurse is wicked mean. And she doesn't even have "some college". I rescheduled. At her convenience.

blessings,

meg

the business of art....and a puzzle

yikes! i am simply frantic...sort of...i don't really have enough energy to be truly frantic. :) blogs are a wonderful, beautiful, thing...but keeping up with posts, visiting other folk's digs, replying to comments. and now, of course, there's the whole new friending-networking-facebooking madness... all wonderful, but mighty time-consuming. how does a girl manage?! to top it all off, comcast changed their entire email format/system thingy on sunday--i can't seem to use my address book, write an email (unless it's a reply)--it's horribly inconveniencing!! and the last thing i needed to add to the stress of keeping up with orders, shipping, and general customer service. (sigh) i've no idea if i'll be able to do a newsletter with my current email address!!

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in addition to the logistics of their only being 24 hours in a day, and the horror of my new inbox...there's also this creative niggling going on in my noggin...

i've long suspected that one point all of my mediums would "crash"...would make a merry little wreck of arty goodness...and it feels sooooo close!~~but it's just not here yet. (sigh) and i know it's always worth the wait....but i HATE to wait!!

it's 3D. buy it's also cloth...and my new poppets are surely a part--i'm painting on little chunks of wood, but i'm not sure i like what i'm coming up with...

is it just me, of does she look a little under-impressed? :)

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so what does this new "it" look like???? (except i can't see "it")
i think there's some embroidery, and maybe a bit of clay...and all of these different elements lead me to believe "it" is some sort of scene...but WHAT sort?! arrrrgh!!!! and stranger still, "it" might be a bit "goth". what?! is this me??? a dark sweetness...a bit creepy...good heavens!

i do know that so many of you have written or commented that you miss my cloth dollies, that i used to offer on such a regular basis...

i should let you know, i suppose, that i miss them too!! LOL...it just began to feel as if i was a dollie machine...it's so important to me, even if it's just a wee poppet, that my work is "honest"--not lost in trend and artifice.

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anyway. do you struggle with these same woes, gentle reader? how do you organize? how do you cope? how do you unlock the elusive work-to-be from a busy artist's heart?

signed,
a completely nutty-meg

*Izannah Little Red*

There are many, many, interpretations of this little fairy tale~~what do the woods symbolize? The wolf? Why is the little girl wearing red? A quick bit of research will reveal all you ever wanted to know~~and more~~about

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Little Red Riding Hood...

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To be honest, I usually enjoy "the annotated version". But not so with this classic tale. I prefer, in this instance, to take away my own impressions...my own thoughts.

The woods can be unsettling when you're all alone...terrifying when you're not alone. Critics and literary scholars return again and again to the childhood fear of "being devoured"~~a much more realistic fear in early 1800s Germany where Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm published a series of stories collected from peasants and villagers...Grimm's Fairy Tales. All of these tales have a "moral", or lesson, to teach their audience (children). It was a very good thing to be afraid of wolves if you were a child who lived in the scantly populated countryside and often~~or seldom~~ walked alone in the forest!
Little Red Riding Hood remains universally popular, even being used for political propaganda upon occasion, throughout history. While the psychological elements and symbolism within the story can be a bit overwhelming, the tale has certainly been utilized for many different purposes~~probably because of all of the "layers" and psychological suppositions...
So what is my personal connection?

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A memory...of walking alone, in the woods. Leaves that crunch and twigs that snap...being so deep into the thick oak trees that a sunny afternoon seems just a few moments before nightfall, the light is so dim and hazy. Knowing that you ought to be completely alone~~aside from harmless deer and perhaps a stray songbird...knowing that you should be, by all reason, alone. But that you are not. And then imagining, planning, rehearsing...
what you will say to the wolf.
©2009 Megan Wommack

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This latest paper poppet is available in my etsy shoppe,

or on eBay~~