artistic creations and breaks.

Friends, I love my child. I love her more than my own life. But she's exhausting. Frankly, I have no idea how I do it August through May when working full time; I am sure this is what they mean when people use the term Survival Mode. You know how I know she's asleep? The house is finally still and quiet, and nobody is pulling on me demanding things of great ludicrosity (that may not be a real word).

My child is observant and smart, with an elephantine-sized memory. She has a kind heart and gives great foot rubs. She is also stubborn, indignant, loud, and eccentrically bizarre. Slightly hormonal, too, I suspect. In summary, Melissa is a force of nature, not to be reckoned with. So far this summer, I've had 10,000 doors slammed in my face, cleaned up countless spills/toys/books/random drawings of alien-like creatures that are representations of me, almost re-broken my foot due to strategically-placed dolls on stairs, and last night she did THIS:

Because she wanted to (I quote) "know what makes chairs squishy." So now she knows, I suppose. Hope she's also okay with us taking the contents of her piggy bank and using all of it to buy new breakfast table chairs.

Also: I plan to post photo evidence of the place we call "Melissa's Bedroom," that is actually--I think--an artistic representation of what the scary inside of a child's mind looks like. Every inch of its walls has been colored on, the carpet has been decorated numerous times with markers of all different colors, furniture pieces as well, the window has stickers strategically placed all over it...you know what's not been all marked up to hell? Her art easel. Ask me what irony is: I live it.

And when asked questions like, "Why? Why??" after we find new artistic creations in that place, she casually shrugs her shoulders and says flippantly, "Because, mommy, I'm an artist. I have to."

To which I reply, "When your "art" has its own gallery showings and people buy it for thousands of dollars, then you can color, paint, sculpt, calligraphy, stencil, cut whatever you want. Until then, give me the damn markers, pens, and crayons. And no, m'am, we are NOT finger painting the wood floors later."

Because life is so free when you don't have to worry about actually selling your art to make a living or, you know, trying to put a house on the market or something.

But I'm okay with art using chalk/concrete media

So, I don't know if you can tell it or not, but we are ready for a break, Melissa and I. And I got one! I got a BIG one! I have the entire day off to myself today and tomorrow. Miss M has been packed off to a day camp (bless these people for saving a mother's sanity), husband is out of town on business, and I am Home. A. Lone. It's a glorious feeling.

My plan today is to write, write, and write some more. I will develop the world that friend Angie and I are determined to share with television fanatics everywhere. I will finish up a short story I've been working on. I will be a writin' fool, y'all.

I'm also working on developing a writer's website, so I can look all authorish and stuff. And be taken very seriously. But first, to celebrate my alone-ness, I must do THIS:

Because I am a SERIOUS writer. I want to be taken SERIOUSLY.

I mean, I would NEVER dance and sing to, say, something like this all alone in my house:

Serious writers would never, ever do that. Never.