And today is September 10th.
Well, I was certainly a creative whirlwind this weekend. I worked on a mini-calligraphy-portfolio that I plan on sending to my mom so that she, too, can peddle my wares…I successfully designed and made two mousechairs and one mousetable, dripping only a minimal amount of Gorilla-glue onto my work table in the garage, which is allowed because it is my work table and it is in the garage. And, I got into a roll of wire and sculptured three shapes–a star, a heart, and a twisted little ball-looking-thing–that I will no doubt turn into Christmas ornaments with the addition of a few red ribbons.
And I’m spent.
I can’t think about anything else but making stuff. I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe this artistic surge is the mania before the depression. Which, if that’s the case, maybe depression will bring about my Blue Period which will ultimately lead to fame and fortune…hopefully without death or loss of an ear.
I’m actually serious. Last time I went nuts I went through a very inspired time just before shit hit the fan. Plus, I noticed I’ve had a few spells where I can’t seem to catch a deep breath…and then I feel like I’m choking and then I start to freak out. Another sign. And my thoughts are racing so much I can’t seem to concentrate on anyone thing in particular. And so, knowing all this, I have been laying off the coke and beer, trying to get in at least an hour of good sweat-pouring exercise 4 times a week, and sleeping…not too late to bed, not too late to rise. Ice cold cups of water and a little yoga-booty-ballet during the day. I have faith that these things will all keep me emotionally squared away. I’m good. I got this.
I’m taking Cheyenne for a haircut this week. Her hair is almost down to her butt and it’s looking pretty damn awful. I haven’t told her my plans, because she’s bound to lose it and throw a tantrum to keep every last centimeter of that ratty mop.
"Just a trim," I’ll say.
"No, Mom! All the girls have long hair! Everyone else loves my hair!" she’ll scream.
"Cheyenne, it looks like a breeding ground for small animals."
"Oh my God, Mom, you just want me to look ugly because you looked ugly when you were 11."
"That’s not true, I was the shiz when I was 11."
"No you weren’t–I’ve seen pictures and you were soooo lame."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yes, and trust me you had a bad haircut and no fashion sense. And pimples. And you ate everything in sight."
"I did not."
"Did too. Aunt Katie told me. She said you used to practically drink M&M’s."
"Well that was M&M’s. And excuse me, have you ever paid attention to the way you scarf down food?"
"I don’t scarf down food–and besides, I’m skinny and I can do that if I want to."
"If you keep it up you won’t be. And I didn’t eat everything in sight. And my haircut was cute! Everyone else thought it was cool."
I am hoping we’ll have an easier time getting such a silly thing as a little haircut. I don’t want to have to resort to telling my child she’s going to be fat. And I really don’t want to have to admit how horrible my hair did actually look at 11. 1991–the tail end of the age of gravity-defying bangs and bad perms. Need I say more?