Performing the Mommy Woes

Looking through the pre-blog archives, I discovered this gem. Written as a monologue for my graduate performance art class in 2001, I had to 'perform' it in front of my 20-something, unmarried, childless peers. Only my professor laughed. As I re-read it, I realized that some things haven't changed a bit. 

Some people are born with maternal instincts.  God skipped me when passing out those genes. When I was younger, people commented on cute babies. I noticed their deformed heads and drool-soaked faces.

 When I was in middle school, I babysat everyday after school and all weekend EVERY OTHER WEEKEND for 2 little boy monsters named Alex (6) and Michael (7). Their behavior convinced me to never have children.  As soon as the mother left, Michael hid under his bed, refusing to come out.  At times I dragged him screaming, kicking and biting from his safe haven.  Alex was a WILD THING.  One time he snuck out of the house, climbing a tall tree in the front yard.  A neighbor called the fire dept.. Sirens blared, as the firefighters employed a 30 foot ladder for his rescue. He also was a bit of a pervert at that young age (Alex, not the firefighters).  As often as he could manage, he grabbed my breasts or tried to unbutton my pants. 

So now I have kids.  I love them and all, but still those maternal feelings have to be worked on continuously, developed like a muscle.  I know women have been raising kids for centuries—so why does it seem so difficult to get through a single day? 

 A typical day begins at 7am with my 2 yr. old human alarm clock screaming, “Mommy out, Mommy out, Mommy out, Mommy out, Mommy out, MOMMY OUT!!!”  I go into my 7 yr. olds room whose alarm is blaring; yet she is somehow still sleeping through the racket.  “Camille, it’s time to get up.  You’re going to be late.”  I go into Cole’s room to change his diaper and get him dressed.  “I do it.  I do it.  I do it myself”. “No poop, just pee” Ok Cole you can do it.  “Pocket pants, Mommy.  Pocket pants.  Pocket pants.  No, BLUE pocket pants.  Me no like that shirt.  Pocket shirt.  Blue pocket shirt.”  Cole, the blue pocket shirt is dirty, here’s a truck shirt.  “NOOO!” Car, car, blue car.  Ok Cole, here’s your blue car.  Cole, let’s put your shoes and socks on, so your feet aren’t cold. “I do it myself, Mommy” Cole, you’re putting the shoes on the wrong feet.  Your feet will hurt.  “No Mommy.”  “I DID IT, I DID IT” 

 I go back into Camille’s room—“Camille why haven’t you gotten dressed?  You have been staring at your dresser for a half an hour and we’re going to be late.”  “I can’t find anything to wear”.  “Just put on a pair of jeans and T-shirt”.

  I go into the kitchen to make breakfast and pack lunches.  The dog whines to be let out.  The cat meows for food.  Even the fish are on my nerves this morning.  I briefly contemplate pulling the plug on their oxygen bubbler.  Camille comes into the kitchen wearing dressy black patent leather shoes with jeans and a T-shirt.  “Camille, you can’t wear those shoes to school.”  “Why not?”  I have told you that those are for dress up and they will get ruined in gym class.  Have you fed the animals yet?”  No, I still have to brush my hair.  “What have you been doing for the past 45 minutes?”  “getting ready.”

 I gulp my chocolate protein smoothie, while making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  “smoovie, mommy, smoovie”.  Okay Cole, if I let you have some smoothie, you have to be careful and not spill. “ok, mommy, no spill”

Shrieks erupt.  “Mom, Cole hit me”  Cole, don’t hit your sister.  Say you’re sorry.  “No” Cole, say you’re sorry now.  “No” Say you’re sorry or you’ll get a spank.  “Sorry sissy.  Uh oh, mess mommy mess.  (He starts to cry) Oblivious to the crying, Camille says, “Mom, I really want an American girl doll.  I saw it in this book I’m reading.  I have to have one.  They are so cool. (Cole is still crying)  Taylor and Dillon have them.”  Camille, I can’t discuss this right now.  Camille still talking, “Yesterday in school, I was sitting at my desk and Taylor was mean to me.” “She said she didn’t want to play with me at recess”.  "I’m sorry about that."  “Can I stay up and watch the dinosaur movie tonight?" "If your room is clean and your homework is done, we can talk about it."  Whining and Stomping. “But mom, I don’t want to clean my room. I hate cleaning my room.  Cole doesn’t have to clean his room."  "Cole is only 2 and you are 7."  “That’s not fair.  Lori’s mom helps her clean her room.  You’re mean." 

 Phone rings.  Both kids run to answer it.  I got it, no I got it.  Camille rips the phone out of her brother’s hand.  Cole starts crying, “Daddy, Daddy”.  “Hi Daddy, when are you coming home?  I want an American girl doll.  Cole hit me.  He’s being a pain.  He messed up my room and now I have to clean it.”  (Cole is now screaming at the top of his lungs and bites Camille on the leg).  Cole gets the phone and now Camille is crying.  “Mom, I can’t walk, my leg is hurt”.  "Camille, we only have 10 minutes util we have to leave and you haven’t eaten your breakfast." (Cole is in background still on the phone) “Daddy, monster here.  Roar.  Monster, monster in phone.  Here mommy” (hands me the phone)  "Hi Ian, sorry I can’t talk, we have to leave in 5 minutes and we’re not ready yet."  I hang up the phone and Cole cries, “Daddy, Daddy”.  "Camille, get your shoes and socks on.  Cole, get your coat on."  “No zipper mommy, no zipper”.  Ok Cole, no zipper.  Bapac, blankie, bear, monster book, mommy.  "Ok, let’s hurry and pack your backpack.  Camille, we’re getting in the car now." 

 We’re all in the car and I’m backing out of the driveway.  Cole says, “Poop, mommy, poop.” Camille says, “ mom, I can’t find my sneaks”. "Camille, how many times have I told you, that if you put them away when you take them off, you would know where to find them."  “Big poop, mommy, big poop”.  “Mom, I’m not allowed to wear my snow boots in class” 

I pull back in the driveway to change Cole and let Camille get her shoes.  10 minutes later we are back in the car.  “Alligator song mommy, alligator song.”  "Cole we’re already heard the alligator song 5 times, let’s listen to something else."  “Alligator song, pees mommy” Okay.

 We finally make it to school.  Camille’s in a bad mood, so am I and it’s only 8:45 in the morning.

Some things haven't changed. I still have to yell at them to get ready in the morning. They still argue and can't find their clothes, shoes, backpacks, sports bags. Thankfully, I'm done with the diapers phase. 

I GOT AN "A" FOR MY PERFORMANCE. 

Mid-Career or End of Career Christmas Card Retrospective

2000 printed on silver metallic paper

For fifteen years I HAND-MADE Christmas cards each season. The tradition started when I was in college studying art and photography. I used the opportunity to showcase my ‘quirky’ sensibility and ‘dark’ humor. For you photo geeks out there, the first year, I produced hand-tinted cyanotypes. This involved painting a chemical compound on 100 individual 5x7 pieces of watercolor rag paper (in almost total darkness), waiting for them to dry, projecting/exposing an image onto each paper, developing each paper in a chemical bath, drying them and adding a bit of hand-applied color. This does not include the time it took to write a personalized message, label, stamp and mail them. This also does not factor in the time it took to recover from my subsequent mental breakdown.

 

In hindsight, I can only attribute my insanity to a multiple-personality disorder; my other self posing as Martha Stewart.  For the past three years, I have been on Christmas card sabbatical in an effort to cut down on holiday-induced stress. Besides my medical insurance no longer covers the stays at the sanitarium. This year, instead of spending thousands of hours collaging, printing & painting cards, I scanned previous years’ cards for your enjoyment.

 

In anticipation of the protests, “Hey, that’s cheating!” I have a few retorts, some of which are not appropriate for posting. Many of you either—A. put your cards on display to show-off how popular you are or B. throw them in the recycle bin or worse GARBAGE as soon as you open them.

 

My digital card retrospective is eco-friendly. No trees were killed in the making of this blog, Nor did I spend what would equate to arming a small country for the production and distribution of the cards.  And if you don't like them--delete.

2006

2005
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2001

1999

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1987

Zombies & Academics

I have the privilege of chairing the Mid Atlantic Region of the Society for Photographic Education.  I've held this esteemed unpaid position for the past eight years. My major responsibility is overseeing the planning and execution of a yearly conference. This year's theme was The Market. Folks from the reality TV show Art Star presented a dynamite keynote presentation. A 'come as you died' zombie party was scheduled at the Holiday Inn following the keynote address. Excerpts from my introductory remarks are below.

You may be wondering what zombies have to do with the theme of our conference? Or you might ask yourself what academics and zombies have in common?  

 Myth 1: One has to die to become a zombie

Truth:  One only has to work ceaselessly for a year planning a spe conference to achieve zombie status. (evidence A)

 Myth 2: Zombies do not share human traits.

Truth: David Chalmers defines a philosophical zombie as a zombie who lacks full consciousness, but has the biology and behavior of a normal human. By midterms, most academics roam classrooms and hallways, not only lacking full consciousness, but resembling characters from Night of the Living Dead.

 Myth 3: Zombies do not participate in social activism.

Truth: Zombie walks are staged in some countries and resemble a cross between a surrealist performance and a political protest. Hmmm--sounds suspiciously like a documentary photographer or activist performance artist.

 Myth 4: Zombies are contagious

Truth: This myth is true. The zombie virus spreads in the same manner as education. Once it infects the brain, nothing short of death will stop the pandemic.

(microscopic view of zombie virus)

 We hope to spread the pandemic of education this weekend. Enjoy and Engage in the dialogue. After the keynote, join us at the Holiday Inn Bar for the ‘come as you died’ zombie party and watch your favorite zombie movie clips.

A side note--Totowa Holiday Inn provided probably the worst service EVER. They wouldn't let us screen the video footage in the bar, despite the fact that we were their only customers. The bar was also under construction and had a big tarp along one side (perfect screen for zombie films). BAN THEM!

Peeing in Public

Last night I PEED in public. It was dark, but still... The bathrooms at Suburban Station were closed and my train was 10 minutes late, so by the time I reached my stop, I had been holding it for over an hour. The 8 minute walk to my car was agonizing. Only a 5 minute car ride and then RELIEF. 9pm--I reached my car, got inside and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Try again. Nothing again. And again. 

No worries. I'll go to one of the shops/restaurants/gas stations near the parking lot. The Sunoco, Chinese restaurant, pizza place and pharmacy were all CLOSED, even though their signs said they were supposed to be OPEN until 9:30pm. 

I call my husband--once. twice. three times. no answer. HE NEVER ANSWERS WHEN IT IS REALLY IMPORTANT. I start the 30 minute walk home. After 5 minutes, I'm in agony. Men pee outside all the time--against trees, bushes, walls, behind car doors. What is the big deal? I should be able to pee if I need to. I find the nearest yard with bushes. The exterior and interior house lights are on and I briefly debate whether to risk getting caught. The desperate adventurer in me does the yogi squat. Miraculously I manage to avoid peeing on my shoes or pants or brief case. 

My children think this is hysterical. My son--mom, I don't want anyone seeing your butt. My daughter--mom, if they do see your butt, I don't want anyone to know that you are my mom. I'm a bit insulted. My butt is fine. 

p.s. no the picture is not me. it's a woman in bulgaria. i'm a bit envious, because she's mastered the art of peeing while standing. 

Death, Puke & Passive Aggressive Family Dynamics

Sometimes (ok, most of the time) I get sick of having to clean-up after everyone else. Most of you know that I am domestically challenged. Cleaning doesn't relieve stress or give me a high. In fact, I try to avoid it much like I avoid liver--at all costs. However, my family members don't respect this. If they truly loved me, they would not only clean-up after themselves, but me as well. Are you all snickering yet? My house is decorated in what I fondly (and sometimes embarrassingly) call 'Post-Katrina' decor. 

If you were a fly or a stink bug residing in my house, here is a sample of typical daily conversation. Mom, the cat puked. Well, why don't you clean it up? Why should I clean it up? Well, you saw it first, and it is your cat. Mom, I'm not cleaning it up. That's disgusting. It will make me puke. Why should I clean it up? Because you are the mom and it's your job. 

This is the kind of remark that sends me over the edge. You know-- that murderous, I'm going to punish you for the rest of your life or at least until you can learn to not be a sexist, chauvenist, piglet. However, I'm told that this is improper parenting and may even be considered abusive. I personally believe that allowing your son to grow up to be a sexist piglet is not only abusive, but should be punished by death. I think I'm in the minority, considering how many sexist piglets reside not only in my son's school, but full-grown man pigs in Philadelphia as well as the greater United States. 

I digress. The story that best illustrates our dysfunctional, passive-aggressive family dynamic concerns a dead thing and my son's cat. The cat doing what cats do brings home dead things and leaves them by the sliding glass door. A few months ago, I decided to leave the dead thing (a mole) to see how long it would take someone to either throw it away or give it a proper burial. I'm still waiting. The dead thing doesn't seem to bother anyone else, but me. It now blends in with the patio and has lost all of its bodily fluids. I figure if I wait long enough, it will turn into a skeleton and I can make art with it. 

Stink Bug Invasion

My son asked me the other day why God made stink bugs. I SO wanted to reply that God has an inner sadist who likes to torture us. However, one cannot say such things to an 11 year-old, who still lives in a very literal world. I might permanently scar his young mind. So instead I gave the psychotherapist response--I don't know, why do YOU think God made stink bugs? This is a lame-ass response and he immediately sees right through my trick. That's NOT an answer. 

Forget about the Year of the Ox (Chinese calendar).  It is the year of the stinkbug. Did you know that "The brown marmorated stink bug, an insect not previously seen on our continent, has apparently been accidentally introduced into eastern Pennsylvania?"   They are native to China, Japan, Korea & Taiwan. Makes you wonder how they managed to travel to Pennsylvania.  Remember the Old Testament plagues of locusts and gnats? Hmmm...mighty suspicious. Supposedly they only appear during warmer periods in fall and spring. However they seem to be an equal opportunity season pest in my household. 

My most memorable stink bug story took place a few months ago. While reading on my sun porch, covered with a blanket, I noticed a stink bug. And then another. And another. And another. I brushed them off the blanket and continued to read. A few more crawled in my lap. I got up and shook the blanket. HUNDREDS OF LIVE STINK BUGS FLEW OUT OF THE BLANKET. It was like the spider scene from the Indiana Jones movie. 

As you probably know, you cannot squash a stink bug. Besides the smell, they send out a distress signal to all their stink bug friends within a 100 mile radius, who immediately come, ready for invasion. 1 squashed stink bug today, 1000 live ones tomorrow. 

My friend told me that I should suck them up in my vacuum cleaner. This seemed like a brilliant idea. I wouldn't have to squash them and their friends would be none the wiser. I admit to feeling gleeful while sucking up the little monsters with the vacuum hose. As you probably guessed, this didn't work too well. First of all, they didn't all die. Some heroically clung on like tornado survivors, crawling back out once the 'wind' died down. 

The other problem was the stink. The next time I vacuumed my house (ok I don't really vacuum). The next time someone vacuumed the house, the ENTIRE HOUSE smelled of eau de stink bug. FOR DAYS. 

My neighbor told me that she actually ate a stink bug. It was in her glass and she didn't see it. The crunch and smell gave it away. EEWWW!

So the stink bugs are back. I try to be a GREEN person. However I decided that enough was enough. They needed to DIE. So we (actually it was my husband) bombed them. My inner sadist smiled when I witnessed the stink bug holocaust. Hundreds of little bodies all doing the dead bug yoga pose. I realize that is very un-Christ like of me. And I don't care. 

Art for All & Shameless Self-Promotion

I participated in a group show in Soho last month called, A Book About Death.  A democratic show, the first 500 artists submitted 500 postcards depicting...DEATH. Right up my alley. The exhibit paid homage to Ray Johnson (founder of mail art) & Emily Harvey (whose foundation and gallery hosted the exhibit). I liked the show's concept--sharing art with the public. Each visitor could make their own 'book about death'. Free Art for All. It never hurts to have another NYC gallery line on the resume and I relish any excuse to go to NYC.

The organizer did a fabulous job promoting the exhibit on the blog. By official opening time, there were lines around the block waiting to get into the gallery. Most of my family/friends didn't get in the door. There was a videographer, who was streaming live footage directly to the blog. I was told people were logging in from China, Australia and all over Europe. 

Art & Death aficionados madly scooped up the postcards. The fact that the cards were cheap reproductions did not deter the enthusiastic crowd. No art snobs here. Even in Manhattan, people love anything that is FREE. After a couple of hours, the gallery looked ravaged. 

The scene would have been comical if it wasn't so darn HOT. People pushed and nudged, vying for the best 'cards'. The truly funny part happened later. I was waiting for a friend, who happened to be dining with the Royal Dutch family that evening. By the time he arrived at the gallery, I was alone with the organizer and one other guy. 

After brief introductions, the organizer begins grilling my friend about his job. I happened to mention that he worked on Wall Street, which piqued the organizer's interest. He bluntly asked my friend whether he was a low-level manager, or did he have any real power a.k.a. buying power. Don't you need art for your corporate offices? My friend graciously laughed and responded that he was a senior partner. Drooling, the organizer aggressively proceeded to try to sell him A MILLION DOLLAR artwork. I am so NOT kidding. I was mortified. The man had no SHAME. He even tried to tempt me with a $50,000 commission, if I convinced my friend to buy his million dollar work. The man had balls, I'll give him that. He didn't even try to start with a smaller work, let's say for a couple of grand. He went right for the big pay out. 

So much for Free Art for All. When it comes right down to it, it's all about the MONEY.