.
You scored as Existentialist. Existentialism emphasizes human capability. There is no greater power interfering with life and thus it is up to us to make things happen. Sometimes considered a negative and depressing world view, your optimism towards human accomplishment is immense. Mankind is condemned to be free and must accept the responsibility.
Existentialist | | 94% | Modernist | | 75% | Postmodernist | | 75% | Idealist | | 75% | Materialist | | 69% | Cultural Creative | | 63% | Romanticist | | 31% | Fundamentalist | | 25% |
Fair enough, although I believe the phrase "...your optimism towards human accomplishment is immense" should be changed to "...your optimism towards human accomplishment is confused." I'm pretty sure one can't be a cheerful existentialist. At least not sober. Once again, I am unclear on the concept.
What is Your World View?
Poor Mom. I spent an unexpectedly cool and overcast Sunday last week working on her portrait. We've been having a bit of a go at each other for months now. The problem is that I can't seem to capture a particular quality in her smile. Most (real) artists tend to avoid overt, opened mouthed grins, the kind best left captured in photographs, and for good reason ~ that split second of joy so easily caught by pixel or film can, in the hands of the wrong person, become a frozen, deadened grimace on canvas.These are the hands of the wrong person. Working from a recent photograph and determined to preserve a certain sweetness in her countenance (there was more there, but I started the picture in the first throws of grief, and must be forgiven an element of sentimentality) I painted her at first beaming broadly. Too broadly, I'm afraid, because the longer I worked the more her expression took on a somewhat demented aspect. By which I mean she looked crazy.
So I painted her mouth a little softer. Too softly, because in time I came to realize that she looked a little wistful. By which I mean she looked depressed. And who wants to go through that for eternity?
And on it went ~ loony laugh/woeful pout. Smooshy paint. And I began to wonder if this is less about me as an unskilled painter (although it is certainly that) and more about me trying to create a form of everlasting life for my mother. I want to paint her into an eternity of smiling bliss; to guarantee her happiness with gay dashes of red and yellow, banishing forever all the subtler hues of indigo and grey that too were a part of her life; all of our lives, in fact, and that need to be acknowledged, with all their implied whispers of mourning and regret.
I know that to deny this is neither sensible nor desired. I know that this is what makes makes portraits devoid of life and passion; it is what separates the kitsch from the real. And she would want it all out there. But I seem to want to make it prettier. Better. For me. Then again, maybe this is just how I choose to remember her. Pink. Bright. Happy.
And so it goes ~ week after week of painting mom's smile in and out until, somewhere in this alternative universe, she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Somewhere, I have finally managed to make my mother bipolar.
At last I put Mom aside and finished a little picture I'd started well over a year ago (2? 3?) ~ meant to be a quick, cheerful study of the kitchen table where an old friend and I had once sat on a cool gray winter afternoon, drinking wine and nibbling bits of fruit and cheese. Catching up on lives once close, but now lived 3000 miles apart.
So much for quick. But it is cheerful. A little cartoon-y. I don't mind. It will always remind me of my friend and how warm we felt sharing that cozy winter day. Mercifully, the smiles need only be implied.
 ...now I must lie in it. Que sera, sera.
My Dear Jon letter just came back from the Post Office marked Undeliverable: No Mail Receptacle. I mailed it to the store address. I cannot find another. It must be stated for the record that it says clearly on the bill that "Generally, it is not our policy to refund or exchange purchases. However, in the event that a refund or exchange is approved, a 15% restocking fee will apply."It is our contention that an exchange was approved. Unfortunately, I started yelling at the "customer service rep" as soon as the words "We never agreed to exchange the platform free of charge, but I can give you a discounted price of $150 on one..." were out his mouth. "Well, now you're just lying!" I sputtered, adding "this is outrageous!" and, "I can no longer deal with you!" at a very unladylike volume before handing the phone to my husband, who listened silently and closed with, "I'm going to contact Consumer Affairs and get back to you."Now I find that dear Jon hasn't even read of my righteous, if sputtering anger, and I cannot be trusted to get back on the phone without flying off the handle. Turk refuses to place a call, saying that they have already made their decision clear and, as they are not legally obligated to make good on their offer of a fair exchange there is nothing more we can do.He is right, of course.Ashley Furniture Industries, Inc.
1 Ashley WayArcadia, WI 54612WI
Tel. 608-323-3377
Ron Wanek, Chairman
August 19, 2007
Dear Mr. Wanek,
I am writing to you regarding a recent negative experience we had in making a purchase at your [southern California] location.
We had occasion to buy a full-sized mattress and box spring for our guest room bedroom on August 2, 2007. Soon after receiving the delivery, it was clear we had made a mistake; not only was the mattress (a Simmons Sleeper’s Choice, Wyden Plush model) not two-sided , as we had thought, but the box spring caused the bed to sit too high on the headboard, which is a vintage mid-century design and considerably lower to the floor than contemporary styles. The headboard simply disappeared behind the mattress.
Knowing that the height issue was the result of our mistake, we fully expected to have to pay a 15% ‘restocking’ charge and lose the cost of delivery. The mattress set is in the guest room, and as yet unused. What we did not expect was to be treated with such contempt by the customer service department.
Not only were we consistently lied to by the salesman, the ‘co-owner’ Jon and his ‘customer service’ representative regarding a lot of nonsense about state law forbidding such returns, but we were told that an offer made by Jon to substitute a lower platform for the mattress at no additional charge never happened. In my experience, it is not good business to call your customers liars and cheats.
I understand that each store is individually owned and operated. I am writing to you because we were unable to get satisfaction from the individuals with whom we were dealing, and because as founder and chairman you may have interest in the public face of the company you founded. It benefits no one when customers are insulted, and complaints allowed to go unresolved.
Enclosed is a copy of the letter sent to the local owner, to which there has been no reply.
Sincerely,
It has been said that while one satisfied customer will tell 2 or 3 people, a dissatisfied customer will tell 10 or 12. A dissatisfied customer with a blog will tell....OK, in my case I'm still just telling 10. But it feels good anyway.
open letter to Jon, co-owner - Ashley Furniture Homestore
August 16, 2007
Dear Jon,
As I have been unable to reach you by phone, I wanted you to know that I have contacted the Department of Consumer Affairs, Bureau of Home Furnishings regarding the law cited by you, your salesman and your 'customer service' representative that you cannot accept returns on mattresses and/or box springs; I believe the words your rep used were that he "cannot even have them in the warehouse, legally."
This is patently untrue. There is no such law in the state of California. The law does require that you sanitize and relabel such returns before re sale, but there is unequivocally no law that states that you cannot take them back. Frankly, when asked about the validity of your claims the Department of Consumer Affairs representative laughed out loud. While I understand that you do not wish to lose any profits from a sale, presumably the restocking fee is designed to be at least partial compensation for such a return. But the premise that you can't accept a return by law is one thing; the fact that you do not wish to is quite another.
I find your business practices slick and misleading. What we were asking for is fair and reasonable. Furthermore, to be told by your representative that you never offered to exchange the platform without further charge is, as we all know, untrue.
Needless to say, my husband and I are very displeased with your company, your service, and your level of commitment to your customers. I hope that this meager sale was worth the considerable ill will it has created. Having been in business myself for over 30 years, I somehow doubt it very much.
sincerely,
 Mom's furniture arrived a few weeks ago, and although I have not yet had much time to deal with it I am glad it's here. It is beautiful. It is Mom. I'm happy that it is in my home.
A couple of weeks ago, expecting dinner (not overnight) guests but still wanting the room to have some semblance of presentablity, my husband and I went to the Ashley Furniture HomeStore in our area and selected a full size Simmons mattress set to be delivered the following week; too late for our guests but no one, we were assured, would have been able to deliver earlier.
When the mattress set arrived, the delivery guys tossed the box spring and the mattress onto the bed frame. And my lovely Heywood Wakefield headboard, polished over a half a century to a glossy amber hue, promptly disappeared. *
It seems that the sleek, low-slung furniture of the 20th century was not designed to accommodate the over-sized, plumped-up lushness of the 21st. My husband came back after the deliverymen left to find me staring at 23" of bedding looming, in all it's glorious plushness astride a 21" frame. We burst out laughing.
* We're not laughing anymore.
*
When we tried to return the set, we were told by the salesman that they could exchange the box for a lower platform, which would reduce the height by a possible 3". No mention of additional charges were made. It was a reasonable solution to a problem, which after all, had been our mistake.
Then the salesman said, "We can't take it back. It isn't store policy. It's the law."
I should have kept my mouth shut. I could have kept my mouth shut. But something happens when people lie to me. I have little control over it; I swear it's physiological ~ the hairs on my neck stand on end, the blood rushes to my face, my heart starts pounding and my breath gets shallow. It has nothing to do with the nature of the lie, it's relative importance to me, my life or the person telling it ~ I don't even have to know for sure that it's a lie, just a vague suspicion that it is. Something in my brain clicks off and I see red. And then I don't have the sense to leave it alone.
"Well, that's not true," I said. Mildly, I thought. It was just a statement of fact.
The salesman, Ron, who had seemed so congenial a few days ago, immediately went on the offensive. *
"So now you just want to return it? Now you just want your money back?"
"Well, now...yeah. All of a sudden I feel like I have no other options. O.K. I guess that is what I want." I looked at Turk. He nodded. From a safe distance.
"Well, we can't do that. I told you. It's against the law. You don't believe me? I'll let you talk to one of the owners." He strode angrily to the front of the store. "Wait here," he said.
The co-owner, who seemed affable enough, introduced himself as Jon and listened politely to our story. We told him that we understood store policy (printed on the receipt) indicated that there was a 15% restocking fee charged for returns and that we knew we would lose the delivery charge, but that we didn't want the set and that we didn't understand how this had gone so far as to be confrontational. He said that his customer service person, who was not on site, would call us the next day with a list of options. He was friendly but firm.
"We can't take it back," he said. "I can't even have it on the premises. It's against the law. It's not worth my losing my business license over."
*
We left the store.
There'll be a change in the weather, a change in the sea. Before long there'll be a change in me. My walk will be diff'rent, my talk and my name, Ain't nothin' about me is gonna to be the same. I'm goin' to change my way of livin', boys, (if) that ain't enough, Well then I'll change the way I strut my stuff, Nobody wants you when you're old and gray. There'll be some changes made to-day. There'll be some changes made. ~ Words Billy Higgins and Music by W.B. Overstreet Always loved that song. Time again to live it. * 3:35 update ~ oops. Now I lost both profile pics. D'oh! * 4:46 update ~ finally got it. Now I don't like it. Looks like the wrong size. Now I must change back. What a Homer. 
It should come as no surprise to anyone that I am a huge, dweeby, recite-entire-episodes from memory, stalker-quality fan of the The Simpsons. Naturally, like all rabid Simpson lovers I have always harbored a secret desire to be Simpsonized ~ what's good enough for Liz Taylor, Tony Blair and Thomas Pynchon et al is certainly good enough for me.
And now, thanks to Burger King and the very clever Cynthia, I have!
I am over the moon.
Now, see how easy that was? So hop on over to Springfield. I'll meet you down at Moe's ~ the d'ohs and the Duffs are on me.
 I'm not sure that graphic will be big enough to see so here's a link. I can never seem to get anything large enough in here. Don't know why. But I love The Woman Who's Easily Peeved ~ why, it's practically like looking in the mirror. Nicole Hollander is my hero. She draws all my rants so I don't have to ~ what a time saver! And gives me a bigger laugh than I deserve in the process. Brilliant.A few months ago I had an idea that it might be fun to try an experiment. I wanted to see if I could discipline myself enough to write a post everyday. It didn't have to be big, or good, or illustrated. Just a wee poor thing, if that be all, but at least a nod. A nod to the blog. Regardless of how busy or how rushed I was. Without consideration of form, subject, punctuation or prose. No matter how inane or trivial the topic. Heedless of how clever or dull-witted I felt ~ drunk or sober, I would write. Something. Anything. I think it's going well so far.
 So I went ahead and wrote one.Going back to Houston for the first time since my mother's death was a profoundly sad affair, and it's been awhile since I felt like coming out. I am wary of writing too often of the deeply personal online; the self-absorption of grief, in particular, does not translate well in such a public forum. Too often indulged it makes for a dreary blog, however earnest; overlong and unimpeded by humor or perspective, it's a bit of a slog. Fair warning. I went back to Texas to help begin the process of sorting out the apartment my mother kept in my brother's home, and arranging for the dispersal of her things. Most problematically, I was trying to figure out the best way to transport her beloved Heywood Wakefield bedroom furniture to California. Mom had purchased this lovely set, with it's clean, modern lines and beautiful blonde wood as a newlywed and cherished it all of her life. She taught me to do the same, and now it is to be mine. I thought I had adjusted to our loss, more or less, and was coping in a quite-nearly adult fashion. But being there, sleeping in her apartment, sifting through the accumulated souvenirs of a long life, well-lived was to become once again immersed in the profound grief I experienced at her death. This, I suppose, is the cruelty of absence in the presence of the tangible ~ she was everywhere, yet nowhere. My mother kept every little note, every letter, every missive ever sent to her. Every card my brother crayoned, every doodle drawn on scrap paper was there. In a shoebox labeled "memory box" was an entire series of pictures I'd done on flip cards; apparently, they were meant to viewed as a kind of 'moving picture' and seemed to be telling the tale of two friends who dressed like twins and went on adventures. There was much crying and laughter in the series, a few adults and many changes of clothes. The twins dressed well. I actually remember drawing these, although not the enigmatic plot line. On the box my mother had written, "Gigi ~ Age 5!" with evident pride.
Most touching and illuminating were the myriad notes and letters that passed between my parents. There are 78 rpm (?) recordings sent from 'Your man in Service.' He drew her pictures; she wrote him cheery thanks. From decades later is a banner he must have hung for her reading, in the elegant handwriting of another age, "Happy Anniversary ~ 1939 -1986 ~ love forever, Freddie." Somehow, I cannot bear to think about how much in love they were, for how long, and how little I understood of that. For a while there, they always seemed to be fighting. For a while, it always seemed to be about me.
The story of their many failed attempts at adoption are there in the form of legal documents: local babies, "Negro-Korean" orphans; children from Germany, children from France. Children from anywhere. So much longing, so much promise, so much love. In the end, they got us. The burden of knowing how often and how deeply I disappointed them is, at this time, nearly unbearable. It breaks my heart all over again.
There is still much to do; Mom was clearly nothing if not a saver and there are still boxes and boxes in my brother's attic and closets to go through. So I'll be back.
And because I adore my family and love to see them, in time I would like to be able to return to their home without bringing with me this sorrow; without packing this blanket regret that I fear I am wearing like a hair shirt. I have always taken full responsibility for my life as lived, and gladly so. Now I must accept the lessons of the past, let go of old guilt and concentrate on the joy that is, after all, my true inheritance. Que sera, sera.
"Orange is red brought nearer to humanity by yellow." ~ Wassily Kandinsky I painted these Japanese lanterns from an ad ripped out of a magazine some time ago. I was trying to work on getting some intensity from my watercolors without letting them get thick and muddled, as is my wont. And because I just thought that they were pretty. The days are so wretchedly hot now ~ I can't bring myself to work outside, and oils are too messy for the available space indoors. So maybe underwatercolor is a good place for me to be. It sounds so cool and refreshing.
But not yet. Tomorrow I leave for Houston, where I'll be enjoying the same heat I'm sweltering in here, only Texas style, with higher hair and humidity. Which means that I'll be sweating and swearing like a cowgirl for the next ten days or so. If I survive, see you when I get back. If not, stay cool. In fact, stay cool anyway. I need to hit the gym and go pack my good jeans. Maybe I'll catch you later. Underwater...
 It was never our intention to spend our spring holiday driving the bucolic American midlands counting cows, drinking beer and sampling local cheeses.Our original plan was to be sailing the Greek Isles, counting Olympic deities, drinking ouzo and dancing in happy circles while smashing plates on the floor. Unfortunately, events conspired against us on the home front forcing an abrupt change of direction, and thus it was that we found ourselves standing, not before the throne room of the Palace at Knossos but here, in Wisconsin, contemplating the throne room of the Design Center of Kohler.
And quite a sight it was.
 Turk had wanted to visit the Design Center in anticipation of remodeling the guest bath which, like it's owner, is sorely in need of a face lift. I went along with the idea, expecting it to be about as interesting as a trip to Home Depot. I could not have been more wrong.  It was 36,000 square feet of pure enchantment, and I found myself falling in love with plumbing fixtures in a way that bordered on the indecent. I wanted to have an intimate relationship with these  bathrooms; to whisper sweet nothings to these kitchens whose glamour and beauty surpassed anything I'd witnessed before. I wanted to marry these appliances and whisk them and their magical environments home, where they would transform my world. I was smitten. Weather it was the baroque beauty of the Marie Antoinette Versailles-inspired apartment, the clever insouciance of a beachy bathroom loft or the cheeky allure of a bejeweled little bedazzler all tarted up for a night on the town, I was lost in a dream of how life was meant to be lived. In full color. With hand painted sinks, fancy fixtures and excellent water pressure.  A group of about six of us stood in awed wonder before a shower, each taking turns to press the button that would cause a waterfall to come thundering down, adding to the eleven jets already shooting forcefully away. Like a small group of Aborigines seeing an airplane for the first time, we laughed and pointed in amazement, fairly clapping with glee. A shower like that could make a grown man cry, cause a woman leave her husband. A child would almost certainly need to take swimming lessons. 
A little over $7 grand and it could be ours. Nothing would have made me happier."Want to put it in the guest bath?" I asked my husband. "Only if we promise never, ever to have any guests," he whispered. I have to admit, I have been in art galleries I haven't enjoyed half so much. And there was traditional art here too, of the porcelain variety, which I quite liked, as well as early magazine ads diplayed alongside the original oil paintings.   Unabashadly kitsch, I found them nonetheless charming for it, the colors as clear and cheerful as the day they were painted.
  In the end I chose my two favorites: what I call the Breakfast at Tiffany's Manhattan kitchen, and the ultimate Absolute Zen bath.
  And that is what paradise looks like to me.
 I just got back last night from San Diego, where we spent the weekend attempting to celebrate the tragedy of my continued decline.We enjoyed ourselves immensely, of course, because that is what one does when there is no other recourse. One dons a clever outfit, checks into a hotel of fading but determined elegance and, martini in hand, remarks gaily on the metaphor. One then goes on to dine regally on lamb and baby carrots and an excellent Cabernet, and hits the Gas Lamp District of an historic port town. There, one toasts the passing of youth in the company of passing youth with all the dignity an aging good time girl can muster. Oddly enough, this is considerable, as I have decided to be uncharacteristically philosophical in my dotage. Because that's what we old broads do ~ we turn wise. Overnight, in elegant hotels. It happens.
 At the irresistibly named Bitter End, a cheerful Turk was making himself quite popular with the local singles, and at one point seemed on the verge of establishing himself as resident matchmaker. I smile benignly, at peace with my role as resident dowager. We will go, he and I, a pair of Elderly Superheroes, travelling from town to town, spreading love and joy and dollar bills coast to coast, uniting young people with appropriate partners and/or soul mates, listening to their tales of woe and dispensing our hard earned wisdom with bon mots and sympathetic ears. I order a Guinness and enjoy the warm glow that comes from selflessly doing good solely for the benefit of others. And also from drinking Guinness. 
At our favorite romantic spot in Laguna Beach, we dine on the terrace and are disappointed that everyone is already paired up and our presence here is not required. We stay anyway, and reflect on our reflections. It's a Superheroe's Holiday, and we linger past sunset. I stare into the ocean, drinking deeply of breeze and brine. I want to stride out and dive in, spinning and twirling beneath air and sunlight in the cool black blue of unlimited time and space. Just as I always have. I do not feel old. I look old. But I feel timeless.
 Playing around with my new Adobe Elements 5.0 ~ an old sketch with new text addition imposed, thanks to the Miracle that is Photoshop. Several hours and many FCC-banned words later (I swear I still do not get the whole layer issue ~ just do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, OK? I'll let you know if I want to change my mind. When I say SAVE, you say HOW MANY? And when I say EDIT, you best let me at the whole text...) I do understand that I could actually just have written on the actual page. With an actual pen. Just as we all do, everyday. Woulda taken' one, two minutes tops. Silly girl, with your silly time-saving devices. When will you ever learn?
Still. What fun would it be if it didn't involve much saving and tossing about of psds, jpgs, bss' and gds?
None, of course. It is what it is. A pleasantly indolent way to recover from yesterday's barbecue. I love my parties.
"Go down three lights and make a left across the bridge," the bartender was saying. "About two blocks in you'll come to an alley. It's just an alley but don't worry; you go down that alley. Halfway down you'll see a door. It says 'import/export' or something; never mind ~ go in. Inside you won't see a door, but there is one behind the bookcase. Pull the lever, and you're in."I looked at my husband, eyes wide."Oh, we have so got to go there," I whispered. The couple left ~ they did look a little shady, now that I thought about it. I raised an eyebrow and cocked my head. The bartender came over."I couldn't help but overhear," I lied, sotto voce, trying to look like someone who could be trusted with a secret. "What is this place you were telling them about?""You'll love it," he said. He repeated his instructions. "Can we walk from here?""Sure." Leaving, I tried to buy a postcard with a picture of Buck Bradley's beautiful bar. With a wink and a nod, the barman insisted instead on giving me a few."I love Milwaukee," I told my husband."I know, dear," he replied. Safe house: "A seemingly innocent house or premise established by an intelligence organization for conducting clandestine or covert activities in relative security."~ CIA intelligence Officer Glossary We came to the door marked "International Exports Ltd" and entered. Inside we found ourselves in a narrow entryway about the size of an 19th century elevator, surrounded by dusty bookshelves and the assorted paraphernalia of several decades ago; an old phone, an ancient cash register. I think there was a leather chair. I looked at Turk. "I have no idea," he said. Gazing upward, we looked for a lever hidden somewhere amid the books. Just then the door opened behind us and a man in a blue baseball cap with a boy of about 6 years of age in tow entered. Walking immediately over to the cash register, he pulled the handle and one of the bookcases swung open, revealing a narrow, winding staircase. I clapped my hands delightedly. "I used to work here," he said a little sheepishly. Ascending, we entered a parallel universe; one as envisioned by Ian Fleming with a little help from the imagineers at Disney. And maybe a cocktail or two.  
Rife with jokes and heavy on visual puns, The Safe House* is a fully realized tribute to the fun and frolic that was the James Bondian version of the Cold War. You either love this sort of thing or you don't. It should come as no surprise to anybody that we are firmly entrenched in the former category.
As we slid onto bar stools, entranced by the map of the world circa 1962, with it's blinking lights and bank of international clocks, the pretty blond bartender tossed a cocktail napkin before us and asked, "What can I get you?" Looking down, I found myself staring into the smoldering dark eyes of a youthful Sean Connery. "Well, I guess I have to have a vodka martini! Shaken, not stirred," I chirped happily. And immediately regretted it. The chirping, I mean, not the martini. Spies do not chirp. Mata Hari did not chirp. The pretty blond laughed just as heartily as if she'd never heard it before. That's what I love about the people here. Everyone is just so nice.  We wandered around enjoying the vintage memorabilia ~ heavy black phones, telegraph machines, original art and photographs.
"I want my house to look like this," I told my husband. He eyed the somehow cheerful clutter. "I think it already does," he replied. I climbed another narrow stairway, passing a couple of other bars on separate landings to find the Ladies' room.
 One should never be discovered laughing all alone in the ladies', so it's probably a good thing that I wasn't. Discovered, I mean. Behind a red door labeled "Mata Hari's changing room" or some such thing, I stepped through to find myself standing on a tiny enclosed balcony. Pressing a button marked '2 way mirror', I had a clear view of all the goings on in the Magic Bar below ~ a marvelous way to keep an eye on the action. Or your date. Did I mention that I love this place?
Back in the darkened bar, we realized that the black and white televisions in the corner were projecting images from a surveillance camera trained on that enigmatic little foyer. We watched as, time and time again people entered and stood, mystified, until a light went on in the bar, the bartender would press a button and the bookcase would swing open to the surprised delight of the newcomers. A minute later their heads would appear at the top of the stairs, laughing like kids at Disneyland. I could have stayed there all day.
"I want to live here," I said to my husband. "I know, dear," he replied. He nodded to the smiling barmaid. "I believe we'll have another round." Thank you, spy who loved me. I believe we will. Best Spy Pub ever.
*OK, I love it, but seriously ~ how wrong is it that a safe house has a web site? I'm just sayin'.
| 
Posts
