Molly Goatwax

Appropos to Nothing

Another discarded excercycle.

Do you need a license for that, Mister?

Hubby told me yesterday about the Fritzl case in Austria and added, "If I were that man's wife, he'd be dead." So many lives to rebuild, but at least...alive. It's hard to believe, in this day and age, that a person could be held prisoner in her own home by the parent most committed to her trust. It's harder still to believe that this is not an isolated case and that the brainwashed, pregnant teenagers from the FLDS truly believe that salvation lies in medically unattended, production style pregnancies by older, related men. Because they were told to be sweet and behave. Yes. I see a direct correlation. Meanwhile, men continue to kill the children they do not keep alive to torture at a shocking rate. While these are headline-grabbing stories from developed countries and the victims in these media fire storms are mostly blue-eyed blondes, women and girls are imprisoned, sold as slaves and kept as chattel all over the world. Where's the outrage, when babies are raped and infected with AIDS by ignorant men trying to save their own lives? Where's the outrage when so-called "honor" killings snuff the lives of women who dare to question the status quo and then be blamed for their own murder? The truth of the matter is, is that violence against females continues to be bidness as usual. Feminist though I may be, I'm not a militant....yet... where do I sign up?

Vandals and Gleaners

One of the properties I have been visiting with my maintenance gear was vandalized by a tribe of children who decided to smash the extra and odd end slate tile stored in the garage, all over the driveway. I needed to sweep that up lest any prospectives see the bits and decide the roof was falling apart. And so it goes on, with the steam cleaning upstairs here, the gardening and so on and so forth!  Oh, and besides that, my studio housemate asked me for the next bit of patio furniture I might find for the back yard there. Hold...cue the wicker armchair...

Ah! There it is, perfectly sturdy and now safely stashed under the studio house's overhang. I met its previous owner, who also offered me the brand new wastecan, shown. I said "You're the lady whose chairs I've been rescuing!" (This one makes three from this site.) She promised another and told me she's going to wrap the seat in plastic for me, but it's been so very wet, she hasn't put it out. I wonder if she has any cast off grills? My studio mate wants me to be on the lookout for a grill, too.

But no supper club

By the activity on this blog, you'd assume either that I am a lazy slug not doing anything of interest, or that I am too busy with my exciting adventures to describe them here. The truth of the matter is, is that I've been very busy doing very boring things. The list includes cleaning the apartment upstairs for our long awaited new tenant, gardening three small yards now, before they get out of control and it's too hot to do anything about it, applying for jobs and generally taking care of business. I need to print up another stack of woodcuts for a neighborhood art fair next weekend. I even have an interview for a neat job next week. I won't jinx it by telling, though.

(Pulls out big horn)

Speaking of buttons, I have to get a dustpan to sweep up the pieces, as my buttons bust all over the floor...my older daughter, little Ethanol Goatwax, has been named adjuct professor of photography at her art school! WOOT! WOOT!

for these homely blessings

Today I attended a heavily advertised "Job Fair" only to find that there were not as many employers recruiting as featured in the promotions. It was sponsored by a resume writing service whose employees tried to cage one of mine at the door, so that they might sell me an upgrade. I came away with a question for Hubby: "What's the point of going to a job fair if the greeters hand you another advertisement and give you a card for their corporate website?".  Most of which I had already e-plied for. The physical therapists' convention in the next space had much better gimmies, so I scooped them up with abandon on my way out. After gardening and cleaning a vacancy in Ednor Gardens, I rescued a friend waiting for a bus at 33rd and Greenmount on my way to Remington. I even gave her a cookie from the PT convention. For this she gave me a bag of buttons saved for my mosaic class. And they are really, really nice. I think I will sew some on my clothes willy nilly and make a night of it.

Wrong Answer

Well here I am, applying for all sorts of jobs, well into the night. I have been on this game now for quite a few weeks and I must say that it is frustrating to send coyly worded custom covers and tweaked resumes off into the ether at the rate of four or five a day to be met with such little response in relation to the effort I am exerting. I still want to be a tattooo artist, a museum visitor services coordinator, a prop and party favor maker and a special needs teacher all in one. I wonder if I can get a job tattooing the developmentally delayed as I teach them how to mix drinks and style promotional displays? In a tropical atmosphere with pools and dance music...

(pokes head out from underneath the bushel basket)

Satyrday evening I attended an art opening. My work was one of over a hundred by artists featured at a charity event that benefits the art center that sponsored my mosaic class and its programs. This event was an appreciation party for the contributing artists before the sale. It was so nice to nibble tidbits catered by a Lebanese taverna, visit with friends I forgot existed and sip an amber lager from the Flying Dog brewery. I was pleased to see a couple of former painting instructors as well as hug a few people while mutually reminding each other of our names. Then I met up with Hubby at the notorious Mount Royal Tavern and he was gracious enough to play Scrabble(t) with me. Oh so nice.

I think I can

It looks like I've been shortlisted (with who knows how many) for the tatooing apprentice position. Hubby wanted to know if I told them how old I am. Yes, I did. Next, they want to see art in the flesh, so to speak. I gotta get a portfolio together.

Running ahead of the trash truck

I don't know what is wrong with these people in my zip code, whether it's mass wretched excess or frequent, obsessive redecoration, but as the guy working on his Audi in the alley is my witness, someone set this wrought iron bench in the bulk trash atop some rolled up carpets.

Sorry about the picture quality.

I'd been wanting a garden bench but hadn't a spare few hundred to spend for one. I asked the man with the Audi if I could set it in his yard whilst I fetched my van so that the men in the city truck coming up the alley after me wouldn't collect it. He looked annoyed and pestered but consented to the bench taking a spot on his garage apron.

It looks much nicer rescued, behind my house. I will wire brush and paint the one dime sized rust spot on the back.