Plaster Project

PLASTER PROJECT

by

Patricia G.

 

   Long ago, I received a project to do in art school from a teacher who is best described as being...utterly incomprehensible. He was a nice man, but his name should've been Mr. I Have Tenure. I Don't Have To Make Sense. He would walk into the classroom and say things like, "A curve is not straight. A sphere is round. If you add water to the special white powder substance, you get a paste that is plaster. Okay, you have the whole class time to create. I'll go around and check on your progress throughout the day."

   What? Was that an assignment? It was like having The Riddler for an instructor.

   In that situation, I quickly figured out that it was pointless to confront the teacher and ask him straight out what the assignment was. He would just respond by saying, "A sphere is a round object. Round or circular. It can be bulbous. It must always have the 360-degree circumference. Then bring in the curve that has no sharp edges. I'll check your progress later."

   What? What? What?

   In the end, I ended up with the following object.

 

 

  

I keep it in a box with some other projects I created in that class. One day, I plan on having a big party, and I'll put the plaster piece on display. At the end of the party, I'll ask my guests, "For crying out loud, can anybody tell me what it is?"

   I have no idea what it is. That's why I keep it in a box so I don't have to see it and wonder about it all the time.

   I'm quite proud of the fact that no animals were harmed in the process of making it, but what is it? What is it? What is it?

   Oh well, I got an A on it. When it was all said and done, I learned...absolutely nothing.

   But before you go...

 

Here it is from the back. What do you think it is?

 

 

Here it is from the side. Can you tell what it is now?

 

 

 

Here it is when I just snuck up on it. What is it?

COFFEE YUCK

   I don't like coffee. Just don't.
   Don't like the taste of it. Don't like the smell of it. Don't like it sugared down or frozen. So don't try to trick me with coffee ice cream. Nope.
   Don't care if you call it java, mocha latte or a cup of joe. Don't like it when it's offered as a free "treat" either because I get all happy when I'm told I can get something for free, but it dampens my spirit when the free thing is something I hate. Talk about a tease.
   If coffee could talk, it would say...
COFFEE:  Why don't you like me?
ME: Because I don't.
COFFEE: That's no answer. Come on. Why don't you like me?
ME: You're just not my cup of tea.
COFFEE: Of course, not. I'm coffee.
ME: You're too literal. I hate that.
   See, this kind of conversation could go on for days. Then I'd need all kinds of therapy because people will wonder why I talk to coffee. So what was the purpose of this whole thing? Didn't you read the first sentence? I-don't-like-coffee!
   That's all.
   You can go back to your lives now.

Empty Nest

Empty Nest

by

Patricia G.

   A few weeks ago, an Empty Nest marathon came on TV. Empty Nest was a sitcom in the 80s about a doctor who reconnects with his two grown daughters after being widowed after thirty years of marriage.
   I tuned into the marathon, and when I saw the family dog on the screen, I immediately thought Dreyfus. And I was right. I knew the dog's name. I hadn't seen the show in over a decade. I couldn't remember any of the topics of any of the episodes I had watched as a child or any of the main characters' names, but I saw the dog and knew it was Dreyfus. Why? What was so special about the dog that his name stayed in my memory all these years? I have no idea.
   I mean I can't even recall all of the words to "The National Anthem". I don't know why movie popcorn tastes better than any other popcorn, and I couldn't tell you how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop if my life depended on it, but I know the Empty Nest dog's name?
   As I continued to watch the program, the family's next door neighbor came into the scene, and I thought Charlie. And I was right! What the heck is wrong with me?

Not Without My Pen

   Some people assume that because I'm a writer I must be an isolated, moody, temperamental soul only holding onto a thread of sanity for as long as it takes to produce imaginative, insightful, revolutionary prose. I say that's just silly. I'm not like that...everyday. Just kidding. Okay, maybe I am on Tuesdays around 8:15p.m. to 9:20p.m. Then I have some ice cream, and all is good with the world.

   I must admit that I do have some quirks. I prefer to write all of my literary creations in longhand before I give into modern technology and transfer all documents onto my computer.

   My first drafts are special. When I write them, it's just me, my thoughts, paper and pen. It's a powerful time of expression. Therefore, not just any old pen will do.

 

NOT WITHOUT MY PEN

by

Patricia G.

   I didn't think I would find it. All I saw in the stationery store were imposters and wannabes, but I simply couldn't yield in defeat. I had to keep searching amongst the selection of Bics, plain ball point PaperMates, unimpressive mechanical pencils and unsophisticated gel inks.

   All I wanted was another five and a half inch, roller ballpoint, fine black ink with a gray comfort grip pen. Was that too much to ask for? A friend was responsible for giving me my first one. The moment my fingers wrapped around its rubber velvety surface, I knew I had found my ultimate writing partner.

   My inanimate buddy lasted for a whole two months before literally cracking under the pressure...the pressure of my foot, that is. It wasn't my fault. Apparently, it had rolled onto the floor without my knowing, and I accidentally, completely unintentionally and truly remorsefully...well...stepped on it. Such a mighty pen should've held up better than it did under the circumstances if you ask me, but it's power was obviously more in its prolific ink than in its exterior. I gathered the remains of my pal in a piece of paper towel. My head had hung low as I reluctantly let it fall into the hollow depths of a garbage can.

   I felt like a bald Samson. What if my writing strength was gone now that I was without my preferred, pen partner? No, I couldn't think that way. I had to find a replacement for my dearly departed, writing mate. I could've picked one of the other types of roller ball pens, but none of them had the magic combination of the smooth comfort grip and slick marker-like flow that had made my former buddy so special. It was a tough search. I never thought it would end.

   Finally, I snapped. I reached out for a pack of retractable pencils. They're always fun, but once you get started with enjoying their clicking abilities, it's hard to concentrate on actually writing something. However, pencil lead is temporary. It can be erased. There's no real commitment. No worries for unnecessary attachment. These pencils and I would not have a lasting relationship.

   I began a slow, defeated walk down the store aisle. Then something caught my eye. A small pile of pens were scattered on a shelf on the opposite side of the aisle with a bunch of notebooks. Some customers probably decided not to buy them and just left them on the wrong side. My heart jumped. I didn't want to get my hopes up. Could my type of pen be amongst the tiny pile? Could I be lucky just once?

   I waltzed right over to the shelf and rooted through the scattered pens. I examined them closely. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then...eureka! It wasn't black like my other pal. It was green, but other than that the style was exactly the same. Special flowing, marker-like ink? Check. Soft, rubber comfort grip? Check. I nearly ran to the check-out line, beaming in delight with anticipation of the pea-colored prose I'd produce when I got home.

   Alas, I was complete. I was like Samson with a green toupee.

Are You Birding Me?

ARE YOU BIRDING ME?

By

Patricia G.

   Is it just me or do pigeons all of a sudden have mega attitudes? I'm not kidding.

   I was walking down the street the other day, and I saw a pigeon walking on the ground (I say walking on the ground) directly in my pathway. It didn't look injured. It didn't look like it was looking for food or anything. It was just strolling. Just strolling along like all of the other New Yorkers as if it was normal. As I got closer to it, it didn't fly off, startled or speed up its pace. Nope. Nothing. In fact, it kind of looked at me as if to say, "What? Yeah, I'm walking here. Have wings, but don't feel like using them. Walk around me, lady. Walk around me!"

   It was ridiculous. I had to pause for a second to absorb the fact that I was getting serious attitude from a bird. I say a bird! A bird that I could've easily knocked off with one good stomp of my foot. But of course, animals have amazing instincts. It knew I would never harm such a little creature even though it ticked me off.

   And as I ended up actually walking around the all of six inches, stone-colored bundle of feathers, I couldn't help thinking this was truly absurd.

   I mean how lazy has our society become that even our winged creatures don't even want to fly anymore? It was a bird. A bird! Got wings? Yeah, cause it's a bird! Why wasn't it in the sky, up on a rooftop or at the very least hanging out in a tree?

   It made me realize just how scary reality is becoming.

   Kids don't know how to use their imaginations anymore. They don't play with toys because they have gadgets. People don't talk to each other anymore. They text and tweet each other. Slowly but surely, brick and mortar stores are being eliminated. Shopping will become mainly an online activity in the future. Privacy is a fading luxury.

   But I tell you it's a real sad day when birds don't feel like soaring in the air to drop poop on cars anymore.    

Blog Mission

This blog is intended to encourage people to concentrate on funny, silly, quirky, interesting things. Most importantly, it’s free! Yes, free! When you’re really bored, perhaps in an office pretending that you’re busy when you’re really trying to get on Facebook, it will cost you absolutely nothing to stop and waste a few minutes reading through my posts.

   If I can get five people I don’t know to read this site and laugh and/or smile, that would be great.

   (I believe in dreaming small. All those dream big people are simply obnoxious, don’t you think?)

   However, if I get 100 people I don’t know to read this site and laugh and/or smile, then that would be very interesting.

   If I can get 1,387 people to read this site and laugh and/or smile, then 1, 3, 8 and 7 will become my new lotto numbers. If I win a million dollar jackpot, I can’t share a dime with any of you because I don’t know you. My grandma always told me never to share a million dollar jackpot with people I don’t know. Sorry.

   In conclusion, I hope you all enjoy this site, and please feel free to not take me seriously.

Happy Reading!

Patricia G.
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