Thursday, April 28, 2011

newbury comics and me.

I just recieved word from Minds Eye Cards (the company that copyrighted a few of my designs
for magnets), that the retailer Newbury Comics wants to make a large wholesale order of my
little, precious bits of nonesense.

Also, I'm sure it's no secret that I'm blogging in a fancy cut and paste way to both of my blogs lately, and
this will soon be rectified when I condense everything into one blog.  None of this would be happening if my
Roz Inga blog hadn't gone on the fritz.  It will only let me do one format and.....I loathe it.

root canals and happy endings.

If someone were to ask me, “hey, Roz, what is the stupidest thing you’ve done in the past five years?” I would first, weigh in the time I mixed copious amounts of beer, wine and tequila before sitting my carsick-prone self in the back seat of a vehicle, and the other time I mistook Nyquil for daytime cold relief, but in the end, not poking my head in for regular dentist visits would top the list.

That's right, lovers! Two uninsured root canals and one filing later, I’ll be saying a misty eyed farewell to both of my ovaries and possibly one of my kidneys as they must be sold and dispersed on the black market. Who needs ‘em?? My back teeth are of paramount importance to me! I need them for night time grinding and lettuce masticating. Not to mention all of those beer bottle caps that would thus go unopened!

My amiable dentist is a big, Star Wars loving Canadian. I asked him about the challenges of becoming a doctor without the ability to read or write. Were the textbooks all full of pictures and paint by numbers? And, yes, before he shaved his head, he proudly sported a mullet.

To open the root canal experience, I said I knew it wasn’t standard procedure, but could I please get a morphine drip? And, hell, let’s get a round of morphine drips for everyone in the building! It’s on me today!

At this dentist office, for whatever reason (possibly just to annoy the hygenists who, I am sure, have better things to do), they offer a paraffin hand treatment, warm neck roll, massaging chair, and unlimited cable tv watching during your treatment. My dentist said they would do everything to not only make me comfortable, but to "pamper" me.

In that case, I asked if he would massage my feet and play with my hair while the rubber mould for my shiny new faux tooth was setting. He said body rubs were not part of the service. I enlightened him to the fact that there is no way he can ensure my “comfort”, if he has no idea what makes me comfortable.

Pushing a long needle into my gums, he answered my next question before I could ask it, “And sorry, Roz, no Happy Endings.”

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Easter with Stephen King.

It's 6:00 Easter morning and I hear this rustling and rustling; like crinkling cellophane. The crinkling continues, and with my back to the door, I am certain that damn little Papillon is nosing around in my trash, trying to find trinkets to adorn her dog bed with (once, it was a tampon.  She presented it in front of company like it was a prize fish.  A small part of me died that day.) and so I raise my head off the pillow and swing it around like a hellbeast and bark in a curt whisper, "GET OUT OF THERE!"

It was then that I, for the first time in my life, lock eyes with the Easter Bunny in action.

...and it's my mother, hunched over, eyes wide, pushing a basket covered in pink cellophane toward my bed. She is rightfully startled, but before I can say sorry and put my glasses on, she is backing out of the room making that "bawk bawk bawk" fake chicken noise that the Cadburry egg bunnies make. My door shuts, I take a blurry look down at the neatly wrapped presents in the basket, and fall back asleep for another two hours.

She later explained to me that, to lock in her position as a Bunny Rabbit, her first instinct was to squeal when I barked at her, but thought better of it at a moments notice. The chicken-bunny "bawking" through out the house today brought me cheer, I will say that.

I received a handful of travel sized toiletries, razors, shave cream, tanning lotion, twenty one-dollar bills each individually hidden in plastic eggs, ear plugs, and a very pink, glossy issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. Apparently, the Easter Bunny thinks I'm traveling somewhere and soon. That, and I might need a shave and a tan.  And a visit to the strip club. 

Thanks to Cosmo, I also know: "75 Sex Moves Men Crave" (75?? Really?), The Love Trick that Makes Him Want You More (I was hoping for a dark, witchy spell), Call Him or Text Him: The New Rules, and Look Sexy: makeup that flirts FOR you.  What about introducing the kind of makeup that Has Sex for You?  "Settle in, boy, and let my fabulous makeup do the work....."

Later, after a substantial afternoon of painting and listening to my monthly free audiobook from Audible--Stephen King's "Full dark, no stars"--I found myself eating Fruit Loops straight out of the box and staring out the kitchen window. As for what I was brooding on at that moment, I can't be too certain. (And you can bet I was brooding. I always brood on sundays.) I spent a long while ruminating on whether it was the window that was smudged or my glasses, because I had a feeling of looking through a Vaseline rubbed lens at the world.

Turns out, they were both dirty; my glasses, disgustingly so. For the amount of paint and glue that gets splattered on them, I should label them more as "working goggles" than anything else. Anyone who has seen me in my glasses knows that, if nothing else, they are big enough to accomplish any face shielding task.

I painted some more. Decided to skip through the part in the Stephen King story when the cat-sized rats invade, and downloaded two episodes from Nurse Jackie: Season 2. I know that iTunes is suffering. I know they need my money. You don't need to remind me anymore, God.

I walked into my bedroom, looked at my masterfully unorganized closet with the curiosity of someone who truly wants to be tidy, but finds that the rules read like a book in another language. I walked away from my bedroom.

Here I am. Waiting for Nurse Jackie, thinking about a shower and some pajamas. Thinking about wine. Thinking perhaps I should clean my glasses since it has been hours since I noticed their trashed state.

Happy Easter.

Friday, April 22, 2011

i'm really not so funny

Especially when you compare me to some of my Etsy counterparts.
Take, for instance, Miss Gay Lee at http://missgaylee.etsy/. We decided
to do a trade so that I could own some of her precious vintage baubles
and this is what she writes to me for card suggestions:

"Do you have card appropriate for congratulating niece for running off and getting married and letting everyone know by updating FB status. Or perhaps a little something for father-in-law marrying nice girl who's just a couple years older than me, I told him that she's the big sister I've always wanted. Or better yet, 20 year old daughter that wants to have a sex talk, asks me to buy her a bottle of wine and says I warped her outlook on premarital sex by sending her to private Christian HS. She expects me be believe that she's still a virgin even though she spends almost every night at boyfriend's apartment, oh, and could I please pick up her birth control prescription and send it to her at college, she says she's just taking that for her complexion."

Or, one of my favorite customers from Surfers Paradise, Australia who, when I asked if she
was trying to butter me up with her compliments on my work, she responded with:
  'If I were trying to butter you up, I'd say 'my you look a delight today, radiating joy - have you been listening to Loveshack on repeat or something?'. hehe But seriously, love your work & very much looking forward to what's up your sleeve.....

Listening to Loveshack on repeat.  That really flicked a chord of joy within me and I told her i would steal it
for a future card purpose and she is fine with it.  (the paper work is in the mail, KC ;)

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

just another manic tuesday.

I had it today: one of those emotional migraine days.  Much like a migraine headache, but
not felt on a physical level.  The cure, I've found, is similar to a physical migraine in that I crave
a cool, dark room to rest in and take a few deep breaths. 

Not so much a panic attack, or a manic episode.  I was certain at one point that I was having
either one of those, until--after much research--I diagnosed myself with a make-believe affliction. 

Emotional migraines fester in a sleep deprived brain and eventually work themselves into the blood and
nervous system like a tapeworm to the large intestine.  Pulling my knees to my chest and rocking back
and forth helps.  Nothing ever gets better on an emotional migraine day, so the best solution is to
either watch television in silence or hit the sack as early as 5.  Once I feel one coming on, my entire day
is sunk.

I texted three of my closest friends and informed them that I was on the downward spiral and Could they
please tell me something good about me before I cracked like yesterdays melon.  Obliging, well-payed liar/friends as they are, they immediately return with: "You're a hottie" "You are so beautiful it kills me" and "you are the prettiest thing on earth". 

....any "normal" girl, not under the duress of an emotional, self-deprecating migraine, might have found contentment is this.  But, I immediately thought to myself: "Hmm.  So, I am a humorless, talentless waste of space.  I might as well get that boob job I've never wanted and audition for The Housewives of Benton County.".

Don't bother coming to my window tonight, Cyrano.  I'll be asleep before the sun sets.

Monday, April 11, 2011


Well known Yelper, Mister Gray--who I now know has been sneaking peeks at my Roz Inga blog--sent over a snippet from his California Redlands/San Francisco trip.  The one line stated:
"I think I might have overdosed on hippies". 

I wrote back that I wasn't sure what his symptoms were, but that I was sure he'd be fine.  Heck, there are days when I am certain I will overdose on dogs, cats, and parental nostalgia here in the home cleave, yet somehow I am able to see another day without a visit to the hospital or rehab.

Recieved a fresh batch of photos taken in my uncle Cory's painful youth.  Please see the "Nerd" card in my shop for another taste of this period in his life.  I'm sure they will produce some new card ideas in the coming days.

Friday, April 8, 2011

It's Friday. The sun is out. I might not kill myself.

Plus, someone at Rala in Knoxville, Tennesse loves me.
Me as in Betty: the fictitious bipolar crabapple.

Have you ever actually eaten a crabapple? There was once a humongous crapapple
tree in my grandmother's yard and I used to love those sour little things.  I'm not
sure if I was supposed to eat them, but I have a tendency to put anything tiny and
pink in my mouth, no matter what it is.

A healthy assortment of Bipolar Betty cards will be at fabulous Rala as of next week.
(I want to do the two dots over the first "a", but no function key for that.)  Visit
their blog here: