elfyourself.com

Everyone needs a little break. Nothing wrong with a little comic relief to get you through. These two little elves are my daughters.

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9630851112

3D project: the angry migraine

No forewarning, the angry migraine is triggered. A small annoying dot of white light appears. The edges of the dot pulsate rhythmically like a heartbeat. It’s impenetrable. Eyes open, eyes shut, the aura lingers. Squeezing shut, tighter and longer each time, nothing makes it disappear. The vivid blaze of white energy multiplies in size, morphing and consuming everything around it, till its victim is sucked into the gargantuan silent abyss. It can’t be willed away, it’s too late.

Deep, throbbing torment pounds inside, not begging for escape, rather delighting in wretched demeanor. A forlorn promise pit-a-pats and vibrates, enveloping all sensibility. Temples hammer with contempt, and a bitter pain permeates every crevice. Small sounds shrill like sirens. Even a comforting touch proves menacing as it reverberates deep into the outer reaches of every muscle. The haunting ordeal begets bleary and debilitated prey.

Seething, tumultuous waves engulf its victim’s gut, and anxiety exacerbates hopelessness. Pangs of agitation churn and rankle with every splash of its tide. A rush of vociferous growls echo aloud. The anguish intensifies, and the storm rages relentlessly. Stabbing shards violently scrape hollow, empty walls. The carefully calculated casualty is left queasy and tired, cognizant of inevitable fate. It will get worse before it gets better.

Agony twists and entangles, spiraling violently downward in a snare of despair. It spins furiously and abruptly crashes. The splat echoes a grotesque, heightened consciousness. It triumphs. Only now can its unabashed conquest begin the laborious ascent, a tedious, interminable process of healing. Fury subsides, but the residual effects resonate indefinitely.

Well Done: annual report

Brilliant concept, not just putting pictures with words. In fact, there are no words at all… until you bake it to perfection. The Well Done annual report is very well done. Check it out...
http://www.dezeen.com/2007/11/13/well-done-a-food-company-annual-report-that-has-to-be-cooked-first/

Show & Tell: Unnecessary Process

Directions for using Sure deodorant:
Apply to underarms only.

Where else would you apply it?
Shouldn't this be a warning instead?

Women In Art

Ed Gold told me about this video. It is absolutely beautiful. Check it out.

Show & Tell: Definition

The Effect of Black Lace On the Male Imagination.
The women in Goya’s paintings, wrapped in their black lace mantillas, have fascinated male connoisseurs for 200 years.

A more recent artist, this one an American, confessed that he became obsessed with the Brooklyn Bridge because its cablework reminded him of black net stockings.

(I am trying to keep this discussion on an elevated level.) There’s a wonderful paradox here. Black lace should logically seem to ensnare the woman who wears it…but in fact, the viewer is ensnared.

Bewitching Black-Lace Blouse (No. 1944), indispensable for your upcoming evening affairs. Acres of intricate floral lace with silkcharmeuse front placket and bands at turn-down cuffs. Silk-covered buttons, like delicious little lozenges. Hidden stays to keep collar pert.

Blouse comes with matching silk-charmeuse camisole that has adjustable shoulder straps, bust darts; to be worn underneath on most (but not necessarily all) occasions.

from the J Peterman catalog

Subject du jour

We've all noticed color palettes and styles that come and go, whether it's clothing, furniture, bedding, or wall colors for the home. Trends can "date" a piece; it happens routinely in the cyclical nature of fashion.

Graphic design falls into the same habits. Sure, styles and trends can date your work. But what about overuse, where you no longer make an impact? We see the same things over and over, and we lose interest. Sometimes it's not a national or international trend. It may be a rut we create on a smaller scale, within a work environment or in the classroom.

One trend in our classroom is the simple mention of Spanx in every brainstorm. It's innocent and lightly humorous, mainly because no one actually does a project about Spanx. And if it were done once for a project it would probably still be funny.

I've observed another very common theme in our class. Even if our professors love monsters and zombies, there should be a more compelling reason to choose that subject matter. Maybe the interest is genuine and the existing knowledge base is great but, if anything, isn't that reason enough NOT to do it? Haven't we seen enough zombies, monsters, and vampires to last us all a lifetime?! We should all be challenged to step outside of our comfort zone and try new things.

Am I the only one who is [yawn] completely bored with this subject matter? Anyone care to weigh in on this?

Part 2: Dying

The ring of the telephone awakened me that morning. It was Mom. The angioplasty was successful, but Dad had not stabilized after the surgery. The dehydration was severe, his kidneys were failing. Pneumonia had set it. The blockage in his heart had been cleared, but his ticker was not strong. Tears welled in my eyes as I asked, though knowing the answer, "Do I need to come?"

At breakfast I cried uncontrollably. I couldn't hide it from the girls, and I didn't care. It's okay for them to know that Mommy gets upset, too. Sophia, my four-year old, scolded me. "Mom, I want you to stop your fussing this instant." (Wow, I wonder where she's heard that before?!) In that moment of childhood innocence and comic relief, I took a deep breath and sighed. I explained to Sophia that there is a difference between fussing and being sad. "I'm sad because Grandpa is very sick. He's not doing well." Sophia responded, "I'm sad, too."

As a patient in the Intensive Care Unit, Dad's interaction was limited to no more than two visitors at a time. He had no phone in his room, and cell phones were prohibited. But Mom explained the extenuating circumstances to the doctors, and they granted my wish. I had only moments to express a lifetime of joy. What do I say? Dad tried to talk, but the fluid in his lungs garbled his speech. I could not understand a single syllable he uttered. I interrupted, "Dad. Whatever you are trying to tell me, it just doesn't matter. Mom will tell me. Listen, Dad. I love you. I love you so much. I'm coming."

I had to act fast. Only one airline flies direct to Des Moines, but it's out of Washington, DC. My biggest fear was that I wouldn't get there in time. "What do I pack?" I asked myself. I threw a few random clothes into a bag. Then I stopped to mentally review my dress attire for anything black.

We battled traffic on the capital beltway, and I got to the airport in time, only to find out that the flight was two hours delayed. I explained that I had purchased a bereavement ticket. Of course, the airline convinced me that my direct flight leaving late would get in about the same time as another flight with a layover. The flight was later canceled, and no other carriers could accommodate me any sooner.

I was stuck in an airport for four hours while my father was dying. My emotions were all over the map. I was sad, frightened, pissed off, and anxious. It was a race against time, and I had no control. Crying hysterically, I called my sister. "Tell Mom they canceled my flight, and I'm not going to make it." Mom called me moments later. She informed me, "I'm putting your Dad on life support. I don't know if he will last till you get here, but we hope he will. We'll see you soon." I frantically responded, "Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much. I just want to see him and say goodbye."

Once again, I had hope. I prayed to God, "Don't let him linger. But if it be your will, keep him strong till I can hold his hand, kiss him, and tell him how much I love him."

At last I boarded the plane, and I finally slept. It felt good to let my body and mind shut down. I would need my strength for the hours and days to come. When I awoke, I contemplated and scripted my parting words, my last chance to share my love and my thanks to him.

That day was the longest day of my life… That is, until the dawn of the following day.

Show & Tell: Narrative

I wasn't in class on Saturday, but I'm posting the Show & Tell I intended to share. My niece, Samantha, wrote an adorable story when she was 12 years old. She won all kinds of writing awards for it.

The Rainbow
Once upon a time there was a little sky horse who was the littlest of her kind. All the other sky horses had a horn and the humans called them Unicorns. The littlest did not have a horn so she looked like any other little horse. Her mother named her Uni not knowing she would not become a Unicorn. Uni felt very sad when all the other Unicorns laughed at her because she had now horn. One day a goddess named Iris came along and said that there were often droplets of water falling to Earth's surface caused by one of the sky horses. When she found out that it was Uni she said, "Uni, I will make a special path for you with special colors in it and I will call it a Rainbow. Every time somebody laughs at you a little sparkle will appear and it will move across the sky. You will run after it making a joyful Rainbow. This way down on Earth, people will have something to remember what to do but sometimes she forgot. One day several years later, Iris came back to Uni and said to her, "You did a wonderful job! Even though you forgot sometimes, people are beginning to be more joyful. I will grant you one wish." Uni wished to have a Unicorn horn but Iris did more than that, she gave her wings too! Now when water falls from the sky it is from tears of joy. Uni is so happy with her horn and wings that she will continue making rainbows forever and ever.

Part 1: Unknowing

Note to Amy and Stephanie: this is my second blog entry for last week. I had to leave town before I completed my entries for the week...

Dad was recovering from a fall that broke his hip (again) four weeks earlier. His therapy had been going well, and the doctors expected a full recovery of his hip. This was not the first big health issue he had beat. Dad was like a cat with 9 lives. He always bounced back, and I assumed he'd do the same this time.

Mom called Monday night. "Something's not right with your dad."

Mom suspected dehydration, and I was very concerned. Dad's always been awful about drinking water; he says it "tastes bad." So the likelihood of rehydrating himself was slim to none.

Later that night, Dad was admitted to the hospital. Ironically, he had been discharged earlier that day from the rehabilitation center; he was told he was fine to go home. The ICU is a far cry from home.

I went to bed, and I prayed the phone would not ring. No news is good news.

The phone rang. It was my mom. "How's Dad?"

"Apparently, he suffered a minor heart attack over the weekend," she informed me. "They'll do an angioplasty to determine the blockage. He is dehydrated, but they have to do the surgery. I'll keep you posted."

Something wasn't right with Dad. Everyone had missed the "signs" of a heart attack. Now they just needed to try to "fix" his heart. The doctors discovered the stint that Dad had put in four years ago was now blocked. They cleared the stint and called it done. Crisis averted, for now.

I told myself, "Go to sleep. Tomorrow is a new day. He'll do just fine. He always does."