Cue intro.

Hello, and welcome to my blog, um, three random people who Googled "Dinosaur." I'm a little nervous. But I promise things'll get rolling here in a minute. You may have to skip ahead a few posts to where I've finally loosened up a bit and am no longer paralyzed by the fear that I might write something stupid. By my third post, I will probably be on my third martini and saying all manner of stupid and entertaining things. But this is still the first post, so we're just going to start slow. Like, Wisconsin suburb slow. See, I recently went home to visit my folks (whoa, when I tried to write "recent" right there, I accidentally typed "resent." What's that all about? Stay tuned for my next post!) and I took a photo of something that I think might make a good jumping off point for elucidating My Worldview. Or something.






So this picture hangs on the wall at the bottom of stairs at my parents' house in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. I made it during college, while I was visiting home and stewing about a certain boyfriend in a certain band who clearly preferred the company of his guitar of the company of his girl (all together, ladies: "Like all boys in bands!"). Since it was clear he'd rather bone his own guitar and rock star ambitions, I was trying to convince myself that I was through with him. And I made this, um, let's call it a painting, I guess, as a sort of relationship cleansing. Or psychotic (yet artsy!) temper tantrum. Anyway, my mom dug it out of the trash. And because I had played cello for many years, she assumed it was some sort of homage to the cello. To the Surrealist Cello Goddess of Eros, I guess.

Anyway, she apparently loved it as only a mother could, and she had it tastefully framed. Next time I came home, she was all, "Surprise! I hung that cello painting you made up on the wall for everyone to see! Doesn't it look GREAT? I can't believe you wanted to throw it out!" Regardless of the fact that I am now reminded of one of the worst relationships I've ever had every time I descend the stairs, I am probably more disturbed that my parents wanted to hang something so...so orificial. I mean, LOOK AT THE VAGINA! IT'S HUGE! (Note: the vagina is the stylized bit near her bum, NOT the gigantic, also-orificial, blurry sound hole, which a cello doesn't even have, by the way. Cellos have something called "F-holes." Stop laughing.) Oh, and this thing hangs not ten feet from Mom's "God bless this mess" needlepoint, I kid you not.

Actually, the more I think about it, the more I can't really escape it: I'm kinda touched.