Prepare to be Jealous

Just giving you all a heads up not to call me on Sunday between 1:30 and 4:30 pm. I won’t be able to pick up the phone because I have exclusive, VIP tickets to attend this season’s hottest, most anticipated event, otherwise known as the Income Taxes for Artists Workshop.

(Tone it down, dear readers: I can hear your envious sighs and green-with-jealousy lamentations that “Dana L. has such an exciting life and mine is so boring!” all the way from my ghetto apartment in distant Victoria, Canada.)

It is shocking to me that I– the one who dropped math like a flaming hot potato at the very first opportunity in university– would be the one in charge of The Numbers in my relationship. Even more absurd is the fact that I willingly enrolled in this income taxes workshop (and paid actual dollars to register!) I’m not even going to deny that I’m looking forward to this workshop. Since when do math and I plan such hot dates together?

Taking a step back to look at my history with math somewhat objectively, it strikes me that I started out loving numbers openly and unapologetically. As a young child in kindergarten, I would bring pages upon pages of long addition to Show and Tell, which were naturally greeted with bewildered stares from my classmates (“what means 4? where are the dinosaurs?”) and even a hesitant sideways glance from my teacher (“oh dear– she doesn’t even realize how nerdy she is, the poor thing!”).

I would literally spend hours upon hours creating gigantic numbers in my head, writing them down on paper and adding them together. I loved carrying numbers, I loved looseleaf paper, I loved writing gigantic numbers down on looseleaf paper– I loved everything about this magical skill of long addition! Having my mom teach me this ninja math maneuver at a relatively young age made me giddily happy. You have no idea. I even asked Santa to bring me pads of looseleaf paper one year for Christmas so I could “do math” on them. Heh. My family has it on tape. And it’s so wonderful to have my inherent geekiness captured on record for posterity… *she says with dripping sarcasm*

I don’t recall when and how it happened, but eventually I developed a highly sensitive superego and equally potent fears of failure and rejection. For whatever reason, a tiny voice inside of me laid the moral groundwork that I would live according to for many, many years: “It’s good to be smart, but it’s imperative not to love being smart in public”. Being unabashedly smart in school meant being branded with the dreaded ‘nerd’, ‘geek’, ‘teacher’s pet’, and ‘goody two-shoes’ monikers, and I desperately wanted to fit in with my not-as-smart, possibly-below-average-intelligence peers. Being openly smart also meant risking failure– e.g. what if the teacher called on me in class, expecting me to know the correct answer, and I didn’t have a clue? Or what if I scored miserably on the Spatial Relations Test and people found out? I would be mortified, shamed, and cornered into a lifetime of irredeemable failure. That was unacceptable to me.

So I toned it down with my love of math. I still excelled in All Things Numbers, but my public attitude towards the subject was much more casual. “Oh, this lousy numbers class again? Whatever.”

It wasn’t until high school that math got the better of me. I took advanced math courses (in the IB program, for those of you geeky enough to know about IB), and Grade 10, 11, 12, and Advanced Calculus math classes were completed by the end of Grade 11. It was all a blur. We studied too many units and problems at the same time, desperately trying to cram all the learning in before the impending International Baccalaureate Math Test, which was standardized throughout the whole world and would be sent to Switzerland to grade. (For real!) Even though I ended up with an artificially high, dramatically inflated average of 98% in high school math, I don’t remember a single thing about it, save for answering “4″ to any question I couldn’t for the life of me tackle. (You’d be surprised at how many times the real answer was 4.) What I did take away from these rigorous, speedy math classes was nothing more than a really bad taste in my mouth and a pressing desire to pursue any career which didn’t require math pre-reqs in university.

Communications Studies, it was! Not one, solitary math class required. Perfect. (So what if it isn’t exactly recognized as a legitimate degree in some cases? Who cares if COMS can’t prepare you for any specific career when you graduate?)

But, you know, math is sort of like the underdog movie character who keeps trying to win the heart of the beautiful heroine. There are many obstacles along the way: heroine falls in love with a different subject in school (Psychology, perhaps?), heroine blatantly tells underdog subject that she never wants to see him again, or heroine prefers more muscular subject types (like rugged Greek Mythology) to the tall and lanky type of the underdog (Geeky Stringbean Math). But Math keeps trying. Then one day, the heroine unexpectedly finds herself in an Accounting position, out of all the possible jobs in the world!, and Math embraces her passionately, saying “I forgive you! I always knew in my heart that we were meant to be together. Stop fighting it– it’s OK to love me back!”

You got me, math.

That’s essentially what happened to me with math. Having no accounting training or experience whatsoever, I landed an honest-to-god Accounting position at my former workplace without actually trying/officially applying (and then I proceeded to just sit in front of my new adding machine blinking like a dumbfounded idiot). I was stunned to be in this position but also determined to WIN AT ACCOUNTING if that’s what needed to happen. My supervisor was wonderful the whole time– patiently explaining the difference between a ‘debit’ and a ‘credit’ to me when I just wanted to talk in terms of ‘pluses’ and ‘minuses’, and spoon-feeding me nuggets of accounting wisdom whenever possible. Her: This is the Cash Receipts spreadsheet. What do you mean, you’ve never used Excel before? Um… [awkward silence]. Me: Uh, is the answer ’4′?

I started out in that job like I was walking on 13 inch high heels– I was shaky and decidedly lacking confidence. However, after more than 2 years of flexing my Accounts Receivable and Payable muscles, I finally settled into a comfortable relationship with math once again. We’re like life partners now– not ultra-passionate like we were in the beginning together (oh, young love!), but content with our relationship and committed to each other.

Enter the Income Taxes for Artists workshop.

I am the Numbers One in my relationship now. I take charge of all the receipts, spreadsheets, banking, income, expenses, and yes, even the dreaded taxes. I’m still not entirely confident with the taxes part (i.e. knowing what can be claimed and how everything must be documented, understanding how I fit in now that I work together with Marty, etc.), but I’m willing to learn. So don’t call me this Sunday afternoon– I’ll be the one with the all-access pass to the “Math! Taxes! Accounting! Hooray!!” concert. I know, I know: I’m totally rubbing it in. Salt. In. Jealous. Wound!!

PS: Because Tori seems to have sprouted a direct neural pathway to my brain and keeps stealing my blog post ideas beating me to the punch, you can read about her own torrid love affair with math here (if you haven’t already). You won’t regret it, I promise.

Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

Marty and I are definitely rich… in spirit, and Marty is most certainly a Famous Artist… In Waiting. “Rich”, “famous”, actually rich, actually famous– same difference. (You might wonder where I fit into our picture of opulence. Well, I am patiently waiting in the sidelines to be both rich- and famous-by-proxy. Marty’s impending wealth and fame are totally the reason why I (eventually) took his last name, after only two and a half years of marriage, at that! It’ll be like being a Mrs. Picasso or a Mrs. Van Gogh, though I officially prefer ‘Ms.’ for the time being. Wealth and fame by proxy! Yep, riding on the coattails of Marty’s success. Patience is a virtue, people, and in this one instance at least, I am thinking ahead.)

Anyway.

Marty and I spent last Saturday on the town, making like we were important and luxurious individuals. We even wore our special wool coats for the occasion, so people could know with a quick glance that we were a Rich and Famous Force To Be Reckoned With! Our plan for the day was to walk down to a waterfront condo show suite, check out the suite in all seriousness, and pretend like it was our house– even going so far as to plan where we would put certain things and confirm with the realtor on duty that the condo complex had bike and kayak storage. (Kayak storage for our future kayak.) I know: we get cooler and cooler with every post you read about us.

This wool coat means business. The hat, maybe not so much.

A short while ago, I wrote about my Dream Home, and I made a point of wrinkling my nose at places without actual land or dirt on the property. I also made it known that I wasn’t about to move somewhere just because I could, especially if the new residence didn’t meet any of my Dream Home criteria. Well, I neglected to consider some exceptions to my rules. Namely, I would easily, unapologetically, and immediately move into a new residence that didn’t at all resemble my mental Dream Home, so long as that residence was won or otherwise given to me for free.

Enter the waterfront condo.

The main living space in the waterfront condo. See the water?

The BC Children’s Hospital has launched its annual Home Lottery, and for the first time in a long time, one of the grand prize homes is actually located in Victoria. (Normally, all of the sprawling estates to be won are situated in a regrettable sub-district of Vancouver, like Surrey, Delta, or Langley. Shudder.) The local grand prize option is a 1500+ sq ft waterfront condo, perched right beside the Selkirk Trestle and located 20 minutes from downtown by foot– 10 minutes by bike or car. Because Marty and I spend half of our lives working right downtown on the Inner Harbour, we decided to check out this waterfront condo and see if it was worth winning.

Well.

The suite itself is gorgeous. It looks directly onto the water, and the entire outside shell of the condo is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. Lots of light, lots of warmth from the sun, and designer drapes and shades on all of the windows to help moderate the bountiful light and heat when needed.

The dining area of the condo-- a step up for people like us who JUST got a tiny dining room table a few months ago. (We used to eat on the couch off our laps like neanderthals.)

The colour palette is totally not my cup of tea– lots of beiges and off-beiges, but that could easily be changed if we won when we win. There are two bedrooms and a small den, which was done up as a ‘wine room’ for the showing but would function as a great office for a real person whose wine collection is lucky to total one bottle at any given point. Both of the bedrooms have en suite bathrooms, and there is plenty of closet and built-in storage space. Huzzah!

Bedroom #1. "Oh, it's off white? I was really hoping for it to be pale beige instead. Nuts!"

Bedroom #2... with a view

Another view of Bedroom #2

Marty and I already decided which of the two bedrooms would function as his studio (#1– the one which opens up to the spacious deck, naturally), and you know I already called dibs on the wine room for my office. We practiced standing in the kitchen and fake-prepping food on the island countertop, we double-checked that the condo complex could accommodate our (future) kayak, and we pre-designated the sinks in the master bathroom– left one for me, right one for Marty. We did a little walk on the paths in front of the condo and picked out the bench where we would sit on future sunny evenings, chatting nonchalantly about our fabulous lives. Our move into this waterfront condo will be seamless, I tell you, because we’ve basically already figured everything out.

View of the deck from Bedroom #1. Deck can also be accessed through the dining room.

My modest office-slash-wine room

Our upscale kitchen with all new appliances. And artichokes in a bowl for good measure.

His 'n' hers. Left sink for the lefty and right sink for the one who writes with the Common (Peasant) Hand.

But here is how ridiculous and non-street smart I am: I was carefully planning out where our giant, industrial, non-glamorous utility shelves would go in the otherwise-upscale condo so we could continue storing all of our endless Harbour supplies at home and making them easily accessible for our work in the summers. Then Marty reminded me that this grand prize included the fully-furnished condo, a 2011 Mini Cooper convertible, a 7-day trip for two to London, and oh yeah: $900,000 cash. We wouldn’t need to slave away at the Harbour anymore in the summer with that kind of cash, so there would no longer be a need for the ugly utility shelves, especially right in our living space! It hadn’t even crossed my mind. Heh.

So yes, even though about 85% of the furnishings and decor in this waterfront condo are not to my bold and colourful taste, I would move there tomorrow, without hesitation, if I won the BC Children’s Hospital Lottery. I wouldn’t even take the lump sum cash payout option– I’d just move in there and redecorate it in my own time. In my Mini Convertible. With my $900K cash. Patience is a virtue, people, and I can always dream!

Thrift Score Wednesdays: Purple Rain

Last night when I retired to my bedroom, I fully intended to stage a spring time photo shoot the next morning, featuring the already-emerging cherry blossoms in Victoria and some of my more delicate thrifted dresses. Flowers and dresses: what could be more feminine? But then I woke up and it looked like this outside:

Touché, grafitti sticker, touché

And the poor cherry blossoms looked like this:

That's what you get for blossoming in February... in Canada. Tsk, tsk, cherry blossoms

Whoa. Real Winter in Victoria is an exceptionally rare occurrence, especially towards the end of February, when the cherry blossoms, tulips, daffodils, and crocuses are usually out in full, fragrant splendor. People move here specifically to bask in a moderate, snow-free Canadian climate (which is practically an oxymoron), so a giant dump of the white stuff in the middle of pre-spring naturally threw the city’s equilibrium way out of balance. Schools and banks were promptly closed. My Zumba class was cancelled, much to my dismay. The police department got on the radio and politely asked all motorists to please stay at home. And my best-laid plans to star in my own Sears catalogue-esque photo shoot were quickly put to rest. Next Wednesday, perhaps?

Evil snow monster

I grew up in Calgary, Alberta– where winter, way-below-freezing temperatures, and snow are definitely not news– but still. Since moving to Victoria, I’ve come to expect spring in late February/early March at the latest like the rest of the population here. A moderate climate is essentially our right on the West Coast, so what exactly was Mother Nature thinking when she made it snow (a lot!) here?

Anyway. I did brave the cold temperatures and scattered flurries to walk to the Y, where I learned that the whole reason for living going there in the first place– Zumba!– had been cancelled. Bah. Wet pant hems for nothing! I managed 30 half-hearted minutes on the elliptical machine (in the company of the rest of my disappointed Zumba classmates), then I came home and took some cheap, indoor, totally unstaged/un-fun shots of my most recent thrift score: Purple. Faux-snake skin. Heeled. Boots!

So purple! And so majestic against the regal backdrop of our nasty apartment carpet.

You heard me correctly! Purple! Faux-snake skin! Heeled! Boots!

I know you’re probably thinking to yourself: “God, who in their right mind would even contemplate buying purple, faux-snake skin, heeled boots, let alone spend actual dollars on them?” And you would be right. I never fancied myself the proud owner of faux-snake skin anything, and I certainly never expected to fall victim to the siren song of these particular boots at the local Women In Need store. But I did.

To answer your question: Yes, I'm just sitting on my living room carpet in sweatpants and taking photos of my purple boots without actually standing in them. Just a regular Wednesday afternoon...

And come on. They were only $13 and, more importantly, they were in my impossible shoe size! (SIZE 10- RAWR!!!) Clearly, the purchase was meant to be. Despite their tacky, cheap hooker undertones, these boots are full of WIN. Admit it: you’d love to strut your stuff in these babies, turning heads along the way (and hopefully for all the right reasons)! I can’t wait to dress these puppies up with an understated dark grey skirt and modest blouse, but I’ll definitely be waiting until the snow melts for that. Something tells me these boots don’t have the greatest of grips…

The Name Game

I can’t believe almost a week has elapsed since my last post! I guess I was just so busy pretending to be being fabulous over the weekend that there was no time left over to chronicle my exciting adventures– which may or may not have included accidentally starving my dear husband on an All-Vegetables, All-The-Time diet. Oops! (My intentions were good, but apparently even delicious salads can be nearly fatal. Luckily, Marty survived.)

Anyway, the enthralling post about our Saturday of pretending to be rich will have to wait. Today’s post is all about our day of almost being famous.

As many of you know (thanks to my non-stop tendency to fawn over Marty like I’m the president of his Teenage Fan Club or something, which obviously I totally am): my dearest husband is a Famous Artist In Waiting. He possesses that rare blend of raw talent and creative innovation that a lot of wannabe artists are lacking, and there is no doubt in my mind that one day in the future, art history students everywhere will be forced to learn about his paintings for college credit. (I can’t wait!) Indeed, Marty’s artwork is the total package.

Colour study in progress

To help prepare us for Marty’s inevitable notoriety (of the good kind), I have taken the liberty of inventing a new name for his style of artwork and also naming his general painting ‘periods’ in advance. It’s best to be prepared and to draft our own art history text book, no? I’ve also undertaken the massive project of sorting, grouping, and organizing Marty’s stacks of drawings and colour studies for posterity. What used to be a pile of sketchbooks and pen and ink drawings in the corner of a room is now an alphabetized set of 6 binders. Each drawing has been paired with its reference photograph(s) and colour study in a separate plastic sleeve, and any particular sketch can now be found as easily as A-B-C. (Yes, I am Type A like that. And PS– Dear A & E Biography: We’re ready when you are.)

Unfortunately, despite my fervent belief in What Will Be, we’re still technically at the Small Potatoes stage in Marty’s art career. Yes, he gets media coverage quite frequently here in Victoria, and his commissioned paintings are booked years in advance (not to mention that both of us can live comfortably off his earnings), but the Museum of Modern Art isn’t exactly banging on our door just yet, and most people would be hard pressed to identify his artwork by name.  (‘Hey! It’s That Guy!‘ doesn’t count.)

Part of the problem is our own last name. Naturally, it’s difficult to be identified by name when nobody has the foggiest idea of how to pronounce it. You know, when we’re in the Czech Republic, people greet us easily and fluidly as though they are addressing “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson”. No big deal. It’s a fairly common last name back in Marty’s mother country. However, as soon as we are on this side of the pond, we get any and all variations on the theme.

I’ve gotten so used to jumping in and offering the correct pronunciation in advance, when people inevitably pause before saying our last name (because I’m helpful like that). I’m also used to correcting pronunciation and to pretending that a butchered attempt at pronunciation never happened, “Yes, I’m Mrs. Ma-Chia-Pet!” If Marty were a pro hockey player, everyone (at least here in Canada, where hockey is a religion) would know how to say our last name correctly. After all, that’s how we all know that “Jagr” is pronounced with a ‘y’, not a ‘j’, and “Hasek” is actually said “Hasheck”. Thank you, NHL, for rendering Eastern-Bloc last names simple to pronounce.

Alas.

Because Marty is not in the NHL (at least not to my knowledge), I just solider along and take solace in the fact that some day, everyone will know about him: the great Czech Canadian artist. It’s not a question of if, but when.

The local arts columnist here in town recently took name butchering to new heights. He named Marty’s painting as “Best in Show” for the LOOK 2011 Regional Arts Exhibition in his oft-consulted column, which was great and appreciated and also made for excellent publicity. However. Instead of listing the painting as “Johnson Street Bridge by Martin M.”, the article instead credited a mysterious “Michael MacHacek” for the prize-winning artwork. Twice. Because we are apparently Scottish now, from the proud Scottish ‘MacHacek’ clan… not quite MacDonald or MacDougall, but Scottish nonetheless.

OK.

We get last name butchering all the time. But Michael?! First name butchering?! Sigh. I didn’t realize that “Martin” was such a slippery, difficult-to-remember and even-more-difficult-to-spell name. And I keep forgetting that “Michael” is a common, well-known nickname for “Martin”. As the Czechs would say in this situation: Ach jo!

What would you do in a situation like this? Would you write in to correct the author, using a diva-like Mariah Carey tone: Don’t you know who I am? Would you demand a reprint? Would you shrug it off, just like you shrug off every other butchering, and simply be grateful for the publicity? Would you use a combination of tactics (“Gee, thanks!” + passive aggressive “PS: My name is actually spelled like this:”)? Or would you send a card to the well-known columnist, whose first name happens to be Robert, and begin with the salutation “Dear Richard”?