Making Merry For Chickens and Myself

The past couple of days I have been on a giddy high.  It's very much like being drunk, but I've only had one beer over the past 48 hours.  Sometimes I worry that when I get like this, I'm showing some latent tendencies toward bipolarism (if I'm making up a word, so be it).  I recognize it as a sort of mania--I'm squeeing happy, and forget half of what happened during these times of smiles and giggles.  I know that it probably is not the healthiest to swing between days like this, and all the other days when I am apathetic and making love to the couch.  However, dammit if I don't like these excessively joyful times.

Not that all this is pure brain chemistry over-firing--really good stuff has been happening. Like Chicken Day!  Presents were exchanged, games were played.  I really couldn't have had a better day.  I even snuck in a nap.  Sure, I spent quite some time on my hands and knees scrubbing down the bathroom, but I made sure to reward myself by playing Words With Friends and Angry Birds every few minutes--scrub three tiles, play a game!  The evening was a raging success, and I thank all of you who came and made merry with me.  R (or is it B?) played a beautiful Chicken Day offering on The Boy's wonky piano.  She has such a beautiful voice, and even though her brain was drowning in tequila, she still did an amazing job.  D&T made a surprise late showing, which finished out the night nicely.  My friends are such amazing people--they even seem to accept me as I am when I pull out my Chariots of Fire soundtrack and proceed to fake conduct it with glee. 

For everyone who wished me a Happy Chicken Day, thank you for making this bittersweet time after Whoopis' death so meaningful to me.  I love all of you.

Then today.  Oh man.  I don't even know how today ended up as it did.  I woke up feeling completely hungover (thanks allergies), and all wracked with nerves regarding the award reception I had to attend for my mosaic winning first place.  I had no idea what to expect, and the best I could do was don my party dress (after brushing some pool-hall chalk off of it), take a Klonopin, and try not to make an utter fool of myself.

I cannot promise that I didn't totally make a fool of myself, but something entirely surprising happened.  A very nice gentleman who just happened to be doing some business on the property of the museum, had wandered in to just to check out what was happening, asked if I would be willing to sell my mosaic (I had indicated that it wasn't for sale--more because I didn't really consider anyone would want it versus me wanting to keep it for myself).  I didn't exactly handle all of it gracefully, but I am sincerely flattered.  I've spent years giving my mosaics away, and not really taking people seriously who called me an artist, a good artist.  My natural inclinations are to think less of myself, and my abilities.  I'm completely self-taught, and therefore distrust that I am truly good.  It's something I fuck around with, a hobby, because really, what else could it be? 

The Boy is an amazing artist, who has made a career for himself doing everything he loves.  Perhaps I never imagined the same could happen for me.  Not that I think I can quit my job and become this full-time glass mosaicer.  Yet, I feel it means I should take myself more seriously, and make myself get out in that garage and do more than one major mosaic a year.  Perhaps I should set some goals.  Stop being such a slacker, a mope-about who thinks she has a bad lot in life.  I don't really.  It's just so rarely that I am up here on top to see how I am when I am down below. 

I sold a mosaic to a stranger today.  It was magnificent.  I then took a very long nap.