Lo, there came upon the family two new members, and they were good

ANNOUNCEMENT:

No, she's not mine. I WISH. This here is Madeleine, my niece!

My brother James is marrying the sweet, lovely, incredibly brave (sorry, James) Gillian, who comes complete with BABY. That's what we call "value added."

I have no pictures of Gillian because when I met the baby I was too busy 1) adoring her and 2) trying not to eat her whole. You'll have to take my word for it when I tell you they are an attractive couple.

And oh my word. THIS BABY GIRL. Babies are even better when they're not yours. 

I say unto thee: I bring you tidings of great joy, and also hook a baby up with some victuals, wilt thou?

Oh, Maddy. I wilt. I WILT.

On to more important matters

The response to The Practice of Writing has been amazing, and it's filling up fast. If you're interested, sign up!

And now, my cat.

If you've been here before, you remember the obese cat who's been on a diet for forever. Say hello, Izzy.

Grrrhrrrrrrr.

That picture was taken after many, many months of feeding her one (1) 5.5 ounce can of wet food a day. No treats, no anything else. Just that one can. She wasn't losing any weight. According to the instructions on the can, we were feeding her only a tiny fraction of what she should be fed, and we were killing her, BUY MORE CANS. (Public Service Announcement: never follow the portion advice offered by the pet food manufacturer. If I followed the instructions, I would be feeding her three or four cans of food a day, and she would be larger than me.) I was perplexed.

Then I caught her eating the dog's food. And it all became clear. Gnaw loudly at the dog's kibble when I'm not there, shame on you. Gnaw loudly when I'm in the next room, I'm going to do something about it. You should have thought that through, kitty cat.

Since that day, I put the dog's food out of reach when we leave the house. (I would say this punishes Charlie, only he never eats when we're not there, because when we're not around there's no reason for him to eat or drink or endure wakefulness, so he hibernates until we return and he can live again.) And now… we're seeing progress, people. Significant progress.

She weighed around 19 pounds six months ago, and today she is a svelte 16 pounds. (We're using our home scale, which is probably not the most accurate, but what can you do? Go to the vet every month? I am not composed of money! I am made of person!) When you hold her on her back (the only way she will endure being held, because she's insane) she doesn't wheeze from the fat compressing her lungs. Her fur is considerably less oily and horrifying, and I suspect she is able to clean more of herself.

Here is Izzy today:

I'm a fashion model!

Uh. Is it me, or does she look bigger than before in this picture?

Before:

Blorp.

After:

Whee!

I'm going to say it's the angle. Anyway, there's not much more we could be doing. We could not possibly feed her less. She already spends most of her day demanding food and imagining consuming our entrails. (I think.)

You are smarter than you look, human.

Warning: bag will contain body parts

I signed up for a figure drawing class, which begins this weekend. I like drawing the peoples but sometimes I put together their parts wrongish and render 'em all weird. And so: learning.

In taking this class I hope to overcome the trauma of my first and only other figure drawing class, which I took in seventh grade. I won an art prize, and the award was an afternoon workshop at the local college. They didn't call it "figure drawing," they called it "life drawing," so I, a twelve-year-old, naturally assumed they were going to put out a vase of lilies or a plate of fruit. Fruit! Flowers! Life!

There were no flowers, but they put out a fruit plate, all right. Fruit basket? What's the euphemism for man parts? Anyway. Twelve-year-old me walked into a class filled with sophisticated college kids and was confronted with her first naked guy. It was not how she dreamed it would happen, if ever she dreamed such things.

I soldiered through the class, but I don't remember a second of it. I only know I stayed because I would have been too scared to leave, knocking over my easel in the process, somehow colliding with the model in front of everyone, etc. I'm sure I behaved in a polite and professional and terrified manner as I tried to make sense of the shadows and contours I was recreating on my newsprint pad.

Fortunately I am now fully grown, and willing to draw any and all private parts that might be on display, as far as a class setting is concerned. (The teacher will no doubt wonder why I disregarded the rest of the body, but never mind.) As naked people fail to worry me, I've been preoccupied with how I was going to tote the materials required for the class-- materials that include include the largest sketch pad ever in the universe. The class is an hour commute and a couple of subway lines from my home. A plastic bag wouldn't cut it for this monster. I like to worry about things, apparently. But it turns out that of course there are tote bags you can buy for even the largest of sketch pads. At any price point. Of course.

I ordered the low-to-mid-range one, and this is the box it came in today. I got worried again.

Henry asked, "What's in that?" and I said, "My new purse!" He didn't seem surprised.

Compared to the giant box, however, the bag is not horrifyingly large. Above the bag sits my annoyed cat. Whenever a box arrives, she expects to sit in it. Why can't she SIT IN THIS GODDAMN THING.

(As you can see, her diet is going well, coughcough throatclearing.)

More soon, possibly with artistic nudes, but I can't promise they'll be tasteful.

Eighth grade all the way to senior year: in which I discover makeup and use a whole lot of it

It's my last post for the DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge! DONATE!

Thank you. Now. Here I am in eighth grade.

Derp.

But look how much happier I am! This was undoubtedly due to my brand-new nephew, who I got to see pretty much every day. He is now 28. I am crazy old.

And now…ninth grade.

Dorp.

Okay. First of all, the clothing. Is that a mock turtleneck? How dare I. Secondly, there is a shadow falling across my face that's giving me a unibrow appearance, which I assure you I did not have. That is a mock unibrow. Still, though, it's not good.

Eighth grade was less traumatic than seventh, and ninth was easier still. Tenth and eleventh were socially more exciting, and then things took a steep downturn (in every way) in twelfth grade.

Hello. I am wearing four shades of eyeshadow. My hair has been lovingly blown dry, strand by strand. Why yes, this is my mother's sweater from Ann Taylor. And my mother's necklace! I want nothing more than to look like a guidance counselor.

I look like I have it together, don't I? And yet I was an emotional mess, dabbling with self-harm, panic-attacking like an old pro, screwing up academically, and engaging in disciplinary shenanigans all the damn time. No one believes that I got suspended from school, but oh, it happened. (Okay, it was in-school suspension. BUT STILL.)

I was pulled, if not from the brink, than from some less fortunate conclusion to my school years by an assortment of dedicated, amazing teachers: teachers who listened to my dumb problems; who pushed me to work; who suggested I pursue writing and music; who yelled at me when yelling was called for. My parents had to love me, I thought, so I could discount their opinions, but having these unrelated-to-me adults take an interest got my attention. I was pretty lost for a while, there. I don't know where I'd be without them.

The teachers listed on DonorsChoose can and do change lives, and they can make even more of a difference with a little help. If you've enjoyed this series at all, please donate. It doesn't have to be a lot! Remember, all your donations will be matched. The matching offer is only good until the 26th, so hurry. Thanks.