Ooooooo-kay. I’m going to tell this story. If you like it, feel free to click the little “Like” thingy and tell me how funny and subversive and funny I am. If you don’t like it, blame Mama. It was her idea that I should post this. (The outrage!) 😉
So, every year round about March the local Art Center hosts a big community event during which they open their doors and let everyone in for free. Part of the celebration includes the creation of a “community quilt”. This means that they hand strips of cloth out to people who then weave them in and out of fences and what not along with everyone else, and the PR people call it a quilt.
I like the Art Center, and I like taking my kids to the Art Center, BUT I like taking my kids to the Art Center for FREE most of all. A couple of years ago I took the family over there, and we all got our strips of cloth and dutifully tramped outside to add to the quilt. I’m standing there watching the kids weave theirs, and I thought to myself, “A real community quilt would contain personal items, not just identical pieces of cloth the museum handed out.” So I reached into my purse and pulled out a tampon (it was still sealed, you sickos) and wove it into the quilt. I mean, you can’t get too much more personal than that, right?
My son was… what’s the word? Seriously, I can’t think of the stupid word. It’s more than embarrassed but not exactly humiliated… Ah, well. You get the idea. My husband thought it was funny. Morrigan was too little to know what the hell had just happened, and I was laughing SO hard the tears were just streaming down my face.
Now, let’s cut to April. I love April Fool’s Day. This is likely because I rarely get fooled, but I am SO good at fooling others. It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun if it was the other way round.
At the time I was working in the Marketing Department of a large company. I downloaded the City’s logo and used it to create letterhead and an envelope. I put a stamp on the envelope and made it look as if it had been postmarked. I then wrote myself a very official sounding letter from the City in which I told myself that I had been videotaped outside the Arts Center “vandalizing City property” and that I was expected in court on such and such a date. I sealed the envelope and ripped it open. I called home.
“Gringa? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Well, no. Not nothing. We’ll talk about it when I get home, OK?”
I went home. I tried to make myself cry, but that didn’t happen. I did manage to look upset and NOT laugh. I explained my “predicament” and apologized profusely to my family. They were extremely indignant on my behalf. Phrases like, “Who are THEY to say it isn’t art?” were being thrown about. It was all rather touching.
Until I laughed.