What a Shame: I Can't Get No Satisfaction

The last art class I took was in eighth grade. I loved Mrs. Parr, the tightly-controlled, but quiet young art teacher. She assigned us to draw an item encased in a bottle. I drew a man upside down, stuck in the bottle. I adored watercolor painting and still have the fruit bowl "still life" I painted. My creative-souled father seemed to have passed his artistic gene to me.

And yet, the second I entered the ninth grade, I avoided all art classes. I did sign up for chorus, which was an 80-voice choir. I sat in the middle, between the sopranos and altos and, although I considered my voice unworthy of singing solos, I sang in tune and enjoyed the respite from academics. Until, of course, the choir teacher gave me a B+ for my final grade and destroyed my perfect grade point average. (Yes, I'm still bitter.)

That only proved my point. Avoid subjects graded subjectively. Art? No. Music? Never. Not if I can't guarantee the outcome.

I thought of this again last night when I watched the Seattle Seahawks lose the Super Bowl. I never realized before how the subjective opinion of referees could affect a game. I mean, certainly, I've seen games in which bad calls were made, but none so heartbreaking (to a Seattle fan) as the bad calls which changed the outcome of the game yesterday.

My husband says winners never make excuses for their losses. I placed my right hand on my forehead, giving the universally recognized sign for "LOSER" and said, "THAT'S WHY I'M A LOSER!" I couldn't be as gracious as the Seahawks players who were being interviewed after the show. And then I thought of how much I loved art and music and why I avoided those subjects in favor of academics, where 2 + 2 always equals 4.

Even this guy thought the officiating crew made errors. I wish I had live-blogged the whole Super Bowl, but then again, I don't want French Onion dip on my keyboard. And I'm rarely a sports fan. I'd rather read.

After the half-time show, I said to my husband (who was playing Yahtzee with the 3-year old in the kitchen), "That was the most boring half-time show ever!" And he said, "That's exactly what the producers wanted you to say!" (Because, really, those of us unfortunate enough to have glimpsed Janet Jackson's bejeweled mammary region prefer being bored during half-time and who better to bore us than a guy old enough to be my dad? Please, Mick, don't reveal your flappy triceps again!)

In other news, I'm squinting, blinded by the sudden appearance of the sun. We resist the urge to fling off our long sleeves and dive directly into the Puget Sound as it is still mighty chilly here. Sunshine awakens the gardener in me. I want to put the sunroof in my convertible down and feel the wind tangle my hair as I motor over sunlit country road, only I don't have a convertible or a sunroof.

Soon, though, I'm heading into the muddy back yard to cut down last year's perennial daisies. Hope springs eternal as the daffodils remind us by peeking out of the sodden dirt of the flowerbeds.