Bird Ball & Chain

While I was in Spain I started sketching. Art has always been a friend of mine. Many sketchbooks have been filled over the years with drawings, paintings and collages of ideas, inspirations and memories.

I had this idea of taking my sketchbook along with me to Spain but there was only a few times that I really found myself at ease enough to sit down with paper and stylus in hand to draw.

I was in our apartment in Vitoria wrestling with the children over their homeschooling and had found myself nearly tied to the sofa in our little living room. Trying to corral the children into a conducive and productive state of learning took a lot of supervision. I felt convicted if I took off for the day or left them to their own devices for hours at a time (although one afternoon in a fit of rage I decided better to leave them then to murder them). Many hours I would stay home either doing mundane chores, reading one of the few English tomes in the Vitoria library ('Room' still stays with me---brrr!) or sketching.

Our closest art supply store was what we called 'the Chinese store'-Carrefours. There you could find an assortment of whatever household goods you required. But it was also where I found basic art supplies to replenish my stock. Cheap pencils wrapped in a heavy plastic covering that refused to cut in the sharpener. Novelty erasers that did little more than merely smear the paper.

But I was able to get some creativity down on paper. And what began as simple little drawings in the midst of a weary winter season in my life turned into something kind of exciting.

Welcome to Bird Ball & Chain. 

{ I was able to turn my fashion design/illustration bent into something i believe to be rather empowering...Women and guns.
Not just any gun. A rifle.
In most cases a stylized .22 rifle. I chose this particular armament because I have shot a .22 rifle. It is the only gun I have ever fired, but I am almost certain it will not be the last gun I fire.

Women who are not afraid of fire arms are the inspiration. These shirts aren't for women who are consumed with a fear of self-defense or those that feel unhinged by the thought of a firearm close by. This sort of perceived nonchalance from my artwork comes from education and confidence, and my hope is that all women experience the confidence that arises from handling a firearm. Safely and securely. And yes, trust that the safety is 'on' in these depictions ;)  }

Why a rifle? Well simple.

 I give you Joe Biden.

 “If you want to protect yourself, get a double-barrel shotgun,” Biden said in an interview with Parents Magazine back in February. “You don’t need an AR-15. It’s harder to aim, it’s harder to use, and in fact, you don’t need 30 rounds to protect yourself. Buy a shotgun. Buy a shotgun.”

I am not a strong believer in pistols, but living in Colorado you can be certain many Coloradoans do not go camping without one.  Am reminded of an incident in the winter of 2007, when we were up in the canyon  looking for Christmas trees to cut. Doe went scrambling over a rock ledge, came around the side of it and stumbled straight into a literal lion's den. While not proven a mountain lion, her white face and taut expression as she ran towards us said it all. It was a large foreign looking animal with tufted ears and spots and golden heavily lined eyes. She was truly frightened- not to say we would have obliterated this animal into the afterlife had we seen it firsthand-not even. But when you are truly invading a wild animal's territory it's never a bad thing to come prepared to defend yourself. Because an animal caught off guard will not hesitate to defend itself.

Doe has handled many a rifle and a firearm in her childhood, and it's with this confidence that she models Bird Ball & Chain.

Moll

Satine

Gretchen

Coralee

Monroe

Email me at: kimolsen510@gmail.com if you are interested in purchasing one. Or just leave a Comment and let me know what you think.

If you're interested: All sizes for Women (and Men!) from S-XL are available. $18 includes S&H. Please give two weeks' for order and shipment.

 I am in the process of opening an Etsy shop, but since Doe posted a picture of her wearing one on her Instagram we have been flooded with orders. I thought I would give my loyal bloggers the opportunity to purchase them here as well.

T-shirts are excellent quality cotton and are being screen-printed by a local shop Wounded Heart Press.
(www.woundedheartpress.com).

“The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles.”

                                                                                                                      -Jeff Cooper, The Art of the Rifle  

The 22-year-old me

Today I was running behind the 22-year old me.

I was slavering away on the treadmill and a tall blonde woman got on the stairclimber in front of me. 5'10, 125 lbs, cute as a button. She was accompanied by her boyfriend/bodyguard Manti Te'o (kidding...).

I at first was horribly deeply depressed.
Why even bother.
 Just step off and go buy yourself a mocha latte. It's over for you.
When there are such beautiful women trolling the earth, why even bother to try and maintain any semblance of self-esteem. No more boys in college following me back to my dorm engaging in conversation. No more strange men at my workplace whispering promises.
Gone are the introductory phone calls or invitations to go out to a movie. The old grey mare just aint what she used to be ;)

 And unless I garnered a rather serious eating disorder or a severe case of food poisoning, I would never reach that number on the scale ever again.

 I asked myself, what is ahead of this young woman? Will she marry the man that she is chatting with next to her on the machine? What is her major?  What is in store for her? And I began to wish her well.

As the miles start rolling under my feet, I started reeling in all of the things I've seen in 22 years since I was 22. And instead of mourning the many years that separate the two of us, I started feeling comforted. I realized that I have seen-and survived-a lot. Only to be on the other side of it and realize the glory of it all.


I saw a plane crash into a building not once but twice. I saw riots, floods, hurricanes, births and deaths. I've pulled a child outside of myself and shut the eyes of a dead mother. I have loved one man and watched him transform into a man of integrity, priceless value and a paragon of fatherhood. I've seen in stunning speed three children grow and stretch and become three incredibly spectacular individuals.

I've danced on the beaches in Mexico, ran nekked across a few lawns, been caught en flagrante delicto 
in a hotel in France and had to shout at a maid to 'partir s'il vous plait' as she came in to service the room. I've cried at a few weddings, leaked breastmilk through a maid of honor dress, ate an octopus at a restaurant at 12 am in Spain, swum drunkenly in a pool at a wedding reception in a wool dress... only to drip pool water through the lobby as we headed out to the car. Spelunked through a mile and half of caves in Gibraltar, woken up every three hours to hook myself up to a breast pump for a baby in the NICU, slept on a hospital bed and taken not a few children to the ER. I've hugged my husband at the news of his mother's illness, cried at the news of a friend's divorce and another's cancer diagnosis. I've watched my mother being driven away in a hearse, my lover walk the line at University, gotten the phone calls at 3 am that someone needs help. Argued with other mothers, losing a few friends in the process, and committed myself to believing someone to only be completely and utterly fooled.

As I was running I saw out of the corner of my eye a man get on the treadmill next to me. Etiquette would demand one not glance over, or turn to meet said person eye to eye. No the parables of treadmill say you need to focus on the task at hand, if for no other reason than to assure that you don't totally trip and brain yourself on the machine. He gets on the machine and starts punching the speed button. Faster faster faster. Dang, I thought, this guy is going at a pretty good clip. He had good arms and from what I could sense strong legs, seeing as he is speedily got up to my mileage and was running alongside at a fast rate. I was proud that I was able to 'keep up' with someone as young as him, and that I wasn't starting to fade or lose stamina. After all of these years, maybe I could still keep up with the youngster...

22 year old me gets off the stairclimber. I'm only 20 minutes into my run. Feeling a little arrogant that I was able to work out longer than 22 year old me. The wrinkles, bags, age spots belie the fact that I am more capable to run distance than I was at 22. I got this.

My neighbor runs another 10 minutes or so, and stops his machine. Steps off and walks over to towel shelf. Glancing over I notice.
Neighbor is balding with grey hair and skinny pale age-spotted gams.
And as if on cue this song came up on my player....



And the lyrics slung home

A live wire
Babe you're a beginner but just watch
that lady Go
shes on fire 
cause dancin' gets her Higher than anything else she knows

And I smiled that a song by Van Halen could crystallize exactly what I was thinking about my 3.5 miles on the treadmill.

Just watch that Lady go

And I laughed at what was ahead for the next 22....

Atelophobia

I may not have gotten her the right swimcap.
She may not have the nicest cleats.
Or the cutest socks.
She might not get on the 'best' team.
He may wear his shoes down to the tread.
He might not ever run a winning time. Or shoot the winning shot.
She might buy all her clothes-second hand.
Her car might not be brand-new.
The rust on it may be getting larger.
We might not have the nicest house.
We might not have the cleanest house.
We don't have the most well-behaved animals.
We don't buy purebreds.
I can't get certain smells out of my carpet.
Our fish die and no one notices until we see a skeleton in the tank.
I drive down the street with a roll of TP stuck in the door frame and am flummoxed as to who unspooled the TP down the street.
My husband doesn't keep the lawn mowed nicely enough.
But we have our health.
We have our family.
We have our grandparents.
We have Spain. (:')  )
We have our sense of humor.
We have enough.

This Boy's Summer Life

                                       Snapshot into the life of a twelve-year old Tank.

With friends like these, who needs an NSA?

"Susan Rice is a fierce champion of human dignity"---Barack Obama.

If championing human dignity means lying about a terrorist attack,
belittling an entire religion by lying and claiming they were upset by a video,
lying to four military and government personnel's grieving families,
 lying on five separate morning shows about the reasoning behind the attack and never reneging on that falsehood on self-same five morning news programs,
accepting an offer to be NSA with the understanding that your appointment is unwelcome by a large proportion of military personnel and a divided nation....
No, Ms Rice the dignified person would not accept the appointment of NSA. She would bow out gracefully and go on as many news programs as possible and admit she was fed information from a misguided administration. And admit that her ability to regurgitate lies so readily for the Obama Administration does nothing but put our National Security at risk. She would also admit that having her female counterpart, HR Clinton, take all of the blame on Benghazi on her own shoulders and with that responsibility claim "what difference does it make?" is an embarassment to her gender and should be wary about being female under the Obama Administration.
As NSA Susan Rice should be aware that newsmedia is 24 hours now. Nothing is hidden. And the truth will eventually come out....
CNN obtains emails showing evidence that the White House knew of extremist claims in Benghazi attack
From CNN:
Two hours after the attack on the U.S. consulate in Benghazi, the White House, the State Department and the FBI were told that an Islamist group had claimed credit, government e-mails obtained by CNN show.
One of the e-mails - sent from a State Department address to various government agencies - specifically identifies Ansar al-Sharia as claiming responsibility for the attack on its Facebook page and on Twitter.
The e-mails raise further questions about the seeming confusion on the part of the Obama administration to determine the nature of the September attack and those who planned it.

The question is do we want a National Security Advisor who does nothing but repeat what she is told to say? Or, do we want an NSA who is well-versed in international political climates and can state unequivocally sans prompter what is going on in the world around her?

Nutcracker Suite

To the neighbor whose lawn my cat desecrated while we were walking tonight....I am very sorry.

My cat never poops anywhere except in his litter box.

 I am aware now of the new reality, that instead of having a dog who never poops anywhere except her yard we have a large cat who likes to poop in others' yards. Yes, of course, I agree we need to start carrying grocery sacks to clean up after our cat. Yes, that would be the self-same cat who goes on walks with us each night.

I am sorry that we failed to carry a grocery sack with us this evening and believe me, I'm sorry I saw you go into your house in what I estimated was anger.
I'm sorry that I rang the bell and asked stupidly if you by chance had a bag we could use to clean up Pam's mess.
I'm sorry you took that tone with me.
I'm sorry you got upset.
I'm sorry that your nose is that color, almost an eggplant color, which comes from either too many late winter days on the slopes or too many late winter nights in the pub.

I'm sorry you had a Jesus fish nailed into the concrete next to your garage door.
That more than anything is what I most regret most of all.

No need to get so fierce, dude. It was an honest mistake. I had every intention of cleaning up after my cat.

I'm sorry that the poop was sort of runny.

You see, we've never had a cat before who follows us around the block. Crossing busy streets, scratching on the window at the local gas station two blocks away because he sees us in there and he wants to come in with our son. I think it's because we spent the first few weeks of his life believing he was a girl (hence his name: Pam). And like the Johnny Cash song, quite possibly naming a boy a girl's name can do a number on the male psyche. Make him feel insecure. Make him want to mark his territory. Makes him want to be with his people and see if we pick up another twee fat tomcat and turn him into another Sue or Harriet or Jane.

The adventures of pet ownership never seem to stop bringing people together. Or tearing neighborhoods apart. I have to walk by your house every day as we go to the neighborhood pool this summer. Let's not be mean to each other.

I'll be the bigger person, walk all the way back to my house and carry a grocery sack back, scraping the cat fecal matter off the lawn and walk back with said bag, crap in situ.

I guess it's better than me doing this:

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies. 

All in all, lesson learned. Time to either start locking up the cats before nightly walk sessions, bringing bags for excrement with us, or starting dragging the cats on a leash. 

Suffice to say, after seeing what Pam unloaded on this man's lawn, I was duly impressed and grateful that this was not in their litter box at home.

Mercies abound.

Freedom is Priceless

But send the tab to the old master.

Letters of Note: To My Old Master