All posts by Deborah Davis

Some of my very first memories are those of being taught how to draw as a two-year-old. It's been a recurring thing ever since! I find there are more ideas in a day than there are minutes to explore them all, a happy conundrum, if ever. You'll find that I'm more curious than most, always exploring any number of things from the frivolous to the complex. I don't believe in boredom. Rather, varying levels of interest. I like helping people. And when that help intertwines with the chance to use design, illustration and perhaps a little paint, it's a fine day!


Tomorrow- sportin’ the green! Maybe not as much as that time I played an alien android by the name of Largos, but green, all the same.


In other green, greetings and salutations from my bagged banana. It soon met with some peanut butter and oats, welcoming a quickly mashed death as cinnamon sprinkled on.

Nearly burnt my hand off last week. Family was in town visiting from Alaska and I was pulling together the final components for our meal together, when I grabbed the just-from-the-oven pan I’d briefly sat on the counter, with my bare hand. Time slooooooowed dooooown and I had what felt like a kajillion thoughts while still holding onto that sucker.

I have so many oven mitts and pot holders, did they not foresee this event?
This is my work hand.
Why am I not ambidextrous?
I should become ambidextrous.
I am ambidextrous.
When I’m utterly completely and totally in the zone of drawing or painting and have some highly important teeny tiny addition to make, I challenge myself to do it with the other hand, and end up doing so correctly without fail every time.
*knocks on all the wood, but with the other hand, no, not that one*
This reminds me of that game I used to play when I was server.
Hot plates ready to deliver to a table.
Too hot, no tray, held with just my hands.
I’ve established eye contact with the customer, practically breathing on them in proximity.
Nearly screaming internally.
I’m gonna drop this thing.
Fighting reflexes, holding steady.
Glancing up at my reflection in the mirrored glass.
Look at that, I’m smiling, a sneaky minx.
And release, they’re none the wiser.
And I’m a tad stronger in some way, I imagine.
No calluses to boot.

Snapping back to the here and now, did my skin just sear itself to the metal?
Feels like I gotta shake this thing off versus just let go.
*shakes free*
The pan adds insult to injury by bouncing off the dishwasher and banging into my also bare ankle on the way down. I immediately begin running my hand under cold water and did so for about five minutes until the pain of the cold seemed far more than any pain from the hot. Maybe all those thoughts happened after I dropped it, I don’t know. I DO know, that despite occasionally pulling similar bonehead moves, but with not nearly as much skin to hot hot hot metal contact, I’ve inevitably had reddened skin and that kinda almost itchy warm pain that accompanies burns, if not more damage, for days afterwards no matter how long I ran my hand under cold water. I turned off the tap and looked down to find no burnt redness, just cold redness. No pain either. A bit later, nothing on both accounts. And the next day till this, nuttin’. Hooray for imperviousness that night.

Some things I gotta experience in the flesh to believe. ♦

Gettin’ the Job Done

Went to see Hamilton a coupla weeks back or so. King George did well to put the HAM in Hamilton, that’s for sure! Outlandish line delivery. Big laughs with the utterance of just one word, let alone a whole line. Each time he was on stage, Shane blushed and laughed nearly sheepishly as though he were personally responsible for the king’s words. Surely there’s a statute of limitations on these things- Shane came to the U.S. at fifteen, he’s just over double that in age now, he can relax a little, I think. Bean’s seemed to’ve made their home motto “immigrants, we get the job done,” which is fine by me as I subscribe to The White Stripes “white Americans, what? Nothing better to do? Why don’t you kick yourself out? You’re an immigrant too.” My family just got here sooner than some. My dad says we’re linked to those that came over on the Mayflower, but I haven’t found the connection yet. Though my parents surprised me by being quite accurate in relaying my ancestral roots, at least according to last year’s DNA test results. Are those things a crock, I wonder? Still, there were three surprises on there that I wanna know more about.


We stood around on the sidewalk after the show to catch an autograph or two from the cast. The actor playing the king was the first out. He looked into the face of each person whose playbill he signed, but most kept looking down, and just mumbled “thank you.” When he reached me, I looked up brightly with a “cheerio!” realizing instantly that means goodbye. He seemed startled more than anything which wasn’t the effect I was going for- he could’ve countered with a “you say goodbye, I say hello,” but left hanging was I. We left shortly after, as Shane wanted to meet the king, and having done so, Bean was satisfied to pass on the rest of the cast, because despite their splendiferousness, she summed it up in proclaiming it’s not Miranda nor Diggs. I think the bitterly cold wind, an at-home Edie, and a 4-ish a.m. Shane wake up time may’ve had more to do with it.

“Hoopla”Drawing by Christina Wald

Bean’s been uber-obsessed with the play since first laying ears on it, calling me to tell me I needed to buy the soundtrack and learn it (I’d already had it for a week at that point). It may be the thing Edie listened to the most while on her nine month incubated journey. Bean queued up the PBS documentary, Hamilton’s America, when it was first available and had me watch. She was taken with the making of it all, where I was stuck on the admirable idea that Miranda said he was going on vacation and looking for something to read, and chose a Hamilton biography, not the typical person’s choice for a vacation read. I’d receive periodic updates on film clips showcasing Daveed Diggs rapping fast. Then last summer, we were driving home late from seeing a show in downtown Seattle, Gaffigan possibly, and drove by a theatre with Diggs’s name up on the marquee leaving Bean bummed to have missed that he was in town performing.

“Hoopla”Drawing by Christina Wald

I’m conflicted on the following: the show has raked in heaps and heaps of money which is great! Because demand’s been high, the ticket prices have been ridiculously so as well meaning audiences are filled with predominantly rich older white folks, which one could argue is a demographic that could stand to sit, listen, and learn to relate. However, it seems a waste that a cast comprised of many people of color in positions of historical significance should be accessible to the masses through more than classroom field trips, student discounts, and same-day lowered rate performances would allow. Glad to read that Miranda will reprise the title roll next January in Puerto Rico where all that money could help bring an economical boost via tourism for the island. Not that I needed one, as my heart is nearly always affixed to my sleeve except for when served up on a platter, but our newest team member at work is from Puerto Rico and has had her mom who still resides there, living with her here in Tacoma for the last several months due to the continued power outage. Nothing like a first hand account to make struggles all the more real, and to make it all the easier to appreciate efforts to relieve them. ♦

The ad showcased in the featured image is from Broadway’s First Hamilton

Oscar Me This, I’ll Answer You That


Okay, who has an in with the weather department, cuz (there’s that word again) it SNOWED ON MY BIRTHDAY! In addition to Christmas, may I remind.


Checked out the Toytopia exhibit at a local museum, where I met Zoltar (not the Brazilian death metal band), but he had nothing to offer in way of fortunes. Sometime later, Bean walks up to me and presses a card into my hand, “Ya want it?” It’s a slightly crumpled fortune she’s found strewn in among a pile of legos at a nearby table. I waited to read it till late that night. It went on about how happiness (joy is still best) was in store for me, which made me laugh and not in a bitterly scoffing kinda way either. I tucked it under my pillow as a reminder to snap a photo to share in the a.m. when daylight streamed through the window. I remembered to grab the card, but not the photo. How many different fortunes are available? Are there new cards written regularly? Is there someone out there with an extensive card collection? Wonderments.

Here’s my favorite museum companion exploring the sounds of historical messages piped through a black blocky item called a phone receiver. Notice her quick scan for the ‘rents before relishing the tongue bath she gave that germ-laden thing under the aghast gaze of Auntie. The oral fixation is strong with this one.


This ginorm faux Crayola box found at the exhibit has me wanting to paint the box front on a wall in the future.


Crayola to cortado. I dig names with multiple syllables and vowels, what can I say. It’s like a less foamy cousin to my favorite, the cappuccino. Warm liquid buried under mounds of foam. Wait, I just described a sink of dishwater. Snagged this particular cortado before wandering into the adjacent movie theatre the other day to view the last film on the list for this year’s Oscar-nominated Best Picture category. Bean’s been surprisingly big on trying to fit them all in, whereas, I’m like, “Hey, can I just hang out with Edie?” Maybe I’ll return to my fevered run (drive) around Washington to see all things nominated in the coming year. I definitely miss aspects of it. Fun fact: every time I say the word “coffee,” Edie coughs.

“Hey, Bun, I’m gonna make some coffee, let’s go to the kitchen.” *cough-cough*
“Shane, do you have any creamer for the coffee?” *cough-cough from a nearby room*
“Did you hear that, you think she did that intentionally? Say ‘coffee’.” *cough-cough from a nearby room*

I thought I’d find myself rooting for The Shape of Water given a number of components- the director, the retro time period and accompanying aesthetic (!), an unusual love story, Michael Shannon, but, no. It felt empty somehow, the love story wasn’t given enough time to get off the ground (outta the water?) and served up a few unnecessarily harsh and clinical sex scenes likely meant to juxtapose the tenderness to follow, but the intent fell flat, instead marring the fantasy of it all. I favor Darkest Hour and the touching and quirky Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri which had surprising heart with humanly flawed characters that weren’t afraid to confront their failings, share their remorse, and attempt amends. World, take note, blueprint for life! I’ll likely be thrilled if Get Out wins, though I’m not championing it at the moment despite a rewatch. Phantom Thread was worth the wait of its slow unfold in the summation of one deliciously satisfying line and action at the very end. It produced gleeful delight on my part! It’s nice to be surprised in the theatre. ♦



My favorite living musicians list has seriously dwindled in the past year’s time. Someone grab Jack and put him behind some glass with snacks and airholes or something. Dolores O’Riordan, my favorite female singer passed away as reported earlier in the year. I found love and nostalgic memories poured out for her all over the internets except in a place or two where a small group of filthy fools dared besmirch her, talking trash on the day she died. Don’t like her music? Stay silent. A hard swift chomp of the tongue should do it. Then spit. Thankfully, I then read tributes from some of the guys I hung out with back in The Cranberries’ prime, and their expressed love and kindness for her left me feeling heaps better. She passed on Charo’s birthday, no less- someone please place Charo alongside Jack.

In reflection, I realize just how many of O’Riordan’s songs accompanied me through a time in life when I had great hope. Hope to accomplish key portions of the “someday” list, and to meet that one person to partner and begin with, or continue with, rather. I keep lamenting, drivel here, drivel there, this last year or so. Think I’m mourning for the loss of time, the waste of my heart. There’s always going to be this gigantic void where giving and receiving love could’ve happened, but didn’t.

I’ve wanted a quantity of one to choose me, one that believes “Deborah’s the only one for me, she alone is enough, nobody else.”

That doesn’t exist. I don’t know how to reconcile it.

I remember standing there that night at the Puyallup Fair, now Western Washington Fair, while attending an event being held on the grounds last year. I felt gleeful inside, being so close to the ride, it was all mine. But it was dark, the lights were off, and there was no music, no energy. I smiled to myself despite the lifelessness before me, and took the photo. ♦

Facebook CXXV


I received an envelope in the mail recently featuring the best misspelling of my name yet – Debraha. As in Deborahahahahaha (spoken in the Count’s voice from Sesame Street). Now check out the face staring back from my breakfast plate this weekend. Doesn’t look much like the Count, but he does look ready to let some evil cacklery abound- good thing I ate him. At least he died laughing. ♦

Knock It Off


Got a new set of knockers for Christmas.

Allusion to a politically incorrect phrase on my part? Absolutely. As Carlin and Cleese have touched on in times past, political correctness can in itself be offensive and carried too far. Doing my part to ensure that doesn’t happen.

Along the same lines, Bean and I have been grumpalumping about certain societal imbalances as of late. At the risk of offering up derogatory socio-political armchair commentary, you won’t find me at a women’s march any time soon. I support true feminism, not the surface level bandwagon version that once again doesn’t attempt to offer equality to women, but instead desires to position them as superior to men. Woo, they have vaginas and are proud of it. Were large groups of men to state pride in their equivalent body part, take to wearing roosters’ combs on their heads in a coy winking nod, those same women would freak the fruck out. Way to leap into the very role they’re railing against. Just because it seems that men have been doing that very thing in a metaphorical sense for years, does not justify the hypocritical wearing of the shoe on the other foot. Hat on the other head? Empowerment, equality, yes. Entitlement, over-elevation, no.

We’ve already been there, done that. Those that don’t know their history are doomed to repeat it. Instead of taking us forward, there’s a current rehashing of ground already gained as though it were brand new territory. Each new generation often learns life’s lessons for themselves, but take a clue already. A brief look at feminism in the sixties, seventies, and eighties will prove the déjà vu of it all rather quickly. I cringe to think that a perusal of The Women’s Rights Movement that started in the last half of the past century would reveal even more of a rehash than that of progression. About the only new thing the movement is bringing, is the trend of stating it all more crassly and crudely which is tacky, tough, and disrespectful, not edgy, strong, or intelligent.

True feminism means being as feminine (or not) as a female feels like being while maintaining authority and commanding respect equal to that of any other person. Those that still equate femininity with weakness versus perhaps with softness are missing the entire point. And feminism is equality for both genders. The “duh” to follow that statement is palpable.

Infuriatingly, many of the same women crying “feminism” are threatening to destroy the credibility of truly victimized women, undermining a key point the movement is meant to achieve. I speak of those that dare to wrongfully define what constitutes rape. Feeling shame and uncomfortable feelings over degrading oneself with casual sex is NOT rape. They might have been on the fence or not really wanted to do it, but they did anyway. Own it. Women must take responsibility for their actions or non-actions, to not do so is a slap in the face of feminism.

Furthermore, skewering any man that dare voice an opinion that’s not entirely, utterly deferential and servile won’t fly either. Take the case of the actor Matt Damon being reviled over statements calling for- gasp- fair assessment. Writing his statement off as merely adding to the noise versus validating it as a needed reminder of reason. Silencing men in the same manner women claim to’ve been silenced by men. Tit for tat, an eye for an eye? I’ve found a place for shame.

The future is NOT female. How very unprogressive. The future is human. ♦