All will be revealed...

Now I know why I stay away from the mall. I came home yesterday, $140 lighter. Well, the Gap was having this sale, and I got three really swell tops (school clothes, you know) for $50. That's not a bad deal, Gapwise. Then this sweet young thing stopped me and bamboozled me into buying her product. Actually, I was not much of a hard sell after she demonstrated it to me. You see, I have always wanted to look well-groomed. And I always fell short, no matter how carefully I arranged my hair, painted my toenails, pressed my clothes, or made up my face, because my fingernails are always a mess. They are usually all different lengths because they split and tear very easily. The cuticles look like little pieces of rope that have been frayed one too many times. I try, really I do. I file them, I use all kinds of chichi lotions (gifts from my daughter, mostly) several times a day. But I also wash my hands 15 times a day (tired old bladder, also a gift from my daughter), which dries everything up even worse, not to mention turpentine when I clean up after painting. And to add insult to injury, a couple of my nails are now ridged like wide-waled corduroy. Well, back to that sweet young thing at the mall, who took my hand and looked at my nails, ouch. She said, choose one and give it to her. So I gave her a puckered, ridged one. Might as well make this a challenge. She said "Prepare to be amazed." And she took this little cube and buffed it to a brilliant shine! Without polish! So I bought the whole shebang from her, kind of expensive, but well worth it. There is a year's worth of manicures in that box, and it is really easy, does not involve sticky polish that gets all over the cuticle, and other surfaces, too. And the cuticle oil has improved those little suckers, too. And it is strange, but my nails feel harder and denser than they did before, too. She said the buffing massages the nail bed and encourages stronger nails. Well, whoop-de-doo! I cannot stop looking at my nails! This is really exciting for me. Now, if I could just afford that facelift.

The many faces of Boo...

Pardon me while I anthropomorphize my dog, but I have lived with this creature for nigh on to nine years, and I know all his moods and expressions. Boo is a little fluffy black dog with white markings, a mix of something and Tibetan spaniel, though he was billed as a Pekingnese mix by his breeders. That means he has a little squatty snout, not quite all the way flat, with a deep crevice over his tiny nose that requires the assistance of a Q-Tip to clean. Interesting fact about short-nosed dogs - their palate is just as long as a long-nosed dog, and sometimes gets caught in their throats, causing an alarming amount of snorting to ensue. I have been assured that this is not life-threatening, but I am quick to slap Boo on the back to help him dislodge it promptly. He also seems to have a very long (and very pink) tongue. He can lick his eyebrows. Which brings me to his morning face, eyes kind of at half-mast, tongue flicking in and out, in and out. When fully awake, he stands on my belly with his tongue lolling out, his Get-up-dammit expression. Every day, after I make the bed (with Boo on it, of course, it's kind of tricky), I open the blinds and Boo pricks his ears and his eyes get huge, and you just know he has never seen the front yard before, surprise! If I pick up one of his squeaky toys (he only likes the plush ones, which he eagerly disembowels) and throw it, he becomes Boo Roger Ramjet, lays back his ears, gets this crazed look in his eyes, and races around madly, stopping suddenly to reverse direction. When he gets the toy, he is likely to shake the hell out of it, a regular 18 lb killing machine. Boo gets regular doggy massages, where he lays his head back, half closes his eyes, and would purr if he had the equipment. But my favorite Boo look is the one I get when I poke at him in the evening, usually when he is sprawled out on the bed on his back, with all his business hanging out for the world to see, snoozing away. He will flip over and gaze at me over his shoulder with the What-the-hell-can't-you-see-I-am-sleeping look. And I do mean gaze. He will just stare at me until I apologize and promise to leave him be. So don't tell me dogs don't have personalities. Boo is the best dog in the world. When I come home, he rears up on his hind feet, making happy little cries, and does his Give-me-ten welcome, whether I was gone ten minutes or ten hours. Life with Boo is sweet. Messy, sometimes smelly, but sweet.

Me and my pain...

I have emerged from the last little rocky boat of psychic pain, a little unsteady and with a whole bunch of new insight. It wasn't any different than if I had whacked my thumb with a hammer. Man, that hurts! I always feel that it is unbearable in the beginning, but, of course, it isn't. And it only hurts at that level for a few seconds. Then it settles into this kind of continual moaning pain, throbbing with my heartbeat. I apply ice, and maybe some arnica, if I can find it, and persevere until it settles down. Notice that I do not yell at it, or say that I shouldn't be hurting like this, or feel that it is unfair. In the weeks that follow, I forget about the pain, until I bump up against something that triggers it again. That is always a surprise, when that happens. And it always does. Happen, I mean. That is the stage I am in at this moment. A stray thought will start the pain up again. It is only a shadow of the original, though. The only thing different from the hammer blow and this process is that I am not sure of the instrument of my torture. I have needed to do some sleuthing in the messy mire of my subconcious mind to find the source. It is old, essential pain this time, something hard-wired into my screwy psyche. Whatever, I am still glad to be me, glad that I have friends who will listen to me piss and moan, glad that I have a mind that can do the detective work, and a heart that can still break, and be patched up, yet again.

Blame it on Harry...

So, long time, no write. What can I say? Harry arrived a week ago, and I spent most of my time either reading it, or thinking about reading it. Actually, I read very slowly, knowing that finishing would be a time of withdrawal. This book did an amazing job of tying together all the threads that were dangling out there, and funnily enough, actually provided a wondrous sense of closure. I had to laugh at Time Magazine, who stated that the thing that was killed in the Harry Potter novels was God. The Almighty was substituted by that piddly human emotion, love. Like what is God if not love? Really, people, get a grip! There are obvious Christian symbols in this series if one wants to see them. Like Voldemort's sidekick is a snake. Let's see, who else used that symbol? And Harry always questions his motives before acting, not unlike that other guy. And the end of the last novel, well, you read it and see the striking Easter Sunday correlation. It was all about innocence and evil, guys! Sort of like the Bible.

Oh, give me a break...

The new issue of Time features a comprehensive article on addiction and brain activity, like someone will make a breakthrough and invent a pill to cure alcoholism, drug addiction, compulsive gambling, etc., etc., etc. Every once in a while, one of our fellowship will wistfully wish for such a pill, and the rest of us at the meeting will kind of titter behind our hands. What Bill Wilson so wisely understood (and he was a towering intellect, just read his book) was that alcholics have much more than a drinking problem. In fact, the drinking is just a symptom of a much more far-reaching, pervasive disease, one I think of as self-loathing. So he and the first 100 recovering drunks came up with the 12 steps, clear directions that gave actions that could lead to a transformation by cleaning up our act. Only by doing the necessary housecleaning and changing our victim mentality could we accomplish long-term abstinence. If, indeed, there were such a pill, as soon as the addict felt better, she would inevitably stop taking it, the same way the mentally ill do, because she would begin to believe she was cured. Doesn't make sense to sane people, but alcoholics are not particularly sane. Yes, that includes little old moi. At least I know where I am nuts. Now, that's progress!

And then there was IMax...

You know, when I was a kid, most movies were still black and white. Color movies were very rare indeed. Television had not been invented yet, and we listened to soap operas and mystery shows on the radio (I remember doing that on the way home one night with the kids in the car, early in the 1980's, a revival spooky ghost story, and the kids were terrified - says something about leaving stuff to the imagination, huh). So I am still pretty amazed by how far we have come in our technology in my 63 years here on the planet. Today, I saw the Harry Potter movie on a screen 80 by 100 feet, with multitudes of speakers, in a theater that seated 600 thrilled people, with the last 20 minutes in 3D. I was just mesmerized. Okay, maybe it was not high art. But man, it was exciting. Even my oh so sophisticated kid got all stirred up when she saw they were handing out those glasses. And gosh, poor Harry, losing Sirius and still stuck going home to those horrid Dursleys. Saturday, the new book arrives. Oh, man, that's heaven, a movie and a book all in the same earthly week!

Long time no write...

Well, that just goes to show ya'. The more time I have to get things done, the less that happens. Let's see. I survived my little pity party, now am feeling pretty healed. Boo got his annual bath, always an event in this house. It was hella-hot, so I plunked my little guy in half a tub full of warm water, and didn't let the dearth of dog shampoo deter me. He got scrubbed with Dove shampoo, and now smells just like me. I was worried that he was getting fat till after this event. Apparently, his girth was all hair, and it apparently was all being held together with dirt, because as soon as I dried him off, most of it fell out. All over the house. He is now sleek and soft and ever so trim. During my little spate of unhappiness, I went to the movies. A lot. After Shrek, I saw Ratatouille (funny, sweet, totally wonderful) and the new Die Hard movie (funny, smart, totally gratifying gratuitous violence) and most recently, Golden Door. Now, there's a film that shows what film can do. It illuminated a part of history that is both ignominious and fascinating, the immigration system at Ellis Island. We got to follow this simple Italian family from their rocky (really ROCKY) roots to their successful entry into the States, followed by this Englishwoman groupie. It took a half hour into the movie to decide that I liked it, mostly because it was so artsy and very subtle, really different from our American fare. And we sat in the last row, where I was behind this guy with a big round head that blotted out a lot of the subtitles. Then it got so amazing that I totally forgot that guy. Gee, I love it when that happens! And tomorrow, oh boy! Kiddo and I are headed for the Metreon to see Harry Potter at the IMax 3D theatre! Fandango.com!

And now for something completely different...

That will sound familiar to all you Monte Python fans out there. Life is, after all, mostly ludicrous, right? Right. Lately, as you may have read, I am experiencing speedbumps on my highway of life, and feeling kind of low. So I had a choice. I could dig out the chips and soda, impress a mold of my butt on the couch and watch old episodes of Dog , the Bounty Hunter, or Bridezillas. Or, I could take my butt out to meetings and church and around the neighborhood, dog in tow. That is called getting into action. I already do lots of service for others. Time to reel it in and take care of number one. And the strangest things happen when I set foot on this path. Electrical appliances often die on me. This time it is my blow dryer, the one I bought to replace the one that died during my last spiritual crisis. Poor thing is just sputtering. And yesterday, the panic button went off in my car, you know, honk, honk, honk. Admittedly, the keys were in my pocket, but I was in the back of the house, and the car was in the driveway out front. And as if that wasn't enough annoyance, my kitchen sink is all backed up. I hate it when that happens. So I am sitting here, listening to the tapes a friend made of the music of our youth (he's even older than I am, so some songs are a little obscure even to me), awaiting the plumber. Yes, I did the Liquid Drano thing. Twice. Stubborn clog just laughed at me. And I must be getting better, because I laugh every so often, too. Mostly at myself. After all, if I learn to laugh at myself, I will never be without a source of amusement.

Healing happens...

I am on the mend from my little dip into the pool of icky sticky ooey gooey slimy self-centered fear. It will come up from time to time, and cause all kinds of havoc. Getting out of it is definitely a purification process, and this always impels me into action, making the changes needed to, well, change. I am going to different meetings, actually went to church this Sunday, and am reading The Secret, which I already knew and just needed to be reminded of. This morning, I made myself pancakes with (sugar-free) strawberry jam, sliced almonds, a banana and Cool Whip, one addiction I am never recovering from. Really a treat. Now I am dressed in my little shorts and tank top, suitable for a trip down to Barnes and Noble in search of a book by John Tarrant, who spoke at my little church sojourn, a Zen teacher, very interesting man from Tazmania, and who thought there were still people coming from Tazmania? Anyway, his book is about the value of suffering. I need that at the moment.

The awful truth...

Here's what happened. Two and half years ago, I left a long-term relationship. Except he never went away. We separated, forty miles apart, but he continued to call, I saw him at least once a week at our mutual meeting, and we did some activities together, not dates, just activities. And last Thursday, he told me he is seeing someone. So I fell apart. Well, I never did when I moved here, and this is my usual way of dealing with the end of relationships, melting into a rather unattractive puddle until I get sick of myself, and get it together again. I was way overdue. During my last crying jag, I realized that this is a truly safe time to fall apart, when he is not available and I am not tempted to soothe myself with him. That would be a very, very, very bad idea. I have be reading old journals of our time together, and I was not a happy camper most of the time. This man has a whole menu of behaviors that are at best difficult to live with. There is the non-stop monologue of his most miniscule activities. There is the whining about his finanacial situation. There is his financial situation, which is dicey, all the time. And there were some really stinky personal habits, too. Okay, he was sexy. And he is an amazing artist, and he taught me to paint, and we had some really wondrous moments, too. Letting go is painful, and oh, so necessary. It also happens to be ten years to the day since we met, and fell in love. I like to fall in love in the summer, I find. Oh, well.

Reality bites.

As much as I hate to admit it, I have put on a few pounds. Don't you hate it when that happens? I can still get into most of my wardrobe, and that's good. However, in certain things, I do somewhat resemble an Italian sausage. And I have this uncomfortable feeling when propped up in bed reading, like there is this shelf that didn't used to be there, right below my boobs. So, we have once again bitten the bullet and committed to an eating plan. Not a diet, that's too deprivation sounding. Eating plan is better, because it is about eating, after all. Lots of salad, not a hard thing to do when the weather is like today, all toasty warm. And some exercise, fueled by a little over-the-counter diet remedy, formulated for post-menopausal gals like me. I never need the full dose of that stuff. My little system is so very sensitive, one of those capsules keeps me dashing about all day long. I estimate that in 6 weeks I will be all slim and comfy again in my pants. It really is about being comfortable. And continuing to fit into my wardrobe. I refuse to buy fat pants anymore.

And there's more...

Of course. Movies, I mean. I saw this documentary on the making of Star Wars the other night. Man, it was a mess. More time went into the manifestation of the idea than into the movie. George Lucas actually consulted with Joseph Campbell, which may be one major reason that it became such a huge hit. There are archtypical heros and nemeses in this saga that resonate in all of us. Like Spielberg's ET, where we all knew the greatest fear, abandonment. Anyway, it had a minimal budget, there was no special effects department capable of handling their needs, the cast was somewhat amateurish, except those wonderful British actors, Alec Guiness and Peter Cushing, whose presence gave the film great weight in the end. The locations were hellish, the robots kept malfunctioning. In the end, there were marathon filming sessions on many sets at once, and ditto the editting process. Lucas went out on a limb and hired John Williams to give it a symphonic score, and they had to coerce theaters to book it by offering it as a package with The Other Side of Midnight, a mediocre potboiler to say the most. And it just took off. This "kid's movie" created an international phenomenon, so much so that the toy manufacturers were caught off guard and had to offer at Christmas empty boxes with pictures of action figures to be shipped in March. This was a movie I fell in love with, saw several times in the theater, bought on tape as soon as it came out. Actually, don't tell anyone, but we had a pirated tape of it before its release. And I have the soundtrack, too. It is noodling away in the background as I type, kind of synchronous, don't you think?

My life in movies...

We saw the new Pirates movie last night, and, although I have expounded on the lack of imagination that leads producers to give us films based on theme park rides, I have to admit, it was dynamite. Gross around the edges, really amazing special effects, and a story that had its share of pathos along with some mind-bending action sequences. I grew up with movies, in the theater, mostly, as we didn't have VCRs or cable to bring them right into our living rooms (the only room that would eventually house a TV). Early films that shaped my existence: Cinderella, Snow White, Song of the South, Bambi, Pinocchio, Dumbo (still makes me cry), Gone With the Wind, Giant, The Wizard of Oz, Bye Bye Birdie, It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, Day the Earth Stood Still, This Island Earth (my scifi stage), Suddenly Last Summer (only because it was one of two movies I went to with my mother, the first was Gilda, and I was too young to remember it). I have never liked war movies, and totally maxxed out on cowboy flicks because that was what was on TV in those early days: Wagontrain, Rawhide, Gunsmoke, Maverick, etc, etc, etc. John Wayne never impressed me, and neither did Elvis Presley. But I loved the Beatles movies, all of them. An early adulthood movie that really got me was Repulsion, a Roman Polanski film starring Catherine Deneuve, so scary I was sick to my stomach with fear. I liked art films then, Seance on a Wet Afternoon, The Pumpkin Eater, Woman in the Dunes, Last Year at Marienbad, all dripping with angst. I outgrew musicals too, though I still love Camelot, South Pacific, and Singing in the Rain. And I am a devoted Alfred Hitchcock fan, beginning with Rebecca, that stunning film of the Daphne Du Maurier novel, with Joan Fontaine and Laurence Oliver. Nobody beats a young Larry in the looks department. Nobody. And Jane Eyre, Joan again with Orson Welles before his baby whale stage, all craggy and perfect as Mr. Rochester. Never liked Wuthering Heights, though. Just too much irony and suffering. Anyway, I still love going to the movies. And you know the best thing about it? Previews! We saw the trailer for the new Harry Potter movie last night. Man, it looks really hot. Just one little month away! Something to live for! Well, there could be worse things, n'est-ce pas?

That was the 63 years that was...

I grew older yesterday. And I was thinking about everything I have today that they didn't have when I was born. Television, for instance. Never mind cable, satellite, VCRs, DVDs, or even remote controls. Soap operas were on the radio. Mom listened to Ma Perkins, One Man's Family, and Helen Trent. Dear Helen, she was the longest suffering person in the whole entire world. I heard these sagas only peripherally, because I was supposed to be napping when they came on, same time they still do, after lunch. We didn't even have jet airplanes then. When they came along, during the cold war, we would have air raid drills at school, where we all jumped under our desks and covered our heads and our eyes so we wouldn't be blinded by the atomic mushroom cloud. Funny, I don't remember being particularly concerned about that. In my lifetime, man went to war, over and over again. FDR was president when I was born, and we were still in the war to end all wars, World War II. Then Korea, then Viet Nam, then the Gulf War, and gee, here we are again. I studied Western Civilization, from the dawn of man's emergence from the caves, and it is a never-ending saga of war. So I can say with some assurance that nothing has changed since I came along. Most of what has happened seems to be good, though. I like minipads that stick right to your panties, instead of having to have an elastic belt with a metal-toothed grip, that frequently gripped more than it was designed to. Birth control pills were nice, too. Cars are much more diverse, more than GM or Ford or Chrysler, which is pretty much what there was in my early days. Oh, there was Studebaker and Rambler, too, but only really geeky people drove those. And they were twice the size as today's puddlejumpers, even the big sedans on the road today. Seatbelts, what're they? Actually, they built cars from real steel and bumpers were real chrome and meant business then, we could get by without seatbelts. And helmets, another new thing. I rode my bike all around this county without a helmet. Fell off it a few times, too, but usually not on my head. A dog was just a dog. If it got hit by a car (no leash laws, either), you got another one. There were no dog dentists, or dog chiropractors, and certainly, no one was interested enough to be a dog psychic. Rock and roll, along with American Bandstand (long live Dick Clark) came about just as I entered puberty, and Sixteen Candles came out when I was, well, 16. A big Saturday night was cruising Fourth Street and getting a hamburger at Mel's, just like American Graffiti. Pizza was still on the horizon. I was a senior in high school before we had the first pizza, at a little Italian joint on Courthouse Square. I liked it because we still couldn't eat meat on Friday night, and you could get a pizza with just cheese and mushrooms. Yep, a lot of good stuff has come about during my little span of years. It could be better, but it could be a whole lot worse, too.

Situation normal here...

My check card arrived in yesterday's mail. Everything is now replaced, except my Safeway card, and you really don't need that, just enter your phone number, and my student ID, which I don't need till fall semester. Because I believe most problems can be solved by throwing money at them (or reading a book), I went online and ordered a wallet purse, one that can be attached to my body at all times, either across my chest or around my waist, and carry those essential things I always need with me, like my glasses, sunglasses, lipstick, $$$, and those pesky ID cards. Really, wouldn't it be better if we all just got tatooed across our foreheads at birth with a barcode? That would solve all that identity theft stuff, wouldn't it? Anyway, I am off to do some serious errand-running, post office, bank (for a more manageable PIN), and skulking around used furniture stores for some furniture for my studio, where everything lives on the floor at the moment. And with my bank card securely in my little summer purse, the sky's the limit! Well, the bank account is the limit, but you know what I mean. Joy in the small things, that is the secret to a blessed life.

The devil made me do it! And other true confessions...

Okay, you got me, I went to WalMart. I have been duly warned about the evils of this establishment, but could find no alternative. Really. I needed bubblebath, and birdseed, and Milk Bones, and moisturizer. Maybe Target would have been an alternative, but it has gotten terribly chichi lately, and there is no $2.82 half gallon of bubblebath to be found in their whole 72 acre store. So, I got all of the above, plus a sweet little sleeveless sweater, and a dog toy for the Boo boy (which he found even before I put the other things away), all for $42. And, blessed be, my new bank card arrived today, and the PIN notice arrived in the same mail! I can shop! I immediately went online and bought a new wallet thingy, one that has a strap that adapts from over the shoulder to around the waist, so I can attach all my important stuff to my body at school, where it will not fall out of my bookbag and keep me spinning from lack-of-shopping daze. Only one more thing to replace, my student ID, and how great is that! The picture on it was definitely truly awful. Life is good.

Deep Thoughts...Vol. IXCCC

Have you ever noticed that when you have no time to do anything, you get a lot done? And, vice versa? Really, the more time I have to do something, the less I get done. Take my summer list. Most of the things on it were on it last summer. And chances that anything will get done this year are pretty slim, too. Some of these chores require a strong back, like getting shelves up in the studio, and moving stuff around the garage. I could do my eyelash batting woman alone routine, but that often promises more than I want to offer. And hiring someone I don't know is terrifying. If there weren't any stairs, I could accomplish much with a furniture dolly. I am mulling here, hoping a solution will present itself. Meanwhile, the floor in the studio is a minefield of canvasses, sketchbooks, tote bags full of painting supplies, spare easels, all that stuff. Yardwork is calling me, but the weather is cooooold out there, and I am not inspired. Later. So I diddle away at the computer, or sketch baby animals in my sketchbook (actually, I need to draw a lot in it, there's a competition I could enter), and read really smarmy mystery novels. Hey, I'm on vacation, too.

How annoying!

I am desperately aware of the loss of my check card. My spending habits are seriously curtailed here! It's not as if I couldn't write a check. However, the lack of my driver's license makes that problematical, too. And I really need to shop! I get paid tomorrow, and that means it is time to color my hair, and I don't have a surplus of hair coloring to do that available. Buying my hair color usually also means I buy a supply of bubblebath, a DVD, and possibly a T-shirt, too. Not this month. I will pay cash for the hair color, that is not a problem. No gray roots for me, oh, nonono. I will just have to be T-shirt deprived for a little while. Really, two weeks is a little while. And this is such a quality problem. More better I spend my time pulling weeds and raking leaves than plying the aisles at Target, anyway. Saves $$$ and gasoline. A walk to the drugstore is in the plan today. Exercise and frugality. How righteous is that!

My appliances have a mind of their own...

Strange things happen around the little yellow house. The TV in the bedroom changes the channel, all by itself. I thought it must be Boo stepping on the remote, which is usually on the bed, where Boo usually is, too. But no. It happens even if the remote is tucked into the cute little white eyelet pocket by the side of the bed, the side away from the TV. Yesterday, the TV turned itself off! At least I think it did, I don't remember doing it. And this computer, well, it fights the good fight to keep my settings, the desktop I selected, ditto the screensaver. But every so often, the Classic Angels program just bullies it into accepting its priority, and bingo, it's baaaaack! Not that I don't like the Classic Angels program. I actually got to see most of these paintings in person when I went to Italy. I like angels. It's just that I like my own photos better. Currently my desktop is flaunting a picture of one of the Wild Rose Drive roses from last spring, an amazing golden yellow one. I also change the appearance to match the desktop, so I am currently writing on a soft, buttery yellow framed by the same golden yellow as the rose. How clever am I! That at least will remain, after the angels highjack my system again.

Have some humility, my dear?

Grades are all in, three As and my humility B, in algebra. Great lesson here. Just do your best, and leave the result up to the Universe. The Universe thinks I need some humility. That's that problem with prayers. Sometimes the answer is no. Ihave the great pride in soing the best I can, anyway. The gifts I have been given are prodigious. I guess that is what makes it so irksome that I cannot always be perfect. There is a gift, there, too. What would be so wonderful about perfection if one wasn't imperfect sometimes, too?

And now for the bright side...

Finals are over! I told my algebra teacher about my need for at least a 91 on this test, and he said he would do his best. I certainly did. I learned a lot about myself in the painting critique, and what I need to work on with the en plein air pieces, like more contrast in value, less attention to tiny details, more impressionistic expression. The art history final began at 7:30 AM this morning, and the young woman behind me yawned her way through the test. I may have missed a question or two, but no more than that. The teacher got a little futzy this time with her questions, like was Lorrain a poussiniste? Your call. I am feeling really good about this semester. It was a total triumph, loss of little purse notwithstanding. I figured out a bunch more stuff, wowwed my painting teacher with my self-portrait, started a portfolio to be considered for an art scholarship. Now I am ready for il bel far niente, the beauty of doing nothing. Well, nothing except for yardwork, house cleaning, car washing, laundry, dog-walking, and an occasional class at the recreation center. Oh, and plein air painting, drawing, and a whole lot of reading.

I hate it when that happens...

In the midst of this week's finals, I lost my little pouch with my driver's license, check card, student ID, Costco card and Safeway card in it, along with abou $17 and a whole mess of makeup. There was a moment of momentary panic, but I had to rush off to my painting class final critique, so I was spared a lot of hand-wringing and frenzied searching, till three hours later. Alas, no sign of that puppy. So begins the rounds of irritating form-filling-out humility. The check card was on the top of the list, of course. They now charge $5 to replace it. And it takes 7 - 10 days to get a new one. That's banking days of course, business-speak for you're-out-of-luck-for-two-freaking-weeks, ladie. It was too late to do anything else yesterday, so, after driving illegally to my art history final, I drove, equally illegally, to the DMV, to get legal again. Those bozos charged me $21 for a duplicate license! Whatever, I am legal, again. What a relief. The rest of the stuff will be handled later, probably after I get my #$&(*$ check card, and will not cost me any more $$$. Yes, it could be worse. Whoever found it could have run up a big bunch of charges (they didn't). But it could have been better, too. Someone could have turned it in to the lost and found, and it would have found its way back to me. I hope whoever found it enjoys my lousy picture on my student ID, and finds a good use for my money.

The condemned woman ate a hearty meal...

It is 8:15 AM, I am up, washed, brushed,dressed, coifed (if a slapdash ponytail counts), and fed. My algebra final is scheduled for 10 AM. I have decided that, if I don't know it now, I don't know it at all. I reviewed all day yesterday, and have my notes in my bookbag should I feel the need to look them over again. Probably not, though. I am trusting that my brain and HP will work just fine today. So I am relaxing here, checking my e-mail, sipping my coffee, looking out the window on this glorious day. We are having a spell of perfection here. This is not as rare as one may think, and is one of the reasons that I cannot imagine ever living anywhere else. Boo and I took a walk at 7:30 PM last night, in sweet warm air with just a hint of breeze ruffling the tops of the trees around us. Despite the fact that I came home with a bag full of Boo poo, it was just heavenly after a day of plying the vicissitudes of i, factorials, sequences, and the quadratic formula. Go ahead, ask me the equation for a circle! I think everything I need to remember is on that one sheet of paper my dear teacher lets us bring with us. I heard one young woman ask him if she could write on both sides. Well, duh! I figured that one out for myself. After all, I'm in college!

The way things work...

I once bought a book by that title. I really was interested in the mechanics of coin operated vending machines, and airplanes. It is still around here, somewhere. Later, I became interested in the operation of the Universe. Some pretty uncanny things happened to me, and I felt that there was a greater Hand in motion than mine. And though I now have a bookcase full of books that profess knowledge in that regard, it is still as big a Mystery to me today. That is interesting, isn't it. I find real Joy in living in the Mystery. I had to plunge into a great Well of Sorrow to learn that. It was worth it. Anyway, my life still operates that way. For instance, a few Christmases ago, my son gave me a gift certificate to Victoria's Secret. After a lot of fantasizing, mostly about my underwear size, I decided on a sweet tuxedo shirt of a nighty, soft cotton, tiny pintucks, tres cute. Also tres comfy, I loved it. Then, on Mother's Day, my daughter gave me the same nighty, though she didn't know about the first one. Twilight Zone moment? Not really. It happens a lot. And again this Mother's Day. A friend told me about a book she was reading, and wrote the title down on a page of her daybook. I put it up on my refrigerator and promptly forgot about it in the flurry of the new semester. Then I unwrapped my daughter's gift, Eat, Pray, Love. Even then it did not register. But when I got home, I was cleaning off the counter beside the fridge, and peaking out from under my magnetized memo pad that says Wise Loving Compassionate Graceful Strong (I didn't buy it for myself, it too was a gift) was that little scrap of Robin's calendar, that said Eat, Pray, Love. Thank you, daughter! Thank you, Universe! I love this book. Not surprisingly, it is about a woman's inner journey to Joy, that begins with a great wave of grief. Wow.

This little light of mine...

When I was newly sober, and totally confused, I read a book by Gary Zukav called The Seat of the Soul (Oprah later picked up on it, much later, years later, but it was mine first). He talks about emotions determining our level of spiritual growth, that the lower level emotions of hate and fear and pain and anger resonate at a much lower frequency than love and compassion and forgiveness. That made sense to me, since I seemed to be humming all the time. And he talked about light. It seemed to me that my dis-ease was about mucking around in the darkness, one of my own making, but darkness, nonethless. Being in the light was immensely frightening at first, because I knew I could be seen there, warts and all. Seventeen years later, I can still feel the seductive pull of the darkness on occasion, usually when I am in one of my desperately human phases, where mistakes tend to occur with alarming frequency. But most of the time, I try to shine my meager little light out into this scary old world. I got some feedback about that today from my drawing teacher when I presented my portfolio (big fat A, yay!). He said I was the pivotal person in the class this semester, one that he could count on to bring up the level of persistence among the younger people. Wow. That's such grace. And how happy I am he didn't tell me that earlier. It would have spiraled me down into fear of letting him down. What a gift this life is. How seldom I remember that.

Withdrawal, revisited...

I just finished reading the 6th Harry Potter tome, for the second (or is it third?) time. This works for me as I have a very poor memory, and it felt like the first time, again. I also reread the 5th book, definitely for the third time. All this is in preparation for the 7th book, which is coming out July 21. My timing was a little off, though. I should have saved this for later, like just before the release. Now I must go through Harry Potter withdrawal, yet again. Gee, I just love that little guy. He is perfectly imperfect, prone to rash moments that, in the wizarding world, can be beyond disastrous. Yet he embodies all the pathos of knowing his parents were murdered by pure evil. And he has some of that spirit living in him, as well. Sounds like most of us, actually. So, I am now in Harry Potter limbo, again. There is a bright spot; the 5th movie will be released, just a week before the book. And while I own all the movies to date, and just think that Daniel Radcliffe is perfection as Harry, it is the books that really do it for me. That has really always been true. Gone with the Wind, for instance. While Clark Gable was the perfect Rhett, and Vivian Leigh an admirable Scarlett, I always invisioned Ashley a lot more masculine than what's-his-name, that wimpy guy who played him. And they left out big bunches of the story, like two of Scarlett's children! How rotten is that! Anyway, must find a way to survive till July. And after that, oh dear! This is the final book! Well, that's okay. It will be time afterwards to revisit the first four books, and by the time I am done, I will have forgotten what was in the 5th - 7th again! (Leslie Howard! That was the guy.)

Fragonard, change of base formula, and folios, oh, my!

Finals week looms. Gulp. Let's see, I had my conference with my painting teacher, and I will get my treasured A in painting. Yay! I already have an A in drawing, but must dig up a stick (interesting one, all twisty and gnarly) for class tomorrow, and put together a portfolio of drawings for his review on Monday, and I hope to do some studies of Mary Cassat to show him. Nothing on Tuesday, except studying for algebra test on Wednesday morning, followed by critique of 4 en plein air paintings in afternoon (3 are done, must get one more by then). Then home to study for art history test Thursday morning at (oh, God) 7:30 AM. Hard to discern Fragonard from Watteau from De La Tour, though Constable and Turner are easily sorted out, as are Manet and Monet. Definitely have a head full of stuff to remember. It all seems doable, though. Plenty of time, and I have given the work my time and attention. If it isn't there now, it never will be. Even the math is making some sense to me, and I am excited to be completing another semester of higher education. Big WOW.

End days are upon me...

Last week of the semester. That means fewer classes, some are actually cancelled. Others are optional. I have to complete one more painting, and put together a portfolio of drawings for the teacher. Two finals, first in algebra (multiple choice, fill-in questions, yay!) and art history (always a walk in the park, easy to remember). And it is another triumph, grade-wise, especially since I raised my grade to an A in painting with my self portrait. Lots of stuff to lug around, though. I dragged three paintings back to school today for review, and have one more really big one to bring home Wednesday. Oh, no, two, because the self portrait is still in the student art show, and how wonderful was that! Lovely to be validated, and to know that I am on the right path, at last. I almost bought a huge straw hat yesterday while my kids and I prowled around Union Street in San Francisco, but felt it was a little pricey. Next month. For my birthday, maybe.

What was I thinking?!!

End of semester time. Time to stress over finals and reviews. Time to wonder what this whole shebang was about in the first place. Higher education, it's just dreadful! They not only expect you to learn things, you're supposed the remember them, too! At least long enough to prove to them you were sitting there the whole semester. Well, actually, all my professors know I was there, I made myself pretty evident. And the final is only one aspect of my final grade. I have earned most of it already. And I love Art History and have aced the tests in the past. And algebra is a bust before the semester even begins. I love it, and can't do it to save my soul. There are no tests in drawing or painting, just review of work accomplished. And yesterday in drawing, we examined our sports pictures. I knew what he wanted; two figures in close proximity, in action, an exploration of the spaces between them. That is what I rendered, two baseball players, one leaping into the air, one sliding in beneath him. And I was unhappy with it, till I saw what the other students did. Then I knew I am really okay here. Really.

Wouldn't it be nice...

...if life would just perk along, never a hiccup or burp? I was sitting in the waiting room at the tire place this morning, realizing that I hated having to sit there. In other words, I was making myself miserable, over a little thing like a flat tire. Perspective! I needed some perspective. Like the tire could have blown out while I was barrelling down River Road Saturday afternoon and I could have been roadkill, a flat furry spot on the pavement, instead of sipping my coffee, listening to the "Stabat Mater" on my iPod, doing logarithmic equations in preparation for my algebra test this afternoon. So what if it was all rubbery smelling there? So what if I missed my drawing class? I had perfect attendance up until today. Emergencies happen. Car emergencies are the easiest to deal with, anyway. They just take a little time, and a whole lot of money. I could afford both, though I would rather spend them differently. I actually got out of there in time to squeak into class, and decided not to. I decided to have a leisurely morning here at home with the Boo, do some more noodling with equations for circles, have some more coffee, with my feet up, happily knowing my buggy is all better.

God must think I'm fat...

Busy day yesterday. Meeting in morning, trip to Guerneville for fleamarket and writers' group. Back home to lawn mowing and then bath and dressing up for an evening at the theatre. And just as I was about to leave, I realized one of my tires was mostly flat. Ach! Well, I was going with a friend, so I grabbed my parking permit (play was on campus) and we drove in her car. Short term solution. Tire was still mostly flat this morning. I had formulated two scenarios last night. If tire was all the way flat, I would call AAA and have them put on that ditsy little training wheel Ford calls a spare tire, and deal with the tire repair Monday morning. I can afford to miss one episode of drawing class. And second option, if tire was still only mostly flat, I could hoof it over to the nearest hardware store for one of those cans of tire repair quick-fix-it gunk, and once again, deal with the repair later. Neither option was particularly appealing. I hate driving around with that stupid spare tire. And the nearest hardware store is about two miles away. Well, it hadn't deflated any more in the night, so I put on my walking shoes and headed out. I made a quick survey of the supermarket across the street, but they didn't even have a quart of oil. So I trudged on. It occurred to me that Safeway might just have the stuff I need, so I headed over there. It was on the way to the distant hardware store anyway. And as I walked, I remembered that I used to do this all the time. I put my hands in my pockets for a moment so I could feel my thighs getting all steely as I plodded on. It was a beauteous day, soft warm breeze, air all fragrant with blooming things. Surely this happened so I could learn something, right? Like how grateful I am to be so able-bodied at this time of life? As I rounded the corner to the Safeway complex, I realized there was a gas station across the street from it, right in my path. Surely a gas station would have some of that stuff. Those stores had to sell more that potato chips, Drumsticks and Bud. And sure enough, there it was! That meant my walk was shortened by half. Yay. On the way home, I walked along the creek in the blessed shade. Tire is all pumped up again, and let us pray it remains that way till tomorrow morning when all the tire joints are open. And I still have a reserve of energy to mow the back lawn when it cools a little this evening. And a little gunk left for the morning, if I need it.

Smarter than the average electronic gizmo...

My iPod had issues. From the very beginning, it was difficult to undock from iTunes. It would sit there and blink this big red circle at me and prohibit me from disconnecting it. When I hit the eject button, I had a window of just seconds when the menu appeared on its tiny screen to get it unhooked before the dreaded red circle began doing its thing, again. Then, yesterday, I noticed that some of the selections were not what was playing. It had slipped a cog. So, when I plugged it in to recharge, iTunes recommended that I run a "restore", which sounded good to me, so I said "OK". iTunes told me that when completed, the icon for my iPod would reappear, and I could then load it up again with all the music I have stored in my library. Two hours later, and still no icon. Help! iTunes is not recognizing my iPod! And it was, of course, flashing that horrid red circle, promising dire consequences if I unplugged it. What to do? A trip to Apple.com was far from illuminating. So I went to bed. And I figured that what I would do is let it have the benefit of the doubt and wait till morning to see if my icon reappeared. If it didn't, I would turn off the computer and undock my baby, and plug it in again after restarting (reboot has always been a favorite remedy of mine). That is what I wound up doing, and I was prepared to put it back in its ingenius little box and return it to Costco, full of righteous indiganation. Instead, iTunes greeted us back with open arms. Now, it is all fully loaded again, and actually playing the selection on the screen. This is a good thing. I am of the opinion that I do not deserve to own any gadgets that are smarter than I am. Which means that I will be riding that learning curve for the rest of my natural days. Because I just adore these little gizmos.

Smart people movies...

After complaining about the inanities of the American public's viewing choices, I though I would mention that I have been to the movies lately, and happily, they were thoughtful little films, thoughtfully rendered for grown-ups like me, who actually do not need explosions or car chases to keep her butt in the seat. The first was Miss Potter, with the terribly talented Rene Zellwiger and the not-so-hard-to-look-at Ewan MacGregor. The interesting part of this film was the society that demanded daughters absolute allegiance to her parents' wishes, and almost deprived the world of Beatrix Potter's gift. Lovely film to look at, sad at moments, tender always, just the ticket for this over-the-hill, thoroughly jaded old woman who has done her Die Hard days. Then, with my son in tow, we went to see Zodiac. I lived in San Francisco during some of the time this serial killer was doing his thing. The film had such a wonderful retro feel to it, people driving without seat belts, smoking inside, truly awful hairstyles that are thankfully behind us. Robert Downey Jr.'s performance as a boozing, drugging Chronicle reporter was cringe-worthy. He should be nominated for it, that is how convinced I was. Could be he was juiced up, of course, but I prefer to think of him in recovery. That young guy who played the boy scout, Jake what-s his-name, you know, Maggie's little brother, was suitably wide-eyed and fresh. It was fun just looking at the automobiles, which I am sorry to say are now vintage, like me.

Can we talk?

There are some things I just don't get. Like reality TV, for instance. It isn't real, it isn't funny, it isn't entertaining, it is frequently mean-spirited and slimy. Who watches this crap? Please, if it is you, stop it! Make those wizards in the programming department fall back on talent and innovation. Where is the Northern Exposure crowd? Probably all subscribed to HBO and watching the Sopranos. And what's all the hoohaw about American Idol? What a bunch of losers, even the winners. Okay, Jennifer Hudson prevailed, but she wasn't even the winner, was she? Most of these are Brittney Spears wannabes, and that is a pretty low aspiration, in my book. I also do not get Brittney Spears, so you can see I am really behind the times here. But the times seem to be so inane, like that science fiction story I read once, where the average IQ dropped below 80 and a tiny percentage of the population with normal intelligence were put in charge of everything. Perhaps that is what is happening here, except the morons are running things, too.

Hey! I'm trudging here!

The funny thing about recovery is that I have developed this kind of internal radar regarding my fellow trudgers. There are some people that I don't really know very well, but when they walk into a meeting, I feel good about them. And the opposite is true, as well. Some people just feel icky to me, and I cut them a wide berth. I think this has to do with light and darkness. I can sense the lightness in others, a certain radiance that is peaceful and trustworthy. Others look like they are wearing a mask, stiving for that lightness, and falling miserably short. Personally, I could not stay sober if my life was still a charade. Being a human chameleon was my personna for many, many years. Please, I'll be anyone you want me to be. Just love me! In my sobriety, I learned that the person I had been waiting to show up for me was, ME! And in order to love me, I had to become lovable to myself by cutting out a lot of unlovable behaviors, like judgement, vengefulness, sarcasm, and procratination. These were things that made me hate who I was. None of these character defects is totally obliterated, I am, after all, human. But it is a lot better, and when I look up and realize I am stewing in yet another pressure cooker of my own making, I don't have to also hit myself over the head with a stick. I can have some compassion for my own humanity, the same compassion I extend to the rest of the misguided world (Geo. W. in particular), most of the time. Cleaning up my own act is the only thing I can do to make the world better, but, gee, think what would happen if EVERYBODY did that!

I am so validated here!

My painting teacher asked me to bring my self portrait back so she could hang it in the library museum, the student's art show. This is a big honor, and if I had any remaining doubts, I am now certain that I am meant to be an artist. So I have been situated about two feet off the pavement, so out of it, I camped in an easy chair in the library today, unaware that I was sitting on someone's sunglasses. The poor young lady came up looking for them, and imagine my surprise when I stood up. Whatever, I am thinking I may have found my strength, because this painting was amazingly easy for me to execute. It came up very fast, needed a minimum of adjustment (and oils are so wonderfully forgiving in that regard), and was finished before the rest of the class, some of whom still have not finished their paintings. That means to me that this is good old HP working through me, a God-given talent, and I am already seeing it at work as I start my next painting, a portrait of a model who is graciously sitting for the class. The drawing came up very fast, and was a joy to behold. I am definitely going to to a life drawing class next semester, and continue the painting. How gratifying this whole thing is.

On being woven...

Rumi is one of my favorite guys. He lived in Persia sometime in the 1200s. Very spiritual man who knew some important things. Like we are stronger together than seperately, like reeds when they are woven into a mat. My belief is that we are all connected to everything, a web of existence, and the loss of one tears that fabric. This is a time of great loss. Whole species of beings are threatened with extinction. Our species is angry and flailing around trying to find relief in violence against others. I have done some research in this area, and I know that hurting others doesn't work. In fact, it hurts me, too. It takes courage to sit through uncomfortable emotions like fear, anger or pain, but my experience tells me that these are constructs of my own making, that they are transient and will pass soon if I just have the courage to sit through them. In fact, I have developed this strategy of stepping back and saying to myself "isn't this interesting". It takes me one step away from the feelings, allows me to witness my process rather than engage with it. Then I ask for some help. Often, that is just someone to listen while I whine. Just hearing it all out loud takes a lot of the sting out of my angst. Whatever is going on, the solution is not out there in that very rude, wounded world. It is in me.

The cow woman bought herself a present!

Since I didn't have to pay as much to the (*&^((%%^$!) IRS, I had a wad of $$$ in my pocket. As I strolled through Costco the other day, I noticed this big pile of iPods, nice new updated ones, affordable ones. I went home (my rule is I have to look at something three times before buying; I am a recovering impulse buyer), and thought about it. When I was visiting my very up-to-date daughter, who has had one of those gizmos for years now, I got the skinny all about what it does, and how it works, and gee, it looked really EASY. Just download iTunes and start building a library. I did that first, to see if I could. It was a snap. So I broke my rule and went back and bought one, not the really, really big 80GB one, the nice, manageable 30 GB. That means I can only store 7,500 songs. I figure at 3 minutes a song at a minimum, I can get 375 hours of music on this little machine. Of course, what I am loading is more than songs. I put on a bunch of symphonies, some opera, soundtracks, stuff like that. Now, when I come home from school, my first task is to feed the computer another wad of CD's, and plug in the iPod to sync it to my growing library. Today, it was an album of LeRoy Anderson by Arthur Fiedler, who I had the good fortune to see many times when I was young and he would come to San Francisco for the Summer Pops. Then some Verdi selections from Aida, Nabucco, La Traviata, etc., the soundtrack to American Graffiti (Rock Around the Clock), an album of Strauss waltzes, and the entire score of Bernstein's Candide. I feel right at home, bouncing around campus with my ears budding, listening to Puccini or Elton John. Music in your pocket! What a concept.

How annoying...

My blog got moved and I couldn't get on to post my very important thoughts! Help! I am addicted to my blog! Whatever, it is nice to be back, where I get to say my say. Everyone should have a place to do that, n'est-ce pas? Which brings me to my latest deep thought; why does everything sound better in French? Like, parvenu is ever so much better than bum. And comme ci, comme ca beats so-so every time. Sans souci is ever so much more carefree than, well carefree. Ever swearing is chic, like Merde!, which really means murder but sounds so worldly. And there are words in French that there is no correlation for in English. Jejeune comes to mind, which means young, but is usually applied to one who is older but not wise (okay, stupid). And my personal favorite, ennui, that state of angst-filled boredom, one that I visit every so often. Anyway, how lovely to be back on the good old blog.

Another pound of flesh...

I sent my taxes off today. Once again, I owed, lots and lots. Well, I didn't take care of business, blythely thinking that this year would be different. It wasn't. Now, I am prepared to bite the bullet and have more stinking $$$ withheld. Perhaps this would not hurt if our government would put their attention to little things like education, and alternative energy sources, and stem cell research, instead of lawless wars with sovereign nations and record profit margins for the oil companies. I have lived long enough to see the pendulum swing. It always swings way too far before it begins its next descent. Let us pray it is on that curve at this very moment. Whatever, my checking account is now unburdened of anything extra, and we are back to reality here in the little yellow house. I am not terribly unhappy. It only hurt for a moment.

The thing about authenticity...

When I reflect on my previous six decades of existence, the one theme that comes up is who am I and what is my purpose here on this little blue ball? I know that I was a disappointment to my parents, who wanted a baby of the male persuasion, and got me, instead. My mother named me after my father, probably as an apology, the dimiunutive of his name, at least, and I could have gotten away with that had I remained small (I was just a peanut when I was born, barely 6 lbs.). But I didn't. By second grade, I was a head taller than all my classmates. At 12, I reached my current height, 5 ft. 9 in., and went around shaped like a question mark trying to blend in. That didn't work. I have never blended in anywhere. And, because they were unhappy with me, my parents did their best to mold me into a more acceptable me. This had the effect of totally confusing me. My real self, the one I was born to be, disappeared beneath a lot of criticism and advice. After flailing about a lot, in my 30s I went into therapy, and the true quest began. But, how could I become something I have never known? In the end, all I could do is invent myself from scratch. I became watchful, taking in the various personnas that I encountered, looking for examples. Audrey Hepburn was a possibility, but so was Coleen Dewhurst. One was facade, the other all substance. Which led me to my battle with form and substance. I love the former, like all my stuff and do my best to put forth the appearance of goodness, and the latter, well, that's harder to live up to. In my current metamorphisis, I am all about substance. I wake up each day with the intention of being a blessing to the world. Sometimes that means just not sniping at the poor counterperson who is making my non-fat latte. Even the doctors take an oath that includes "above all, do no harm". If that is the best I can do everyday, well, so be it. But, hopefully, there will be a moment where I can bring some light into another's darkness. This means that I must be fit, physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. That is the goal I seek today.

Dvorak, a 6B pencil, and a trashy novel...

That about sums it up. Break is more than halfway gone, sigh, and the sum of my accomplishments dwindles daily. I am getting cozy with The New World Symphony, which I think is just delightful, though it still resembles movie music. My shoebox drawing is nearing completion, thank HP. I didn't like this project, don't like the drawing, and will be just thrilled when it is behind me. Tomorrow, I will be painting some eggs. No, not on the eggs, but an acryllic of brown eggs in a bowl, an homage to Julian Freud, who did an absolutely transcendental painting of this very subject. Also, I really need to mow the back lawn, and now that I look at it, the front one as well. That always seems such a daunting project, yet, when it is all over with, I am always happy with the result, a neatly trimmed up yard. So, I think I will curl up with my new trash novel that I picked up at the Salvation Army thrift store yesterday, while I was prowling and looking for furniture. And guess what! I get a senior discount there, 1/2 off! Now, there's a good reason to get old. Right.

Hey, I'm breaking here!

Ah, spring break. While the kids are off to exciting parties in exotic locations, I am happily sitting here at 11 AM, in my sweats, piddling away at the computer. Adieu asymptotes. Ciao Caravaggio. Toodles tenebrism. Plans are to work in the garden, eat lots of good food, do a movie or two, walk more with the dog, and yes, write a report for art history, do some algebra homework, and finish the dreaded shoebox drawing. Slooooowly. No hurrying. Like they say in Hawaii, by 'n by, brudda. That is such a luxury. Anyone who says money can't buy happiness ignores the true value of it. Money can buy time, the one thing we never seem to have enough of. Time to watch the flowers bloom (roses are out, so sweet). Time to sip the coffee and stare off into space. Time to prop up on many pillows and read trashy novels. Okay, it's not exactly exhilerating. I've been there and done that. It got me into a lot of trouble. So, I'll take the backyard over Ft. Lauderdale any day.

Holidaze here...

Easter has not been my favorite holiday since I grew too old for my Aunt Theresa's backyard egg hunt. I did that for my kids, of course, later, and learned that it is good to count the eggs before hiding them, so as not to be surprised on Memorial Day with petrified or putrified remnants of Easter. I do think that Easter is a good reminder of the fact that life on this little blue ball is transient. I like what Nate said on Six Feet Under, when asked by a grieving woman "why do we have to die?" Nate said "To make life important." That's a good thing to remember. And I think we do, even if we don't think we do. The daredevil defies death with every circuit of the track, the devout sacrifice pleasure for the promise of a better existence, and the dilletante rolls around in pleasure for its own sake, and frequently dies sooner because of it. Me, I just try to savor each day. It is a task, too. My natural state is misery. I lived in my martrydom for most of the first half of my life, and while I was not griled like St. Lawrence or shot full of arrows like St. Sebastian, I do have scars to this day. So I have to often bait myself to get out of bed. This week it was pumpkin pie for breakfast. Food is my passion these days. Some would think that sad, but food will never forsake me and walk out just before my birthday. Food will never tell me I am fat, even if it was the instrument of that condition. And, anyway, once it gets me out of bed, I am off for other pursuits, like education, which I find eminently pleasureable, and sometimes really difficult, too. Whatever, this life is much more because it will end. And that could be any moment now.

Things that suck...

Getting old is so interesting. I am blessed in that I do not look my age, though I am not sure anymore what 62 should look like, anyway. And the real blessing is that I don't feel my age, either. I have just a tinge of arthritis, in my right thumb, probably as a result of jamming so many times in softball when I was a kid. Coordination has never visited me in any phase of this lifetime. And I get sciatica once in a while, probably a result of sitting crooked when I drive, which I seem to do a lot (got to get out there and wave at those cows, you know). I am an impatient person, and want to get going without paying attention to my posture, so HP gives me a pain in the butt to remind me. Sigh. What really irks me is this thing about forgetting stuff. I have gotten a lot better about noting the placement of my car in lots, and especially in that hella-huge parking garage that just opened at the college, but still can occasionally be seen wandering helplessly around pressing the red button on my keyless remote, with a dazed expression on my face. That is, if I can find my keys at all to get out to that parking lot. Lately, I have made a ritual of putting them, and my sunglasses, both of which are essential for walking out the front door, in a drawer in my little roll-top desk. That has worked really well. But then there's my cell phone. I use it seldom, and it tends to live in the car, where it rests perfectly in a little niche in the dashboard connected to the charger that goes into the cigarette lighter socket. Occasionally, I stick it in my bookbag, or my purse. When I went to look for it yesterday, it wasn't in any of those places. It also was not on the kitchen table, here on my (admittedly messy) desk, on top of my bedroom bureau, on the floor by the bed (where most lost things wind up), on the living room coffee table, or under the seats of the car. I always pray to St. Jude whenever I lose things, and he has been admirably efficient in that regard. I have only lost one thing that never returned to me in the 16 years I have adopted this practice. So, this morning, I made one more sweep of the area, then sat down to have a little talk with St. J, and it occured to me to check the pocket of my jean jacket, and voila! There it was. How sweet it is. Except it would be infinitely better if I could remember in the first place. Sigh.

Creating here!

Today, we drew each other in drawing class. It was a hoot. I drew little Serena, who has a sweet heart-shaped face. The best thing was that her drawing of me was very flattering. I just love that kid! And then I worked on my self-portrait in painting. As usual, mine was different from everyone else's work. I actually did what the teacher suggested. Well, I am kind of timid and don't know what the hell I am doing, I don't have a lot of choice here. Anyway, I mixed up a lot of different values of skintones, from pinkish to brownish to grayish to greenish (like under the chin) and just kept putting them where I saw them, and voila! There I was, with a gigantic ear and a jawline that went clear to Chicago, but it was definitely me-like. Today, I got to cut back the ear, parse the bangs with some intervening skin, shorten that jaw, highlight and undertone my hair, and put in little touches like light on one side of my face, little sparkles in my eyes, shadow of my glasses over my nose. And it is really much like me. I am not unhappy. This is good. I think even the teacher was impressed. I know I was.

Things change...

I used to pride myself on being up on the latest technology. I had the latest, most up to date computer, once upon a time, an AT, large footprint, 40MB hard-drive that was partitioned 32/8 (Big Bad Mama and Lil Squirt). I menued that sucker myself, in Basic. In color! Just 30 little years later, and I have totally lost the ability to interact with my operating system. I have been trying for an age to get all these file out of my startup file so that I don't have to wait for them to load before taking off into the Internet ether. And now, even my VCR has revolted. I have this neat DVD/VCR dual deck in my bedroom, which suits me just fine, because I like doing movies in bed, with Boo and my big mug of hot chocolate. Recently, the DVD deck has refused to play. I tried all my tricks, like new batteries in the remote, open the little drawer and shut it a few times, turn it off and on a few dozen times, etc. Nothing worked. Then I asked a whole bunch of people, and the concensus was that to get it repaired would cost more than a new one, and so, I bit the bullet and bought one ( I also do not like to sacrifice or suffer without my creature comforts). And I couldn't get it to play, either. As a last resort, I got out the manual. And, voila, I figured it out! I also figured out how to get the OLD one to play, too. Sigh. Now it looks like the new one will go into the back room. Whatever, I feel very smart, and rich, both at the same time. And it was all an accident of hitting the wrong button on the remote. What a world!

Me and the weather...

For a big-boned German-Scots-Irish fraulein, I have an amazingly touchy little body. Other women sail through menopause without a single twinge, while I stew and turn red and my glasses fog over, every twenty minutes, 24/7/365. I am easily chilled, too, and almost froze off my extremities Wednesday, when I looked out and saw sunshine, and went off in too little clothes. The wind was up and it was icy cold. Then I got my barometer headache. My sinuses do not adapt well to changes in the barometric pressure. I slogged to school, of course, but am really off my feed, and now hunkered down, fortified with aspirin and praying for sleep. Last night was better, but still, not a whole night of rest. Oh, and gee, there's another hot flash! Actually, when I think about it, I am my own microclimate, self-contained as it were. Lucky me! Homework is on the back burner, as well as midterm on Tuesday in art history. If nothing changes in the next few days, the pressure should equalize for a while. Oh, and maybe I will be able to finish mowing the back lawn. That would be nice.

A side dish of humility...

After wowwing them in drawing class, I crashed and burned in algebra, with a 73 on the last test. Okay, that's a C, nothing to be ashamed of,and, anyway, if I do better on the next two (and, honestly, it doesn't seem that hard to better than that), teacher will drop this one. Meanwhile, I will just keep swimming, as Dory says in Finding Nemo, my favorite spiritual movie. Today, I drew two perspectives of objects in a shoebox, viewing them from holes cut in one end. It was challenging, mostly because I don't see that well at that distance. My eyes work well for objects far away, so driving is not a problem, and I use readers to, well, read and do close work. But intermediate stuff, like on the television, and at the end of a shoebox, well, that's problematical. So I cheated and made the holes larger. That worked just fine, actually, and I got the darned things done. While the algebra left me wounded, I did make some fine drawings of walnut shells on Monday that I am very proud of. Okay, it's not the Mona Lisa, but, hey, even Leonardo had to start somewhere!

That little old artist, ME!

After learning that I am earning a B in painting class, today I got the good news that I am getting an A in drawing. Well, I like it, a lot, and I put a lot into my sketchbook. My elephant was a pip. I finished the drawing of the little building, and beefed up my Fokker (that's an airplane, in case you were wondering). Today, I did two dynamite walnut shells in charcoal. This is a different and wondrous medium for me. I just love smearing value all over the place. And that's what we did in painting class, too, charcoal sketches. Of ourselves. Yep, next assignment is a self-portrait. We looked at a lot of them today, Cezanne, Matisse, Julian Freud. My head is spinning. It would seem that almost anything goes here. I had fun drawing myself, and got the gyst of me on the paper, I think. Hard to say. Whatever, next is a torn paper collage of the portrait, with lots of different colors of paper. How creative can one get, anyway?

Friday, after...

I had a terrible algebra hangover yesterday morning, so I busied myself with prosaic tasks that required no thinking. My house got a scupulous cleaning, which began with emptying the vacuum receptacle of a winter's worth of dirt and silt, which immediately coated the whole surface of the vacuum itself. Fortunately, I am a sensible person, so I got out my blow-dryer and blew it all off into the sunset (I was on the back patio at the time, I've done this before and know better than to do it in the house). Boo was pretty spooked by the time I was done with this process, and had to have a Milkbone to calm down. After lunch and my soap, I headed out on my Friday errands. My path deviated pretty greatly, as I went to the hardware store. This is one of two places which are guaranteed to bring me to my knees (the second is the auto supply store), but I needed some stuff badly enough to brave it. My first and foremost need was a new tub stopper-upper. Since I am female and not adverse to asking directions, I did find one, and a little strainer thingy to catch the hair in, too. Then I needed wingnuts. See, I do know some hardware jargon. Wingnuts come in 99 different sizes, but, again, owing to my common sense, I brought one from the easel that is missing one. I didn't bring one from the other easel, though, only knew it was smaller than the one I brought. I mean, how many of these things can there be? Since there are many more than I could have imagined, I solved that problem by also buying the screw that fit the nut. How smart is that! I also picked up some snail bait, and I ran into two of my college chums, both of whom remembered me, so I felt really honored. Then, on to Target, to get a little pouch to keep in my new bookbag to hold my ID, makeup and $$$. And, I wanted to replace the sunglasses I lost last week (sunglasses and umbrellas are collateral damage to college, I find). Because I was such a good girl, I bought myself a little newsboy cap to put on when my hair is impossible, like about half the time. Did I mention my scholarship money arrived the day before? How sweet it is.

Ahhhhh...

I love it when I get to the point of believing that stepping out my door is another great adventure, and I am there, again. Yesterday, I was on my way to my usual parking lot across the street from school, and I noticed this little sign on the big, new parking garage (which has been under construction forever), and it said OPEN! I was in the wrong lane to turn into it, so I continued on, and, just to be sure, I peeked in as I passed, and, lo and behold, there were cars parked in there! So, today, I parked there, too. Imagine, no more playing chicken with the traffic on Mendocino Ave.! No more lugging heavy bags and portfolios, and trusting that the crosswalk flasher really HAS been activated! Of course, it is three months behind schedule, but hey! I'm happy anyway. The rest of my day was lighter because of this. Yeah, I'm a cheap date, but that is the real key to happiness, in my book. The fewer expectations I have, the happier I am. Which is good, because I had an algebra test today. No expectations there, for sure.

God bless tthat groundhog...

It is the time of year that Californians snicker up their (short) sleeves. While much of the country still languishes under a carpet of dirty snow, the mustard is blooming in the vineyards and the thermometer is edging up through the 70's. Balmy little breezes waft through the acacia trees and the plum trees are in blossom. So, whenever we aren't up hugging trees in the redwoods or lolling in the back of stretch-out limos on our weekly wine-tasting jaunts, we are out in the yard mowing and trimming, running around the lake, playing tennis at the corner park, and chasing our dogs up and down our lovely beaches. And, to be fair, some of us are lined up at the allergy clinic for our shots, too. With all this in mind, I made the big wardrobe exchange this weekend, unpacking my spring-summer wardrobe from its storage containers in the back room, and refilling them with sweaters and flannel pjs. It is like opening a great big surprise package. My, I have some cute tee shirts! And the best news of all; my capris and shorts still fit! That made my week right there. Hell, it made my season.

I am not easily assimilated...

I want my hour back! Change is not my strong suit. I have gotten used to the seasons changing. It is easier than moping around a lot, muttering under my breath. And spring is nice, actually. But couldn't we do it without monkeying around with the time? As I grow older, it takes longer and longer to get used to it. My internal clock relies as much on the angle of the sunlight as my (pseudo) lawn does. It knew to start growing long again, all by itself. Me, I tried to ignore that fact. And for one little person, I seem to have an awful lot of clocks to change, besides the aforementioned internal one. It started with my watch, and, most importantly, my alarm clock. There is the one on the wall over my computer. And, oh look! The computer itself needs changing, which means the laptop probably needs attention, too. In the kitchen, the stove, the microwave and the coffeemaker. Then there are the VCR's, two of them. That's, let's see, TEN clocks. Amend that, eleven. There's the one in the car, also. Well, I lied. The stove didn't have to be changed because it never go set back last fall ( I couldn't figure out how to do it). I am consoling myself the I will, eventually, get this hour back, in six frigging months. At the moment, it isn't helping, though.

Oops...

Midterm grades are out, and I am earning a B in painting. Not surprised. So far, efforts have been less than stellar. Must figure out what is out of whack here. Drawing is better, easier in many ways. I have started an at-home sketchbook, preparatory to doing real drawings, which require more than a No. 2 pencil. Bought a drawing board today, as we begin the 18"x 24" size next week. What a glorious day today is! Spring has arrived, and with it, need to mow lawns. Backyard will need to be whacked down first. I am just about to go wheel the lawnmower out and see if it is in the mood to go to work, again. Lots of things have come up in front that weren't there last year, at least, I don't remember them being there. And my bulbs are coming up, again. It's like magic!

La vie est belle quand je m'amuse.

I have decided that I am either magnificently well-adjusted or totally bugnuts insane. I really like being alone. Thursday, I got home from school, caught the last 10 minutes of my soap, which is all you really need to see, because anything that is going to happen does in the last 10 minutes, or it doesn't happen at all. I had a little snack, some trail mix, and sat down at the computer to decompress with some mahjohng, my favorite computer passtime. To accompany this, I selected an album of French art music, you know, some Debussy, Offenbach, Ravel, a little Bizet, stuff like that. Now, I usually don't think of the French when I think MUSIC. I tend toward the Germans and the Russians. But this selection was delectable. I particularly love that French sense of humor, and it was there in abundance, in Dukas' Sorceror's Apprentice, in Saint-Saens Dance Macabre. I found myself smiling. It reminds me that I need to take myself lightly. Put down the algebra, and all the picky stuff about my painting, that is composed all wrong and over-worked and generally a mess. Angels fly because they take themselves lightly.

A backup apple....

I have painting class every Monday and Wednesday. Currently, we are doing two still lifes, from the same setup, one in brush and the other in palette knife. This means that I lug a bag of fruit to and from school on those days, two apples and one lemon. There is only one apple in the composition, but, you know how unreliable apples are. I take an extra one in case a big bruise springs up somewhere. So far, I have been able to remember and not leave those poor little fruits in my art locker to wither away. Actually, the lemon is the same one I used to draw in drawing class earlier in the semester. Hardy little things, lemons. A little refrigeration goes a long way. And Monday, I am supposed to bring a (white) onion and a (yellow) pepper to drawing class. I guess they can share the bag with the lemon and the apples. I guess that is better than the baseball mitt I was supposed to bring this week, like I have access to sporting equipment. What with trips to the grocery store and trips to the art supply store for yet more stuff, weekends are pretty busy here. And I am doing the brush still life over, because I didn't think enough about the composition and hate the mess I made at school. Well, that will keep me out of trouble for a few hours. Algebra and oil painting. My brain is well-toned, right and left.

Thoughts on a gray Sunday...

I have lost my broom. Cannot find that sucker anywhere. Says something about my process here, doesn't it. And I was all ready to sweep up the camelia blooms that have dropped, too. So I am back here, at the computer, listening to choral music, which seems oddly appropos because most of it is religious in nature, Verdi's Requium, Bruckener's Ave Maria. My life is steeped in Christian iconography these days what with art history and the Renaissance. I get that there was a fervency about Christianity in the music and the art of the period. I also get that artists, if they wanted to create at all, were pretty much restricted to this subject. And then came the rebirth of humanism, and we got to see things like Primavera, and the Mona Lisa. And the middle class rose from the dust, and wonderful portraits and still lifes were created. Very little is now created for the sake of religion, unless you count the recent upsurge of angels, everywhere. Ah, but the angels on my Classic Angel Screensavers are all 500 years old. I saw most of them hanging on the walls of the Vatican Museum, or in the Uffizi. Where was I going with that? I guess I will mosey over to Costco, get a new broom with the savings on ZipLoc Bags and other sundry, absolutely necessary supplies. There's a thought.

That was the week that was...

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. This last week, that is. I got irritated and decided to stay in my misery most of yesterday. It was cold. I had a huge load of stuff that I was trundling to painting class, mostly props for the new still life in painting class. I also had some (really big) library books that needed returning, and then did not get my morning brew because I had to beg for some help in the math lab on this really obtuse word problem on our algebra homework. Our drawing class met upstairs, in the room I don't like, and we did perspective drawing, which I detest. And then Kevin waxed eloquent and was, as usual, late letting us go which meant I had about 15 minutes to eat before trundling over to algebra class. We saw slides in painting class, Cezanne and Matisse mostly, still lifes, and then she reviewed our objects. I realized I brought all the wrong stuff. Sigh. Nevertheless, I arranged some of it, and did some quick sketches. Then I slogged back across the streetto my car, totally whipped. Boo and I retired early. This morning I got to have my coffee, and spent a happy hour sipping and calculating my algebra homework. Art history was about Michelangelo, one of my favorites. I had a book about him when I was 20, and 37 years later actually got to see his work up close and personal. Today in class, I was inspired by the amazing vision the man had. I had forgotten the expression on David's face, pained at the necessity of his next act. The artist captured the moment of greatest tension in this magnificent work. I left class feeling great to be alive. I ran into several friends today who were happy to see me. Algebra was fun, and I understood what we are doing currently, always a delightful moment. It didn't rain till I was home and cozy. I saw a sponsee who told me, now that she is sponsoring a woman, how amazed she was at my capacity to listen and not try to fix her. I made my favorite dinner, Mexican pizza, and played a few games with the computer to decompress after paying my bills, while listening to some symphonic music. Life is good today. Funny how that happens.

Hot stuff!

I just got a certificate in the mail stating that I am on the Dean's list at school. Wow, that's swell. And it means I can join honor societies and possibly get scholarships. Now, that's swell, too. It wasn't a goal, not really. I just thought that since I was there, and since I was paying for it, I should do my best and get the most from my higher education. Now, I see there are little perks. Now, that's sweet of them. I wonder if there's an age limit on those scholarships? This should have happened 43 years ago. But, ain't it grand that it's happening at all? Yep. Somehow it reminds me of the time I took the Mensa test. It was in one of my magazines, but I did the time limit and everything. Turned out I was 20 points shy. Sigh. Then I looked at it again, and realized I had passed with 20 points to spare, just didn't add it up right. And I figured that probably, if I couldn't add, I wasn't Mensa material after all. Must mull on this. I'd feel silly sitting in a roomful of kids at a Phi Theta Kappa meeting, wouldn't I?

Saturday, and it's raining...

All my important things are accomplished. Have had my usual non-fat latte, been to my very spiritual AA meeting, and made a fly-by to the art supply store for two 16x20 canvasses for next weeks painting projects. I made myself a hamburger for lunch, and have played a couple of games of slide-tiles with my computer (Iwon both, of course). Now for the fun stuff - laundry, mopping various areas, a wrestling match with my algebra homework, and some Boo love, a little grooming of this kind of scruffy version of my dog. The rain keeps me from pruning chores, alas. Oh, and I have two Netflix movies, Thank You for Smoking, which I've already seen, but isn't that Aaron Eckhart a doll, and Casanova, which I haven't seen yet. How sweet it is! Sometimes I think I am lonely. Not very often, though. Most of the time, I am contented with my own company. Perhaps I am meant to be my very own beloved. You think? Whatever, it is a blessed Satuday, rain and all.

I rule!

It didn't start out particulary auspicious. Today, I mean. I woke with a muzzy little headache and stomped around getting ready to go, doing all those things I need to do, like open the door for the dog, change the water for dog and bird, heat up yesterday's coffee, make sure umbrella was on board. It was cold. It was raining. And the usual army of bozos were making a mess of traffic. One even cut right in front of me and burned rubber getting through the intersection, leaving me boiling behind a red light. I said a few bad words. And considered myself lucky to arrive a school in one piece and relatively serene. There was this bitter frigid wind blowing, and I actually pulled up the hood of my hoodie. In the Coop, I got a large latte and settled down to work on my algebra for the day. My TI-84 and I got into a major battle of wills. It won. So I slogged over to art history. ( I noticed the other day that there is a hole in my jeans where they have frayed, on the side seam of my left thigh. Hmmm, I thought. Though I am proud to have jeans worn enough to have frayed, it was an odd place to have it happen. Then I threw my 40 lb bookbag over my shoulder. Aha!) We are moving from Early Renaissance (Trecento, Quattrocento) into the High Renaissance (Cinquecento). But first, she handed back the midterm, and TADA! I got 50 out of 50. My first hole in one! I can only guess that this is the backlash of my humility B on the algebra test, a modest 84. And, I studied. That works, too. Later, my calculator and I had a meeting of the minds, it stopped raining (though it is still really cold, well, by California standards), and it was my early day, so I got to fight traffic in the other direction, and am now happily ensconced here, ready to tackle solving systems again.

Spiritual hiccups...

Isn't it interesting how messages come from the Universe? Mine usually get repeated, as I am a particularly hard-sell sometimes. Take yesterday. I emerged from the house all het up, ready for my favorite AA meeting. My eye caught something new, and lo and behold, there is a daffodil blooming right by my front steps! I have lived here two years. There never was a daffodil before. Amazing. I picked up a latte, as is my custom, and proceeded to spill the whole thing after one tentative sip. And I just let it go. Just like that. It was, after all, gone. Maybe the third step meeting works? You know, that's the step where we turn our will (choices) and lives (direction) over to our good old HP. Later, I went to a memorial service. Now, I did not like this person at all, mostly because he didn't like me. He thought I was a yuppie! LIke I could afford to be a yuppie. Really. But he was a psychodelic relic, all grizzled and pony-tailed, and dedicated to organic substances while eschewing alcohol. He was also an artist, and his work, while delightful in the brushwork, was, not surprisingly, rather dark and murky in palette. He just never seemed to want to invite any lightness into his life. And he played the VICTIM, a lot. I decided he was one of those lessons I needed to learn about my own propensity toward that ilk. So, I attended his service, where I saw his children, all very attractive people, who admitted, the two who spoke, that their dad could be pretty stubborn. And another friend got up to say that whatever else he was, you always knew where you stood with him. Amen. And some old, old friends spoke on what a good friend he had been to them. I was happy to know that. And then, last night, a friend and I went to see "Venus", with a very aged Peter O'Toole, just possibly the most beautiful man who ever lived. The subject was dying. And he did in the end. Very touching and it spoke eloquently about the fleeting release of pleasure. And just in case I wasn't paying attention, I tuned into the Biography channel, a freebee this month on my satellite, and caught Leonard Nimoy's program on the strange and unexplained. It was about DYING. Specifically, it dealt with the beliefs in reincarnation, and the ramifications of karma. Now, our leader at this funeral spoke of the Christian belief, that we will be raised and appraised in the Last Judgement by the Lamb of God, and only those who have believed will be saved. How very elitist is that? So my mind is filled with things to ponder, spiritually. And my life is ebbing even as we speak. This old guy who died was five years older than I am right at this very instant. Little wake up call, I think.

Little me...

I have a picture of my two-year-old self up on the top of my little cabinet in my bathroom, where I see it often. She has big brown eyes, pigtails and a look of wonder on her face. It is the best picture of me ever taken. Now, Maya Anjelou says that every woman should realize that, while her childhood may have been awful, it is over. But, is it? I think I carry that little person within me. Her dreams, her hurts, her shame, all still are present. I know this because sometimes my feelings just don't match the outer circumstances, and it is clear I am reliving an old belief. Even more poignant is my seven-year-old self, the one that was a head taller than all the other kids, boys included (boys especially, actually), miles of legs hanging out the bottom of skirts my mother had to sew straps onto just to keep them from slipping off my hips. I realize now that I was a pretty little girl, but I felt ugly. I strived to be the best to make up for my other deficiencies, which obviously disappointed my mother, who pointed out my flaws daily. My attributes, and there were many, were ignored. So I formed the habit of surveying myself as a collection of flaws, and even worse, shameful stains of my own making. Seventeen years of recovery and re-parenting myself have healed a lot of this for me, but as in any wound, it is still thinly scarred over, and occasionally, it opens and bleeds, again. If I am diligent in my program of self-care, it doesn't happen very often. So, Maya, I think you are wrong. And I have learned that my child needs to play, a lot. Today, I am drawing an elephant.

I'll have a little guilt on the side, please.

It was an unusual Saturday night. I actually went out, to a sweet get-together of dear friends down in that other universe called Marin County. My friend has a dear little apartment, funky but cute, with a little yard in back, which is good, because she has these two big dogs. Janice is a retired Canine Companion, one of those adorable golden retrievers, and Quincy is a collie mix, long eloquent nose and big sad eyes. They loved me. Well, I love dogs. I scratch behind the ears. I coo and pet and tell them what good dogs they are. So, when I came home, to my dog, the Boo, he spent an inordinate time smelling the legs of my jeans, even got up on his haunches to smell my knees. with his eyes all bugged out so I could see the whites. His expression told me how disappointed he was with me. And, I was overwhelmed with dog guilt. I had been two-timing my best friend! Honestly, I didn't mean to do it! The opportunity was just there, right on Ruthe's rug, wagging their tails and begging to be stroked. So, first thing this morning, he got a little extra on the plate bearing the remains of my breakfast, and I immediately ran to fill his water bowl and food dish in the kitchen, and open the back door should he need to use the facilities. And I promised him, whenever I leave the house today, he can come along. I think a nice ride in the car should ameliorate my shame.

Oh, dismal day...

Raining, really hard. It is always fraught with angst when rain comes day after day here, because of our river and its limited capacity. Flood stage is 32 feet at the Guerneville bridge, which is about 25 feet over its normal level, and yet it happens, at least every ten years. That's a whole big bunch of water, yesirree. And all us folks lucky enough to live out of the flood plain get to drive through hella-big puddles and suffer road closures all over the place. Even the freeway gets closed at the county line where a creek meanders under it. Nature can be downright rude sometimes. Meanwhile, in the little yellow house, I am readying for a quiet day of studying my functions and graphs. I think I am okay here, but it never hurts to hedge my bets. In between problems, I am going to work on my eyes. I drew the skull and four views of eyes from the handout our drawing teacher gave us, but want to spiff them up with darker values (how about that, I'm learning the lingo!) and maybe try a couple more, like the ones he said not to do because they are too difficult. Piffle! I can do difficult! Eyes in profile? No problemo. Actually, they all have turned out to be not too bad, and I am happier with these renderings than I have been so far. Now chomping to go to a museum and do some sketching of sculptures. How artsy-fartsy is that!

Progress report...

School is like a spaceship launch. It starts off looking pretty benign, just a little steam billowing out the sides. That's the honeymoon, time to get all excited about learning new stuff. Then the countdown, three, two, one and BOOM, you'd better be suited up and onboard, or you are toast. This weekend, I am drawing eyes for drawing class. This is progress, because last week, we only got to draw ears. My first algebra test is on Monday, so I am doing the chapter test, odd problems only because the answers are in the back of the book. No, I really do the problem first, before looking up the answer. Really. And I will be writing a short paper for painting class, on a book my sweet little teacher left at the reserve desk in our fabulous new library, Hawthorne on Painting. Oddly enough, there were no illustrations in this little tome, so I went online (God bless the Internet) to see his work. I found it highly eclectic, portraiture, landscapes, and still lifes. Apparently, he just loved to paint. And his style varied according to subject. He was capable of finely rendered portraits, but his landscapes were a cross between Monet and Van Gogh. Anyway, his message was just put one color next to another. This is the way my teacher paints, as well, as if his canvas were one giant paint-by-number project, except the numbers are in his head. Probably a good way to do it. It's definitely an instinctive process that evolves out of just trying things. And, if there is time, I will be perusing a scholarly book about Cezanne and the end of impressionism for Art History, in preparation for a paper due next month. All in all, not a bad way to spend my time. Not at all.

Get thee behind me, hubris!

Like the good little student that I am, I did my homework for drawing class. We were assigned to draw a wine glass and a clear tumbler, studies in ellipses, ellipses, and more ellipses. I actually bought a champagne glass at the weekend flea market for a dollar rather that muck around in the morass that is my garage looking for my packed-away wine glasses. Then I set up my little 5 X 5 inch card and drew away. Well, today in class, he selected my drawing along with two others to show to the class. Gee, ain't I special! Actually, he spent more time on what was wrong with it, and, while I liked mine better than most of what the others had wrought, I got to see where I need improvement. This is good, right? This is why I am a student and not the teacher. I am remembering this now. My process seems to be I start, I hate it, I keep going, it gets a little better, and in the end, it is just wonderful, too wonderful to have been done by me. So I just keep working, just keep working.

Hot Saturday night...

After wrestling with my algebra homework, I took me, myself and I to the movies last night. I had been wanting to see Pan's Labrynth for weeks (RottenTomatoes.com didn't give it a single splat), but could not find anyone who had not already seen it, and my regular movie buddy is not up to edgy, dark films. So, I thought, I'll just go alone. Like, it's far from the first time I have done this. I went to the movies by myself almost every Saturday afternoon of my teeny bopper years. Then, you got a double feature, two cartoons, a newsreel, and an episode of a serial (Zorro, Flash Gordon, Captain America, etc.) for 30 cents, and a box of Flicks for another 10. Now, it cost me $6.50 (senior discount rocks!), I skip the candy, and get very excited over all the previews, which I missed for 8 years living in west county and going to the Rio (quonset hut) Theatre, where we got one movie a week, and seldom anything extra. I was not the only single in the house last night (I checked, of course), there was another woman a few rows in front of me. The movie was everything I thought it would be, dark, tense, scary moments, and some enchanting stuff, too. Actually, it was like a double feature packed into one movie, two interwoven stories, and either one would have made a great film. Some stuff I just couldn't look at, very brutal. But it was a great statement about human nature, and the atrocities that power can wrought. I came home knowing that was time and money well spent, something that does not happen very often in this strange life. Happy to report that I am a great date. I thanked myself afterwards, of course. We're planning on going out together again, soon.

Put me in coach, I'm ready to play!

Just a little impatient here. I brought home my drawing pad, so I could spray it with fixative and do some homework. We're supposed to draw a transparent glass. Not very challenging, you say? Right. So far this week, we drew drum sets (!), pipes, and little bottles. Also, we did a design with little flat stuff, like matchbooks and nail files, both positive and negative. Really boooooorrrrring! Where's the meat? Last semester, I drew Da Vinci portraits. I drew a sheep. I drew leaves and shells, not just their outline, but their details with contained shadows. I really want to draw STUFF. I am sure this will happen, and really, I could be doing it right now instead of griping to the whole wide world, but gee, I might do it wrong. And I want to do it right. That's why I am taking this class. The good thing is that I find whatever I am drawing, it absorbs me in a way nothing else does (except painting, of course). I love doing this. And I am poud of my ink bottle. Very proud.