Planned obsolescence and me...

When I was a kid, TVs had cathode ray tubes, kind of like fancy, tube-shaped light bulbs. Every once in a while, one would blow out, and you called the TV repairman, who came, pulled out the chassis and replaced it. Even the big one, the PICTURE tube, could be replaced for less than the cost of a new TV. Not any more. Now, we just chuck the whole thing and buy a new one, at half the price of the one we are throwing away. Kind of sad, yes? Partly, this is because technology has been on a tear for the last few decades, and everything electric or electronic is doomed to be obsolete before you can get it out the door of Best Buy. Which brings me to my current denouement. I broke the lid of my mini-Cusinart. Well, you might think I could still cover the top with something, anyway, except the lever that works the whole thing is what broke off of the lid. And I had a moment of grief, imagining my dear little workhorse nestled among the coffee grounds and egg shells in the kitchen trash. Then I had one of those AHA moments, googled Cuisinart parts, and ordered a new lid, for $17. It comes with a new bowl, but what the heck, I like shiny newness. This is about half what a new machine would cost me, so it is a bargain. And I need that little sucker. It whips up my pancake batter for me every day, and it chops garlic, such a dear little friend who helps me stay infection-free. And nuts, oh, I love chopped nuts on, well, EVERYTHING. Maybe having two bowls is a really good idea?

I want my country back!

I saw this program about South Korea the other night, about how 1/3 of the country now considers the United States the greatest threat to their national security. Gee, 30,000 Americans died on their soil so they could express that opinion. But that generation, the one that remembers the Korean War, is dying off. The young ones only see what Geo. W. has done. That bozo, and all the others who voted for him, TWICE, should be twisting in the wind. Our international reputation has always been problematical, what with the astonishing prosperity and power we possess, and now, it is in shreds. Even our allies are looking at us askance. Shoot, I remember putting together little care packages for our soldiers over there: needles and thread, bandaids, things like that, in school. Of course, I also remember air raid drills, when we all dived under our desks and covered our head, hid our eyes so they wouldn't be toasted by the atomic blast. Now that threat is behind us, and we have a gigantic internal implosion going on. One of the things I saw when I was in Italy is how young our country really is in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps we needed to be taught a lesson or two, lessons that much more seasoned countries have already learned. I was listening to Hooked on Classics last night, sort of slumming for intellectuals, and remembered the thrill of a Souza march on the 4th of July, a great sense of pride that I am an American, and America stands for freedom. Apparently, that doesn't extend outside our borders, not any more.

Immortal Pickle...

Here she is, all immortalized in art. I did this from a photo of her lying beside me on the red couch, which is now blue, courtesy of futon covers. This was a while ago, before her bottom teeth started showing all the time, and before her ears fluffed up alarmingly. I love my Pickle. And I can barely wait for her to be all grown up and, hopefully, settled down. My Boo is sweet, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Pickle is a pistol, smart as they come, full of herself and an amazing amount of energy. She just keeps going, and going, and going. Now, I don't know if this is art, but, to me, it is precious. I hope not too precious, though. I want to avoid coyness in my art, always. My dear friend who was my first teacher once did an enormous painting of a buffalo, very carefully rendered, but, for some reason, something around the eyes, I think, it looked like it was shy and about to blush. I take that lesson seriously. Animals are not toys, you know. This little one has a fierce spirit, for sure.

From the sublime to the ridiculous...

Here is a little watercolor I did at my class yesterday. Remember when I was the oldest person in every room at school? Well, now I am the youngest senior in the room. All the others are these sweet little ladies who name their pets Mandy and Skipper, and paint careful little scenes with picket fences. Me, I just start slopping paint all over the place and call it "painterly". Bill, one of two token guys in the class, noticed that. It is also evident that I am an oil painter by nature, as I like lots and lots of color. Actually, watercolors do some rather neat things all by themselves. I have come to depend on that happening in my work. I don't have a clue what I am doing, but it sure is fun. I stayed for almost the whole session working away at this oeuvre, and that's a first for me. Usually, I get done and head out after about 1 1/2 hours. Oh, and I didn't get my picture in to the teacher in time to be hung in this fall's show, sort of flaked out. Whatever. Next time.

oh, frabjous day!

Both my computers got new mice today, wireless ones, that are sooooo slick. And they were both on sale, and one had a rebate on it, and I am sooooo stoked. See, I told you I am a cheap date. Doesn't take me much to be all gooey with joy. When my computer is working, like it is at this moment, it just doesn't get any better than that. Of course, I forgot to install the software first before hooking up the mouse for my Big Bad Mama. Can barely wait to see what that does, like things I probably didn't even know I wanted it to do? Now, that's sprinkles for the frosting on my cake of life.

Sunday morning musings...

Although Pickle had surgery on Friday morning, she was back to the old Pickle by that evening. I have a page of instructions on dealing with the damage, only to find there isn't any, according to the Pickle. She happily jumps on and off the couch. She plays ball. She goes outside and lays in the dirt. We had a serious talk last night, and I told her if I find any Pickle guts on the floor, her ass is grass. Didn't slow her down a bit. The incision looks just fine. And pain pills? We don't need no stinkin' pain pills. Of course, I gave her one, anyway, hoping it would slow her down a little. No luck there. I don't know whether to be happy or not. Certainly, health and vitality are no problem when you are only 6 months old. Poor Boo whined and moaned for days after getting his ears cleaned out. We went through many pain pills and lots of hand-wringing. What a difference 10 years makes. Meanwhile, it is full fall here, as evidenced by the plethora of leaves on the front psuedo-lawn. After the meeting, I think I will bundle up in my sweats and rake, thereby setting the good example for the rest of my leaf-blower crazy neighborhood, though raking makes no noise, so no one will notice anyway.

It's a cruel, cruel world...

Little Pickle got her operation today. Everyone goes, oh, no! What's wrong? Nothing, and nothing will be, now. She is altered, figuratively as well as literally. Dogs do not do sick well. She is looking at me like I should know what to do, and I don't have a clue. There are pain pills, for tomorrow. And I am supposed to keep her from jumping up or down onto furniture. Yeah, that'll happen. The first thing she did was lay down out of my line of sight, and when I checked on her, she was outside laying in the dirt. Oh, no! Not good! I think she has settled for a while. Tonight, she will sleep by the side of the bed, to prevent any accidental jumping in the night. Gee, I remember when having a dog meant that you fed it table scraps, brushed off as many fleas as you could, had a litter of accidental puppies or two, and only took it to the vet when it got hit by a car. It has gotten a lot more conprehensive than that these days.

Oh, I've got joy, joy, joy, joy deep in my heart...

Well, not exactly. But I'm working on it. Here are my little fur people. Hard to get them both to stay still for the time it takes to depress the shutter, that's for sure. This was one of a whole series of photos of Boo with this fuzzy golden blur next to him. They are at my feet now, and we are about to hit the sack, watch Grey's Anatomy, ignore the debate. I hate those things. Like anyone ever tells the truth. Just took down the market umbrella and folded up the patio chairs for storage. Rain is coming. This is all very welcome and okay by me. My pedicure is worn pretty thin, as is my bank account, after spending megabucks getting this system all cleaned up and adding beaucoup RAM, so that it is now lightening fast and such a delight to work with after months of waiting, and waiting, and rebooting, and waiting, again. Full of crap from those pesky adware folks, and too weinie for the programs I loaded to try to block the flow. Now have state of the art anti-spam, anti-virus, anti-adware programs, and a regime to follow, and a tech-support guy to call when it gets gooey again, as it always does. At least I didn't have to buy a new computer. This always looks attractive, but it means finding all my software to load onto it, and hours of waiting for this poor limping system to download all my data files to disk. Going to do that soon, just in case. In fact, thinking of an exterior drive to keep all that stuff on, for the next big crash. Okay, all over the place here today. Must be the change of season.

Pictures of dead dogs...

I am writing, again. Which may surprise you as it appears to be what I do here. But this is different, it is fiction, it is from my imagination rather than my observation, and it is hard to do, most of the time. Except it isn't, this time. Strange, I admit. My Low Fat Fiction course has taken off and taken effect. How gratifying. My first three terribly short (300 words or less) stories got turned in last night, and I chose one to read aloud in class workshop, an autobiographical, sentimental piece (although they don't know that, and I will never tell) from my childhood. Now, my childhood was spent with people who had hair-trigger tempers and definite ideas about who I should be every moment of every day, so there was bound to be undercurrents of that angst, though I wrote the piece from the totally objective viewpoint, though in first person. Some of what I did was deliberate. Most just kind of flowed out. All but one sentence of the piece survived to the final draft, an expositional, and unnecessary sentence about childhood dreams unrealized and outgrown, a sentence that dragged the whole piece down with it. And they all got it! In fact, they got even more than I wrote, like the narrator would not do the same thing to her daughter as her mother had done to her, a totally true statement. And my teacher said "Wow"! How sweet is that! If you are wondering about the title of this entry, well, that's a thought for my next piece I am currently mulling in my seemingly fertile cerebral cortex. I actually got to that place I needed to visit to write, that "no mind" mind, where memories and observations live but do not reign. I can get there when I paint, for sure, and my work is best when I am not thinking about it. My writing is, too.

The Official Pickle Update

My, how she has grown! She is both tall and long, a regular pre-pubescent, lanky, needing-to-grow-into-herself gal. Suddenly, her bottom teeth show all the time, presumably because they are bigger than her mouth can accomodate at the moment. We are hoping that will change later, as she looks like a little thug a lot of the time. And look at those magnificent ears! Busy little thing, our Pickle. She love the backyard and happily patrols the fence line for any activity in the adjacent driveway, which she loudly protests, drawing Boo out to add to the chorus, and giving me lots of exercise chasing them both back inside several times a day. I hestitate to say it, because every time I do she proves me wrong, but I am hoping she is housebroken. Certainly, except for times she has gotten into the studio and peed on the plastic drop-cloth (which is why I hate piddle pads in the first place), she has dutifully taken her business outside. Energy, thy name is Pickle. She runs circles around Boo, then drops like a stone, and snores like a lumberjack. It is honestly alarming the amount of noise that can come from that little body. And her feet are still hella-huge, so it looks like there's a lot of growing to still do. Next Friday, she is off to the vet for her little operation. Perhaps that will slow her down, if only for a day or two. Oh, and did I mention, the other night she crawled up onto my chest as we lounged about the bed in our pre-bedtime lovefest, and spit out a tiny tooth. I almost feel obligated to get a baby book to commemorate it.

And the winner is...

Here is the completed painting I started on that sultry Sunday just a couple of weeks ago. I changed the color of the plate from blue to white, and yellowed up the pears a little, gave it more value contrast, don't you think? What? The plate is wonky, you say? Hey, you want perfection, take a photograph. Painting is about my impression of the plate, the pears, the whole caboodle. I am happy with the finished work, I think. At least, I think it is finished. Always hard to tell, you know. Aiming for a body of work, suitably framed, to do a little exhibit here in town, send it up the flagpole, see if anyone salutes it. Would be nice to have some monetary appreciation for my art, whether it is weinie or not. Whatever it is, it is mine, all mine.

How interesting...

Sunday, I went to a play. This is a rare and wondrous event for the cow-waving woman, tied as I am to hearth and home with the Pickle baby. She is happy in her Pickle pen, and now can be left for around 4 hours without worry, so I journeyed out to Monte Rio for Art, a play originally written in French, translated and performed on Broadway, where it won a Tony. It was interesting on many levels. Only three actors, all men. The action centered around Serge buying a painting, a white painting with just a few diagonal, whiter stripes, and the ensuing opinions (or non-opinions) of his friends. This play was written by a woman, and all three men were somewhat effete, although all portrayed as heterosexual. Must be a French thing. I liked them. They were like my girlfriends. I especially liked the ditzy character who kept trying to conciliate, and wound up on the edge of a nervous breakdown. And all throughout the play, I kept thinking I knew one of the actors, but could not recall the circumstances of our acquaintance. It niggled at me and niggled at me. And last night, I opened the program and remembered. Aha! He modeled for my figure drawing class, and I have several drawings of him in my portfolio, naked. No wonder he was hard to place! I especially remembered that hip-cocked stance he affected many times during the play. He was like a little bird without his clothes, not many angles and kind of tubular, hard to draw. But he was also animated and sweet. And a fine actor, too, I found out.

Changing woman...

I'm changing as fast as I can here, but it all seems to have out-distanced me, like, overnight. Fall has fallen. Gray mornings, nippy little wind in the afternoon. I turned the furnace on for a short while yesterday, only to switch it off when the internal (and infernal) heat system kicked in. Really tired of hot flashes. Ten years of these suckers. It's better than the beginning, when they were sweaty, red-faced, hair-frizzing blistering hot and happened every 20 minutes 24/7/365. Now I only get 4 or 5 a day, usually after drinking coffee (and no way is this cow-waving woman giving up caffeine, it's my absolute last addiction), but also in the doldrums of the day, the hours between 3 and 5 PM. Anyway, I am not ready for fall here. I still have the remains of my last pedicure to show off in sandals. My drawers are full of tank tops and capris. The long sleeved articles are still in their storage boxes in the back closet. And you know, I just hate dressing for the wrong season. Okay, all this is so not important, which should tell you that my problems truly are in pole-vaulting-over-mouse-turds status. It is hard to dredge up something to worry about. Hope I am up to the challenge, because I worry about having nothing to worry about.

Pandering? I don't need no stinkin' pandering!

Ah, the Republicans must be scared out of their tiny minds to put Sarah Palin on the ticket with Mr. Whitest Man on Earth. I must admit, I thought it a rather sneaky thing to do, since I was a Hilary person, and felt the tug immediately. And then I got to know and loathe this woman. I have known women like her in my lives, both before and after sobriety. They pant for power, but not the inherent, subtle, humane feminine power our sex is given divinely, but the big, controlling, my-way-or-the-highway power of men like, well, John McCain, who knows the only way to do everything (and he is not sharing that with us, just yet, you may have noticed). It isn't inexperience that terrifies me. It is ayatollah-like fundamentalism, the regimentation of all women into her particular and very rigid way of thinking. Someone should tell her that rigidity is dangerous, you can become brittle, and break easily. Flexibility comes with open-mindedness, adn the ability to see that not everyone has the same reality as I do, and even if I don't like that reality, I can accept and honor that they are as entitled to their way of thinking as I am. The Republican Party lost me when they began touting "family values". I want the government out of my hearth and home. The government's job is to keep that home safe from invasion, keep the street lights on, and the school's open. Period.

Into each life some rudeness must fall...

Someone stole my garbage can. It sat at the psuedo-curb (our unincorporated pocket surrounded by city has no amenities, like curbs) an extra day because of the holiday on our usual pick-up day last week, but, hell, it has done that on many an occasion. And I really didn't miss it till Friday, as, being a solo garbage maker, it takes a while to accumulate a bag of that stuff, and the fact that it was no longer at the psuedo-curb just meant that I had forgotten I had already put it back by the side of the house, but, gee, it had evaporated. I made a mental note to call the Garbage Company, then promptly forgot, till Monday morning, when the three trucks were grinding loudly by, twice each. Garbage day is almost as noisy as leaf-blowing days, you know. And when I called, the young man who assisted me was pretty rude. They could charge me $75, you know, but out of the kindness of their hearts, they brought me a new can at no charge. Well, how very KIND of them, considering anyone could steal my can at any time, from the side of the house, out front, and it's not like I can go anywhere else for this service, as they are THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN. A friend noted that I could bag everything up and make a monthly trip to the dump, only 10 miles away, and for $12, dump everything. Not a bad idea, actually, but I would need to also visit the recycling center to continue my quest to be greener this year. Thinking about it. And then, our fickle weather went from tongue-drooping, armpit-dripping hot to gray skies, and even a little (gasp) rain, so that when the dogs went out for their unsupervised morning constitutional (while I snoozed in a little), they trailed mud in with them when they returned, all over everything, including the pillows I throw down by my side of the bed so that Pickle will bounce when I kick her off the bed in the middle of the night for fidgeting. Loads of laundry, mopping, and vacuuming followed. Gee, rudeness is exhausting. And did I mention that my new garbage can seems to have shrunk? That means I had the wrong sized one before, or they think I don't deserve a nice commodious one after being so wanton with the last one. Sigh.

A painting a day keeps the doldrums away!

Another one, my sunflower retrospective, which will have to hurry up and get done before the flowers wilt. This is just roughed in, if you were wondering. Actually, I kind of like its esquise feel, but I know that in the end, I will doubt that anyone else will like it. So I plan on punching it up today, a good time to do that as it is gray and drizzly outside, so a day slapping paint in the studio sounds lovely. This is an activity that takes me so far away, the time just buzzes by, meals get forgotten (and that's HUGE, believe me), and I just tuck my tongue in my cheek and turn off all that chatter that normally plays on KCWMfm, 64.1 on my cerebral radio dial. Many moons ago I read The Seat of the Soul, by Gary Zukav, a physicist turned metaphysicist, who spoke of emotions like they were wavelengths. Fear, hate, anger, etc., all resonate on the lower bands of the spectrum, whereas love, compassion, joy, etc., are higher frequency emotions, and really set things to humming. I feel like I am there when I paint, in that place of joy. And I think I am finding my muse, the one my painter friend said would come if I just kept playing with it. Pushing paint around on canvas, what an interesting way to play!

Sunday afternoon pursuits...

Here is how I spent my afternoon. All us artists paint sunflowers, you know. Me, and Vincent Van Gogh, and Egon Schieler, and Gustav Klimpt, among others.
And pears, well they are just so sumptuous and wonderful to paint, with their full figure and sensuous curves. My, I had a hell of a lot of fun, inspired by my stunning success yesterday, and by the amazing paintings of Dana Hooper. Happy, happy, joy, joy. Now to order frames and get a gallery to represent me, and paint a whole big retrospective of works, and, well, just keep going. All I know is that, when I am painting, I am in some other world where things are softer and much more fun than here and now. What can I say, it's a form of meditation, one with a more tangible reward than just peace of mind, yes?

Artist, that's moi!

This is an image of an en plein air painting done at the end of last semester, on campus. We didn't have a cafeteria all last school year, they tore it down, and are in progress of erecting a regular Taj Mahal of a new one, so we were relegated to these umbrella tables or inside a nifty tentlike igloo, which always smelled really strange, like wet sidewalk and plastic bottles. Fortunate that we have really fair weather 90% of the time (or not, if you are watching the water table). My teacher was impressed that I chose such an intricate scene, but I feel ready for anything these days. Excited, can you tell? Still searching for my vision, indeed. And my mentor, Mylette Welch, displayed yesterday at the auction, too. Mylette does whimsical portraits of dogs, big, slap-happy, tongue-wagging dogs. I hope someday to own one of her paintings, and a house with lots of walls to display it. Ah, life is so very interesting sometimes. And, about those cupcakes, the artist's name is Dana Hooper, and her work is phenomenal, see her at www.danahooper.com.

How sweet it is!

Just back from the Art for Life auction, where, guess who sold a painting! Of course, it didn't get a bid until just before the bidding closed, and I was reconciled to taking it home, and being satisfied that I had the courage to TRY, which took some hutzpah, let me tell you. There were droves of fancy-schmancy people at this event, some of them rich, some of them polished, some of them veteran artists who could paint a picture of cupcakes, 6"x6", and sell it for $1,050 (this actually happened, and they were very artistically rendered cupcakes, but jeez Louise, that's a lot of $$$ for a tiny painting, and all because this artist had a NAME, which I can't get if I just hang my art on MY walls, right?) Anyway, my dear friend who supported me through the afternoon had just had a birthday, so I took her to dinner at Cricklewood, a favorite eatery here in the county, and the place to go for prime rib, which was butter soft and beyond sublime, and it was, all in all, a day of triumph for the cow-waving, newly validated, woman. Exhausted now, ready to strip to shorts and tank and lay around in the waning, very hot day, and digest that lovely dinner, and savor this moment in time, when I can truly say, I am an ARTIST.

That's me all over, and Boo, too!

Here is a quick little self-portrait I did in a jiffy, since it was due on Monday and I was away all weekend, and had only Sunday night to diddle it up. Yep, that's the cow-waving woman, and her little dog, too. My daughter says I look like Harry Potter. Oh, well. It was shortly after I went short, hair-wise, and I am wearing my Salvation Army collarless shirt I use for painting, hoping to spare (yet another) pair of pants a sprinkling of indelible oil paint. This was not my first foray into self-portraiture. I did one my first semester in painting that was honored by being displayed in the student art show. It was criticized for various reasons, like I didn't smile, I left out my eyelashes (well, looking over my glasses in the mirror, I couldn't see them), etc., so I remedied all that in this portrait. It was done at night, and I like the effect of the lighting a lot. Yes, it looks like me. Funnily enough, this is an easy and fun thing for me to do. I got into the zone and just slapped away for about an hour and a half, and VOILA! C'est moi! My teacher asked how I got Boo to pose, and I had to admit he was sleeping at my feet as I painted. I used a prior photograph. And as to how he is suspended there, just imagine my arm around his middle, below the picture plane. I like to think this painting was divinely inspired. Well, I like to think we are ALL divinely inspired. So, there.

Hit me with your best shot...

So, today, I, little old artist, me, took my painting in to be hung in the Art for Life silent auction to be held on Saturday. Now, I had to have it juried in, and they accepted it, so it can't really be crap, can it? I just know that hanging my art up for the Big Bad World to see is like stripping naked in front of everyone and handing them rotten fruit to throw at me. I plan on attending the artists' reception Friday evening, and ask some of these "artists" to tell me how long they had to say they were an "artist" before they felt like they were'nt fibbing. Or maybe I should just brave my way through, and pretend, like everyone else, that I know what I am doing. And, please, SOMEBODY, buy my weinie painting. VALIDATE ME! If someone who is not related to me would just spend a little $$$ on my art, well, how sweet would that be. Oh, it's called "Black, No Sugar". How droll am I?

Everything old is new again, and again, and that could be a good thing...

My movie buddie and I did breakfast and a movie yesterday, because her movie of choice was in its last few showings at our local Smart People's Movie Theatre. Now, I love my friend, and because she still works (AWWWW) and is not always available, I am willing to cut her some slack about choosing the movies we see. This one was Brideshead Revisited, which was once a favorite PBS miniseries of mine, starring a very young and callow Jeremy Irons, as well as notables such as Claire Bloom, Sir Laurence Olivier, Sir John Gielgud, etc. I was interested to know how they were going to squeeze all that material that generated a six episode series into a two hour movie. Also, I wondered if the original tone of the piece would emerge, as the previews I had seen seemed to tout it as a love story. I must admit, I was impressed. It was one of those lovely Ivory-Merchant clones, with incredible cinematography, loving attention to costume and set decoration. The Jeremy Irons clone who played Charles Ryder was admirable (and had the most sensual mouth I have seen for many a moon), Emma Thompson played Lady Marchmaine with considerable restraint and Michael Gambon was dear as the old lecherous Lord Marchmaine. I did think that Sebastian was a little too gay, and terribly frail looking. But best of all, the original thrust of the Evelyn Waugh novel, the diatribe against the Catholic Church, remained, and seemed even more evident in this condensed version. I give it four and a half out of five stars, only because of the blatancy of the homosexual element, which was handled ever so much more delicately 25 years ago. I don't know if we have evolved, or just become more dense in the eyes of movie producers. It was, above all, an entertaining morning at the movices.

Is it just me?

Does anyone else have this problem? I have ITunes (and an IPod, I love that little gizmo), and the other day, I noticed that my playlist had reversed itself. It began in reverse alphabetical order, and the tracks played from last to first. How did that happen? Honestly, give me a mouse and I will screw up any program. Well, this just would not do. I have SYMPHONIES here. They are meant to be played in ORDER. So I went to Help. This facetiously named program is anything but. In the index, I looked up tracks, and found that I can shuffle them around manually, like I do when creating a playlist to burn a CD, but I didn't think that would work for 36.5 days of music (and that's only a 6th of the GBs my little IPod holds, how sweet it that). And I could sort by artist (first or last name), genre, play time, gee, anything but alphabetical or numerical number! Then I went over all the little icons around the page, because they all do something and chances are that is how I got into this mess, by clicking when I shouldn't have. Then I scrolled down every menu item on the title bar. Nada! Eventually, in some obscure place, maybe under "order" in the Help Index, I saw that one can click on the column head, and VOILA!, it is all back in the right order. Which taught me that I cannot play Freecell on top of the ITunes page anymore. And I hope it never happens again, because, chances are, by then, I will have forgotten how I fixed it in the first place.

The Pickle invents a game...

All by herself! They really mean "smart puppy" when they print it on the puppy chow bag! Anyway, here's Pickle's game. We have a couple of stuffed balls, about the size of grapefruit. They are fleecy and squeezy and have a squeaker in them, too. Little Pickle can pick up these balls and carry them around in her mouth, which is a sight to die laughing over, let me tell you. Well, one day as I sat here at my computer, she brought me the ball and offered it to me. When I tried to get it, she played keep-away, and when I did manage to grasp it, we played tug-of-war. But the best came when I got it, and threw it, and we played fetch! And she taught me this game. Now we play it ALL THE TIME, until, like now, she drops like a stone. Now we play it with any stuffed object, like the squirrel that now looks like road-kill. Once in a while, Boo plays spoiler, and takes the ball over to his corner and chews on it till he gets tired and ambles away again. And once in a great while, he plays with us. Ah, life is sweet in the Little Yellow House. Simple, but sweet. The true secret to happiness is not to want too much. I seem to have learned this lesson. Now, to not forget it too soon. That's all I ask.

Long time, no blog...

It is definitely true that the more time one has, the less one gets done, though I do have a baby here, a dog baby, but a baby nevertheless, and she consumes a whole big block of time everyday, being escorted every hour or so to the piddlepoo spot outside, continual removing of tiny objects like scraps of foil from her mouth, and refilling her puppychow bowl. And I water the psuedo-lawns and vegetable containers regularly. Daily, I sweep feathers and birdseed from the counter around the birds and lay new papers for their perusal. Most days, I light out for a meeting, getting all spiritual and recovered in the process, unless, like last night, I make the unfortunate decision to take Pickle with me, resulting in a total lack of serenity since she morphed into a Tasmanian devil on cocaine. In self defense, I signed up for a short writing course, of short stories, of course, at the Junior College, LowFat Fiction, and began a watercolor class at the (gulp) Senior Center. All the little ladies were very solicitous, and I made a really weinie painting in just over an hour, experimenting as I went along, the hustling home to the baby in the Pickle pen. All is well in the Little Yellow House, where life is slooooow and picayune. Just right, in my opinion, which is the only one that counts here, anyway.

I save the planet...

Perhaps I have mentioned that I now own a pedometer. Actually, it is the second pedometer I have owned - the first one had a puny clip and I managed to lose it within 24 hours of its purchase. Nevertheless, I was adamant that I was going to start a walking regime, and it was meaningless without this little gizmo. So far, I hoofed it over to Safeway, green shopping bag in hand, and back again, a little over 3 miles. Then the dogs and I walked to the bank, 2.75 miles, with only a couple of Boo poo stops, and a short chat with the mail lady, who pulled over to ask about Pickle. (Imagine that! Pickle stopped traffic! And sweet dog person that she was, she paused a moment to admire the Boo, too.) And yesterday I walked to my Third Step Meeting, something I have always meant to do but never seemed up to. That was 4 miles, round trip. I am not counting Tuesday at the County Fair (itr was free day for seniors), where I was on my feet for 5 straight hours, perusing the flowers, the schlocky booths selling cooking utensils, sewing machines, massaging recliners, and various other invaluable items, the amateur artwork, the cows, sheep, goats and Budwiser Clydesdales. I saved a lot of $$$ on gas this week, to say nothing of my little corner of the environment. And I am getting in shape, again. Maybe the trick is to stay in shape in the first place? You think?

The Pickle Progress Report

Well, little Pickle is going to be big Pickle. Though the breed standard is 12 lbs for bitches, she is 3 months old, and already 6 lbs. Pekingesus Giganticus. Here she is wearing her "I-didn't-do-nothing" look. She still cannot get up onto the bed or the couch by herself, so Boo is safe when there. Otherwise, he is fair game, and she trots along beside him like a barnacle on a whale, except when on a lead, when she drags way behind both of us. Well, she just went on her first walk in the neighborhood today, as we just finished puppy shots on Monday, and all those big vehicles and especially all that noise had her pretty scared. She loves her rawhide bones, and rocks and woodchips and straws. Luckily, she does not object to her Pickle pen. Just give her a milkbone and she is ecstatic, and will stay there happily till I return. And she is pretty good in the Pickle box in the car, too. Of course, she is a show-stopper wherever I take her, cute and frisky and ready to be adored by the world. Sometimes at home, she is not all that adorable, like when I found her secret piddleplace just when I thought she was on track to be housebroken. I am smarter than she is, though. I put a piddlepad there, and am slowly moving it closer and closer to the door. And we are all sleeping until 7:30 or 8 AM, thank you, Pickle. It only took 5 weeks to get her on California time. She is, all in all, a dandy little dog.

Perversity, thy name is Pickle...

In keeping with the ongoing theme of my life, which is that even though I plan and scheme, nothing goes as I think it should, the Pickle is performing admirably well. We are hip deep in dog toys around here: rubber squeaky ones, stuffed squeaky ones, balls, hard rubber knobby ones, twisty rope ties, rawhide bones, you name it, we got it. Yet Pickle finds anything left on the floor: pieces of straw from the broom, kleenex (the worst, all over the rug yesterday), a sock that found its way to our backyard (hey, not mine, really), cotton balls, even balls of Boo fur, and turns up with them in her mouth. I bought her a cute little pink bed to sleep in. It has moved from the bed to the floor beside the bed, as Pickle cannot go through the night without a pee break (sort of like me, actually), and we had a couple of accidents necessitating mucho laundry. Think she sleeps in it? Oh, nonono. I found her curled up on my cotton pj bottoms yesterday morning. I was kind of flattered, actually.
And one of the main reasons I got Pickle was to get Boo off his little Boo butt. She works on this a lot, now that his proximity alarm has been dialed down. Now she can jump all over him while he stands there in the shreds of his dignity. But let him try to play with her and she hides under a chair. This morning, they actually had about five minutes of interplay, all Boo's idea. I sat here enthralled at the vivacity. It was over before I knew it, and worth all the laundry, lost sleep, and, oh God, expense.

Life on hold, again...

I lost my wallet. Again. Seems this is doomed to happen at least once a year. That's okay. I know the drill. Go to bank, cancel VISA check card, and cash a check large enough to cover necessities for 7 to 10 business days till card comes. Call Discover Card, cancel that (they kindly overnighted me a new cardat no charge, that' how well they know me) Drive, very carefully, to DMV, fill out 7 part form, sit 45 minutes clutching little slip with call number on it, pay $22, get a sheaf of papers without a picture (no good to write a check). Good news is that last of cards arrived Saturday. After I stop by the bank this morning to establish a PIN, I can hit AAA for a new key card (handy when I lock myself out of the car, another of my favorite passtimes), and go to Costco and get a new card there. I know that drill well, too. I have lost my Costco card, all by itself, more times than I can recall. It always surprises me that whoever found my wallet (and I know someone did) didn't just keep the cash (about $23) and return the rest to me. How hard would that be? No one ever has. I guess the lesson for me is that, if I find your wallet, you can be assured you would get it back, even the cash. I would call you immediately to tell you I have it. Meanwhile, I am using the old one with the shoulder strap, so that it is securely tied to my body wherever I go. I cannot lay it down on the counter at Staples and forget it there. Or drop it somewhere in the ensuing 30 foot walk to the car. Sigh.

Brown sky in the morning...

Oh, dear. We Northern Californians have not seen blue sky for a week now. Our fifth season started early this year, fire season. Perhaps you have heard about this, like eight hundred or so fires burning in our state. It wasn't the Gold Rush that gave California its nickname, the Golden State, you know. It was the plethora of sunlit, golden hills. Dry grass, everywhere. Tinder dry. And if Man was not stupid enough to start fires with his campsites and cigarettes, then God steps in with dry lightening. Brown skies are awful. Depressing, yes, but unhealthy as hell, too. My canary and parakeet are doing well, glad to say. But I am not. Sore throat, flaming sinuses, and viscious headache, too. So, I do what I do when it is hot. I go the movies. The air there is cool, and smoke-free, too. Yesterday, I saw Wall-E, which funnily enough is about an earth so polluted, the population has fled to space. Really wonderful film, by the way. I am so grateful that I am no longer self-conscious about going to Disney films, without a kid in tow. I am a kid, underneath it all. And I felt better when I left, too. Refreshed. On the way home, I caught a glimpse of blue through the sunroof. And later, taking the Pickle out for her last potty stop of the day, there was a definite hole in the dirty stuff, hazy blue with a sprinkling of cottony white clouds. Never been so happy to see blue sky before. Our marine layer is back this morning, and it is looking gray, like maybe there is blue in our future when it burns off. Yay.

Well, finally!

The $$$ from Geo. W. came yesterday. I am suitably stimulated. So far, I have been to Petco for a Pickle carrier, handy-dandy foldable washable airline-appoved zipup bag for the little one in the car. Yay. Also Bitter Apple to spray in places where she should not be chewing, so I can relax a little. Then to Best Buy for a couple of cherished CDs. And this PM, a trip to Safeway for my favorite new ice cream, Cinnamon Caramel Cashew, which somehow disappeared awfully fast. Is anyone else uber-irritated at that thing the checker does, read your name off the receipt and thank you using your last name? Does that mean there is a Safeway supermarket secret police force that knows everything I buy there? Are they watching my ice cream consumption? Do they know I am addicted to Cool Whip? Oh, God! I'm so embarassed here!

And where does your zucchini come from?

I harvested the first zucchini from my little veggie garden in the back yard yesterday, chopped it up, sauted it with garlic and herbs, tossed in some seafood medley (calamari, shrimp and scallops) and some pasta, dredged it with parmesan, and voila, le diner! I don't know about you, but this was something of a miracle here in the little yellow house. I have never grown anything, much less something edible, that I actually ate. And, as we speak, there are a couple of dozen tomatoes on my six little plants, so many that I had to prop them all up. Happily, everything is still alive and kicking, and getting ready to give me a happy, healthy summer of organic veggies, still warm from the sun. How sweet is that!

If at first you don't succeed...

When I moved in from the house on the edge of the world, I got this dandy deal from the cable company because I was a "dish conversion". Then the introductory period ended, and the bill went through the roof. So I went back to the dish, a different provider. School heated up, I got really busy, and the lousy service just got tolerated. Once in a while I would throw something at the TV, like in the mornings when an episode of ER would suddenly morph into Spongebob Squarepants, or the company logo would pop on and float around the screen like some neglected jetsom. Taping became a real challenge, too, as I often got an hour of that self-same logo instead of the desired program, until I realized I had to set the dish as well as the VCR. So it was a priority to get a different service once I finished all that academic stuff. And I did. And I hated it. The cable company service was more expensive than the dish for less channels. And they had the balls to charge me an installation fee, without mentioning it. Their onscreen guide sucked, too. Now, I am housebound for the moment, with the baby Pickle (I know she's a dog, but she's still a baby, too), and I need my entertainment! So, I am back with the dish, a different provider. In fact, the same one I had at the coast, where there is no cable. And it has improved substantially. The remote is a thing of beauty, it even turns both TVs on and off, a feat not possible to date. And, I got DVR! Wow, that's slick. I've already set it to record my soap everyday, and some movies on the premium channels I got, free for the first three months, and some programs coming on in the middle of the night, like episodes of Sex and the City that are so hard to find in the schedule. Just love this! Ain't technology grand? Hopefully, this is it for a while. Only end left dangling is that the installer guy took the business unit out of the dish that was up there, and I need to return it to my former provider. Spent a few hours today trying to get them on the phone, then finally e-mailed them. That is why I kept that lousy, overpriced, glitchy system for so long in the first place.

I am not stimulated here!

I got all excited by this envelope in today's mail marked "Stimulus Payment". Finally! I thought they had forgotten me (this is not unusual, I always think that). And it was a notice from the Feds telling me how much my "Stimulus Payment" will be. Like I couldn't figure that out from the CHECK. Really, guys. How many trees died so you can send out these cheesy notices. Just send me the CHECK. And for the record, I already knew how much mine would be, I looked it up online. I already spent it. I really need that CHECK. Yesterday.

Moans and birdsong...

The Boo is mighty unhappy. He had his teeth cleaned, toenails clipped, and ears probed yesterday, a full day at the vet's. Now he is expressing his dismay, as Sunny, the canary, sings away in the kitchen, and Pickle rolls around on the floor with a stuffed ball about as big as she is. Surreal, that's what it is. Given my druthers, I would go back to bed. Alas, not to happen anytime soon. So, some work (laundry, dishes, dusting), some play (a mystery novel, a walk), some love, even from taciturn Boo. A cup of coffee helps. And at least an hour will be devoted to reading my new writing book, and perhaps a sojourn into one of my burgeoning novels. Fear of mediocrity, get thee behind me!

Equal time for the big boy Boo...

I keep telling him I only got the Pickle because I love him so much. Boo is not buying it, as you can see. He is very eloquent in his disdain, turning away and strolling off like royalty amongst the rabble whenever that annoying little furball comes near, wagging her tail at him. On top of the bed, on the couch, and on a kitchen chair are his only bastians of solitude, since Pickle is clueless of his dislike, and just keeps trying to engage him in her play. I play with both of them at the same time. That is probably why I have two hands. The day may come when they will play together. Or, this may just be a distant and unreasonable goal. I seem to be burning a few calories here in the process, never a bad thing. Nevertheless, Boo's proximity alarm seems to be lessening in distance, and it has only been six days. Stranger things have happened.

Pickle diaries...

Well, it is as if she always lived with us, the Pickle. It is like having a baby. You think you are getting your little one on a schedule, but, in reality, they are regimenting you. Sleep was a little tricky in the beginning. Pickle sleeps beside me on the bed. Boo sleeps on the same side, at the foot. Pillows separate them. This works fine, I found out. Since she is still on Missouri time, we get up really EARLY, like 4 AM the first night. I prevailed in getting her to sleep in till 5. Yay, me. Today, we got to sleep in till 6, and I was soooooo grateful. Of course, I turned off the lights last night at 9:30. Sigh. Well, that's what VCRs are for, right? Meanwhile, the Pickle can go outside by herself, and today, she learned to come back in, too! That doesn't mean she is housebroken, though. She still needs reminding. My days are about evenly divided between amusing her, looking for her, or fitting in some time for myself during her many naptimes. Dear daughter says she looks like Gizmo, from Gremlins. Well, yeah. Blessings come in small packages, full of spirit, joy, and love.

The Pickle has landed!

We had a hilarious trip to the airport yesterday afternoon, my friend Gina and I, the Pickle pickup party. We left earlier than I meant to, because suddenly got worried that her flight was coming in at 5:33 PM St. Louis time, which meant two hours earlier. Not to worry, the time we had was right, as I found when I remembered I could just look it up online. Nevertheless, it was good that we were early, as we had to find out where to get her, which meant Gina had to bounce into the Continental terminal while I hovered outside in the car at the curb, until the little policeman in the tiny golf cart honked at me, and I had do the terminal circle, again. We parked at the wrong garage, and took the Airtrain around to our terminal. We were supposed to be on the red train, but got onto the blue instead, and had to double back. None of this phased us. We were in hysterics most of the afternoon. Pickle's flight was six minutes late, and then, suddenly, there she was. She was a mighty happy little puppy, not at all frazzled from her eight hours in the crate. She had food and water and comfy papers to cushion her. We took her in the crate back to our car, then got her out, with some ingenuity as she was sealed in with plastic ties and we had no scissors. I just took the top of the crate off and lifted her out. Cute doesn't begin to describe this pup. She is happy and sweet and licky and bouncy. We stopped at In 'n Out Burger on the way home, she had some water, but didn't piddle till we got home, on her piddle pad before we took her inside. She slept next to me all night, with just a couple possible piddle runs. And we all got up, Boo, Pickle, and I, at 7 AM to begin our new life together. So far, she has negotiated the few stairs we have, actually used the dog door once, and jumped off the couch. She is at the moment taking her fourth nap of the day. We saw the vet this afternoon, and she is perfect. So I got exactly what I wanted, and what a blessing she is. My mother said why get one so far away, why get a fuzzy one, she's too expensive, blah, blah, blah. Oh, go rain on someone else's parade. Mine is perking along just fine.

Countdown to Pickle landing...

Two more days, and our family will grow by one. Little Pickle will arrive Thursday at one of our Bay Area airports (oh, please let it be Oakland, so much closer). I have conscripted a friend to accompany me with a full kit of Pickle accessories: water, piddle pads, towel, toys, Milkbones. And a trip to Petco gave us lots of goodies, little bitty bowls, little bitty collar, little bitty dog bed (to put on top of big bed, where we will all sleep together, a threesome, Boo, the Pickle, and I, and that's as exciting as my life gets), and a handy dandy enclosure to keep her safe when I go out, or when I am washing the car or working in the yard. I also got Puppies for Dummies, and plan on boning up on my training skills so that we start off on the right foot. It looked expensive, this proposition, but this is my present for stopping smoking nineteen years ago, and the cost of smoking for a year (at least the way I smoked, two and a half packs a day) would be approximately $4,095. I am getting off cheap here, really.

Almost here!

We are on high Pickle alert in the little yellow house. Our new puppy, if they can come through with a current picture of him next to my name on a piece of paper, we're not buying air here, is white and tan, sweet and scruffy, and, hopefully, small. His parents both weighed under 8 lbs., so he should be a little bugger. That would be nice, as I could keep him forever in the Pickle tote bag, which is now sitting by the door, all ready for the little guy. Boo listens intently when I tell him about his new adopted little brother and looks like he is all excited, too. Or maybe he just thinks I am going to give him a Milkbone. Exciting time here. Puppies bring so much love with them, warm fuzzy love, too. I have had some heartaches lately. Pickle will be very welcome here.

Appliance wars...

Our weather is flopping around like a dying fish. One day, it is triple-digit hot, and the next it barely reaches the half-century mark. I had retired the heat dish to its summer home in the garage, replacing the fan which came inside for duty. Now they are both sitting, side by side, awaiting the current day's offerings. Yes, I have this tender little body that does poorly against changes in temperature. I wear a sweater to the market year round because of those chilly refrigerated aisles that always make me shiver and goosebump up. Probably there is no ideal temperature for me, because the interior temp changes often, too, especially because of my inordinate love of coffee, a demon for causing really violent hot flashes. But I am ready for whatever gets laid on me here.

Stick a fork in me, I'm done!

Another semester is history. Last of the finals today, and they saved the best for last, the art history memory bowl. I did pretty well, I think. Like, perfect. Or damned near. What a difference studying makes! And I took back the last of my library books, sold the textbooks back, cleaned out my locker and my slot in back of the painting room, then rode the funny elevator with the windows in back up to my car in the parking garage, for the last time. Sigh. Well, for the last time in a while. I will probably go back for some more education, eventually, like next spring, when I plan on taking that one pesky class I need to graduate in my major. And maybe another bout of figure drawing, and some more painting classes, like watercolors, and, oh, I want to take a photography class, and, well, you see, it will go on as long as I do, probably. But for now, I need to go around the house and collect all the shoes that seem to have migrated to odd corners, and mow the lawn, and do some laundry, and renew my driver's license and cancel my #$%^&** satellite service and get something that will not change the channels all by itself, right in the middle of my favorite programs. Yeah. Sounds like a plan for tomorrow, when I have nothing to do.

Pomp and Circumstance, Then and Now...

Saturday, I mosied over to my hometown for my high school's centennial celebration. Tents were set up on the football field (first time my toes ever danced on that grass) for decades of classes. Right across from the 60's tent, where I hung out most of the time, was the 20's, 30's and 40's tent where my folks hung out, briefly. Long enough, though for my mother to get her picture in the Sunday paper, representing as she did the Class of '39 (Dad was '38). They weren't the oldest there, either. Meanwhile, back in the wild 60's, we were variously fat, wrinkled, grizzled or otherwise beaten up by life. Some were recognizable. Most were not. Nevertheless, we were there, alive and kicking, and for the most part, healthy, too. My feet were killing me, so I schlepped out of there after five hours. Got to see some really great old faces.

And, so, from the ridiculous to the sublime, my daughter graduated from law school the next day, magna cum laude. What a beautiful young woman she was in her velvet cap and purple-edged gown, with her juris doctorate hood trailing behind her. The Hon. Willie Brown was the guest speaker, an alum of '58, so it was a lively ceremony. I loved that they played Pomp and Circumstance, which was missing at her two previous graduation exercises. And the recessional was done to the final credit music from Star Wars. I just loved that bit of whimsey. We had a lovely dinner together before she was off with man and friends in tow for a mega-party at a local bar they shut down for the occasion. Oh, and did I mention she ran the Bay to Breakers in the morning, in an old cap and gown? What a kid. As we speak, she is at her bar class, with tons of materials, buckled down for the next 10 weeks till the exam.

And I have now taken my first final (a snap), am off to my final critique in principles of color, then home to buckle down myself for the biggee tomorrow morning, the art history blue-book torture test. Will be done, soon. Not too soon for this tired little lady.

As soon as school is over...

My whole life is hung up till school ends. I have been shopping for possible Pickles (my new Pekingese pup), but can't get him/her till school ends. The yard needs attention. The house is a natural disaster. I need to get my driver's license renewed. Only 1 1/2 little weeks. Last art history class this morning, and we are in the 20th century, when art melted its container and went all over the place. We learned about Dada Monday, and it seems impossible that it could get stranger than that, but we haven't even gotten to Jackson Pollock or Andy Warhol yet. Actually, I think our book skips old Andy. The gal who wrote it probably didn't like the wig. And last painting class is this afternoon. I am doing a very large, very fast copy of a woodblock print by Chiuro Obata, a Japanese American who taught art here in the Bay Area. Lovely colors. But what was I thinking, a 24" x 30" in two little three hour sessions? I like challenges, that's for sure. Happy to report, though, that I got an A on my color portfolio, and on my mythology presentation. So, if it ever ends, it will be a success, for sure.

Seeing red...

My parents have never been to my house. To be fair, I am older than dirt, so you can imagine how old the folks are. However, one of their favorite supermarkets lives half a block away. Sigh. So, my mother is kind of flying blind when she buys me gifts for the house. One of them was this really goofy cannister set, beige with grapes and vines all over them, blue lids with little bunches of graped for topknots, and lots of curlyques around the top and bottom. If they sound awful, well, they were. But, loyal daughter that I am, I put them on my counter and stored flour and dried cranberries and nuts in them (don't bake anymore, and don't use sugar, coffee is in the fridge), for about eight years. And suddenly, I looked at them and said NO MORE. Today, I bought a set of ultra-sleek bright red cannisters with airtight lids, each with their own handy dandy spoon attached, four of them. At Target, for $19.99. Best $20 bucks I have spent in years. Every time I walk by them, my heart goes pitty pat. My kitchen looks like, well, MY kitchen. Okay, it's not much of a rebellion, but I think it counts. And when my mother goes to her reward, the kitchen table is going to the Good Will, too. Can't do it yet. She may want it back. Yeah, she's like that.

Some days I should just stay in bed...

Actually, I used to schedule mental health days spent all scrunched up with pillows, quilts, laptop, dog, and a few good movies on the VCR. I usually couldn't make it past 3 PM, but I felt renewed anyway. And then there are days when the perversity fairies take over, and things just don't perk along as they should. It started with forgetting to put the pot under the brewing coffee, not a good idea at all. I stubbed my toe. I dropped an egg on the floor. Somehow, I got breakfast together, then sat down to check my e-mail. And, no desktop! Again! Now, I know how to get around without my icons, but what a pain. So, after a trip to Costco and most of a noon meeting, I sat down to work on it. Annoying pop-up kept telling me I had infections on my disk, click here and send $$$ to rid myself of them. I tried running my pop-up zapper. It wanted more $$$, too. Then I found my desktop, got online, and downloaded a super-duper zapper. And after running it, no desktop! Again! I walked away for a while, always a good idea, as steam was coming out my ears by then. Later, once again, I got it back (secret is getting into MSCONFIG file, once I found it), and now we are perking along. Very slooooowly perking along, but even limping, I am happy the good old gal is back. And it is perhaps time to retire her, though it would not be any different with a new, slick sucker. Those viruses are everywhere. Makes me want to pull the covers over my head.

Hair today, hair tomorrow...

As a teenager, my mother will tell you I was obsessed with my hair. This was because the good hair fairy skipped a generation and left me with all this admittedly very shiny, but also very fine hair (my kids got the thick, luxurious locks, thus sparing my mother's angst). To this day, I pack the kid's tiny baby hair combs in my Baggalini. I have tried it short. I have tried it long. It is best short, I decided, and got it all whacked off recently, in stages, so I could lessen the shock. It looked so good, I couldn't figure out why I didn't do it sooner. Then I remembered. Short hair is always too short when you get it cut. Then it hits optimum length, and looks super. For about three days. Then it is too long, and it looks lumpy and bumpy and lopsided. Lots of product helps, but it also makes it look like I am wearing a haystack. It stays that way until the day you decide to get it cut. That day, it will look absolutely fabulous. Hey, I don't make the rules. I just laugh at them.

If this is heaven, there must be cheesecake...

Last night was my womens' meeting's semi-annual potluck. As usual, Bev made her amazing pork roast. The rest of us supplied salads, side dishes, and of course, desserts. That is what I always bring, because there are lots of wonderful bakeries around that make it for me. I mosied over to Costco after school, and sidled up to the cheesecake division of their bakery, and there it was: Key lime cheesecake. Now, I adore key lime pie, and cheesecake, well, let's just say if I was diagnosed with a deadly disease, that is all I would eat for the rest of my short life. My mythology teacher says some scholars think ambrosia was not a drink, but something solid. That would be cheesecake. I must admit, last night's offerings were very healthy. We had edadame salad, and sauted tofu, and roasted veggies with our pork roast. And left room for the three desserts: an amazing chocolate walnut meringue, a mocha refrigerator cake with apricot filling and whipped cream frosting, and the aforementioned key lime cheesecake. I was pretty pooped and uber-hungry when I arrived. After the dessert, the sugar high kept me up till midnight. But it was worth it. I brought home the last piece, which I consumed only a moment ago. Burp.

The other side of the mountain, finally...

Okay. Paper on Schiele is done and turned in. Mbuti project is done, critiqued and hanging on the wall in the hall of the Art Building. And the project on the P and J myths from Genesis, the contradictory and highly discriminatory stories of the creation of Adam, and in particular, his gal, is finished and properly presented to the class. I was the first to do that, got extra credit, and it went pretty well, not the best, but not the worst, either. And now, I am ready to fall into bed for the entire weekend and not think of anything. Except maybe beginning to study for next quiz in art history. And make a new collage for an abstract painting in oil painting class. And read the Hymn to Aphrodite in the Homeric Hymns. And mow the lawn. And wrap my daughter's graduation present. And clean the house. And do the laundry. And walk the dog. And make a whole bunch of phone calls, like to the DMV to make an appointment to renew my driver's license. Okay, that's about all for now. Luckily, I have a three day weekend to accomplish all this. It will all be over in a month, just one little month. Groan.

Ta Da!

I hired my friend the handy dandy landscape person came over recently and together, we tamed the jungle in the backyard. Only took three hours, with frequent breaks for water and schmoozing. I weeded and trimmed, she mowed, a major feat as it was really overgrown. Got war wounds wrestling with the blackberries that have taken over the north forty, and a little color on my nose and shoulders. It was so much fun, I have been ambling out there everyday and doing a little more. I planted vegetables! This has been my plan for three years, and it finally happened. None of the little suckers have died yet, though one zucchini looked a little peaked. If all goes well, I will have tomatoes, green peppers and squash out the wazoo, enough to fill up a sweet little basket and take them to friends. I have always wanted to be one of those people. I also planted two sunflowers, mammoth ones. If they come up, I am going to be soooooo excited. My roses did not get pruned this year, and are all bushy but still putting out lots of blooms. The wisteria got overgrown and so heavy part of it broke off, poor thing, but we propped it up again and tied it to a big stake and it is happily if sparsely blooming, too. I just got in from watering and feeling pretty darned abundant with this great space to play in. Now Boo won't come in encrusted with burrs anymore. How sweet it is. All because I asked for and got help. We can all use some, you know.

I love you, California...

That's actually our state song. My mother knows all the words to it. Funnily enough, I don't, though I know all the words to the Hawaiian state song, in Hawaiian. Don't ask. Anyhoo, our sweet state enjoys a lovely temperate climate. In 24 hours, we have gone from thermal sweatshirt/heat dish weather to tank top/ceiling fan weather. I released my toes from their cotton prisons and painted them coral pink. And, with a little help from a friend, we tamed the backyard jungle again, so that it looks like a country club. The yard of shame is all tidied up, as well, and the car got it's zen carwash this afternoon. If this is not enough to convince you spring has sprung, just get a gander of the tomato, pepper and zucchini plants I plopped into the barrels out back today. Am I something or what! Also have pretty pink shoulders. Love that vitamin D.

Morning in the Yucatan, afternoon in Zaire

I spent my morning up to my neck in Mayan myth, all about Quetzlcoatl, Xmucane, and the first four humans, Jaguar Quitze, Jaguar Night, Dark Jaguar, and Not Right Now. Really, that's their names. Just love those Mayans. In our Color Theory class, we are doing Mbuti cloth reproductions, which is really fun, like kindergarten for college students. We each got a big square of brown paper, which we wadded up and got all wet, then spread out to dry. We tore the edges so it is irregularly shaped, then began painting it like a crazy quilt, paying attention to dark and light, warm and cool, bright and dull colors. Each section then gets its own design, large and small, active and quiet, etc. I nearly went cross-eyed painting this one black patch with yellow tiger stripes, but it came out fine and really is striking. And I love the yellow patch that I decorated with black dragonflies. Not as thrilling or wonderful as some of the students who came before me, pretty rough around the edges (like me, I suppose), but it will be an original, for sure. How much fun can one little old lady have, anyway?

She puzzled and puzzed...

I was thinking about Buddha today, as this was his birthday, I think, April 8th. That symbol for yin and yang, the circle split in two, black and white, each with a dot from the corresponding side, do you think that means that there is a blessing in every trial, and a trial in every blessing? This is a world of dualities: black and white, dark and light, old and young. How can we know joy if we never know suffering? Would you give up joy to not suffer? I don't think so. Joy is too precious. And rain, well that's just so I can appreciate sunshine. And winter brings the spring. Too bad I cannot go back to young now. I would savor it so much more than I did when I was there. Which reminds me, my birthday is coming. Will you still love me? I'm going to be 64. Paul McCartney is single. There's a thought.

Have some perspective, my dear?

Ah, the beauty of other people's travails. I sojourned down to Marin County today, that bastion of the botoxed and beautiful. I used to work down there, and never could get a line on what was happening. Lots of shiny cars, mostly in black and white and silver and gray, with a smidge of champagne beige to add some class. Lots of all-natural-fiber folks, looking fabulously green and firm. Today, I met with three former office-mates. Three of us are retired now. The youngun is still toiling away, though from her residence, which keeps her sane and far from our mutual boss, dear man that he is. I began this day toting about my cross-du-jour, a potpourri of angst that ranges from a sticky situation with a relative to the usual champagne-taste/beer budget stuff. And I came home happy and full of gratitude. These women are facing ailing husbands, chronic illness, adolescents learning to drive (been there, done that, bought the t-shirt). Me, I am hanging together fairly well health-wise, and my greatest responsibility is the Boo, who is at the moment, all well and sassy. How sweet it is, a soupcon of perspective keeps the blues away.

The weather inside...

Just returned from a little walk with little Boo, bag of Boo poo in hand. I noticed that today's weather pretty much mirrors my inner climate. On the surface, it is a pretty day to look at, all sunny and springy. But once out in it, there is a little chilly, goosebumpy breeze that sometimes just gets downright cold. We have not seen the last of winter. And I am kind of bearing my own inner chill, too. There was a time when this was outrageously importune. I am happy to say that my troubles have shrunk down from peaks and valleys to speedbumps and potholes, not major collisions, just occasions to pause on the shoulder of my highway of life and rethink my route. Today, that took me to (soul-sucking) Safeway, and that carrot cake that has been calling me lately is now in my fridge. Sigh.

Taking care of business...

I have been chewing on a troublesome problem now for a couple of weeks. What to do? Is this my fault? What is my part? Stew, stew, stew. And today, I remembered. I never could think myself into right action. The only thing that works is acting my way into right thinking. Wow, what a relief! So I am just doing what is in front of me. I went to a meeting (always a good idea, because others are dealing with real problems, stuff that is probably not temporary, like mine), then I got the car serviced (and only 500 miles late). I stopped at Trader Joe's, where I bought myself flowers. Also, some sushi for lunch, some avacados, some flaxseed cereal, some baby carrots, cage-free eggs, peppermint tea. Now I am here, relaxing into the day, about to take the dog for a walk before I assemble my outfit for tomorrow's trip to Marin County, where I am outclassed even before I start my engine, but always try, anyway. Not thinking too much today. Just taking care of business, as usual. All will fall out the way it is supposed to, any time now.

What. Ever.

Funny how retirement kind of takes the zing out of holidays. Easter, of course, was never a real holiday anyway, falling as it does on Sunday every year, and hell, I got Sundays off every week. I guess, like everything, holidays do that cycle thing. It was a time of new shoes and lots of candy when I was little, then smelly, long high mass early in the morning, followed by egg hunts and stomach aches. I liked the new dress and hat, for sure. Later, I had my own kids, and got to do the egg dying thing, and the egg hiding thing, and learned the importance of knowing how many eggs I had hidden to forestall a nasty surprise on the 4th of July. Then there were the champagne brunches or ham dinners, a long parade of them through the years of my middle-class marriage. Single parenthood moved holidays to more convenient times, as I was seldom the custodial parent on the really important dates. And now, well, holidays are a great time to go to the movies. Or take a walk with the dog, as I am doing this afternoon, now that he is perambulating on all four legs again, followed by a trip to the gas station (at least they are open - another major annoyance is all the stores are CLOSED!) for a gallon for the lawn mower. And maybe a Taco Bell cheesy beefy wrap for dinner. Okay, maybe not. But Taco Bell was open.

Tit for tat...

Happy to hear the professors are fighting back. Yes, I have been to ratemyprofessor.com. Verrrrry interesting. And pretty much dead on, these kids are. The design and composition teacher was a ditz. The geology professor was a peach, and a chili pepper, to boot. The American history guy was ho-hum, but hell, he played the banjo, how sweet it is! Now, MTV lets them tell the other side of the story. Which takes me to the coffee kiosk by Emeritus Hall, where I was tanking up for comparative mythology class, and talking to this other older lady, just chitchat. And I asked what she was majoring in, and she replied she was a teacher. Duh. So I told her how much I appreciate her. I think that's all anyone wants to hear, that those they served feel well served. Never hurts.

We plan, God laughs...

I am a born planner. Give me a year and I will plan the perfect weekend. And all that would be just fine if not for OTHER PEOPLE. A woman I do not know all that well but who I would like to know better suggested we do a retreat together. This was in April of 2007. So I sent in my deposit, and began planning. My dog was a major concern. He is older, and in need of medication at this time, and I didn't want him in a cage anywhere for three days. And, at the very last moment, my dog sitter couldn't. My only option was to trust a guy I really don't trust, because I was also responsible for driving my friend to and from our retreat center. Which made my retreat much more edgy than it might have been otherwise. I don't think I ever really arrived there, at this lovely convent right on the beach in Santa Cruz, with all these lovely other retreaters. We wound up coming home early, my friend to do some work, and me to hug my little dog, who, when I finally got him back, was walking on only three legs. Fortunately, that seems to have cleared up. Let us hope the infection does, too, because he missed a few pills while I was away. All of this teaches me that I must always have a Plan B in my back pocket. It is fortunate that one lesson I have learned from my eighteen years of recovery is to be flexible, and not to over-react to unexpected circumstances. And to always accept the responsibility and look at my part in the picture, because that is the only thing I can do anything about in the long run. And that I am perfectly human, and incapable of seeing the future. Wow, that's a lot! Some people I know who are a lot older than I do not know this stuff. I put myself on the mailing list for future retreats, and will try again next year. As long as I am sober, there is always hope.

It's not easy being me, Vol. XXXVIII

I am getting ready for my weekend getaway, which entails a great deal of thought and preparation, so I am a little distracted. Last night, while blowdrying my hair as I simultaneously heated up my curling iron, and ran the fan and heater in the bathroom, I overloaded the circuit and everything suddenly got dark and silent. This being not the first time I have done this, I know exactly where the circuit breaker box is. Since it is on the side of the house, and our little neighborhood does not have streetlights, I first had to know where a flashlight was. I found it in the third location I searched. Not bad. And yes, two of the little switch thingies in the box were at half mast, so I pushed them up to line up with the other soldiers. And nothing happened. I mulled. Since the computer was not on the now-dead circuit, I googled "overloaded circuit", which gave me all kinds of information, none of which told me how to un-overload that damned thing. Next action was to call Sue, who is a former homeowner and a fount of information on all sorts of things mechanical. Sue told me about the master switch, and that I couldn't hurt anything or myself by turning everything off and on again. I decided to wait for daylight to do that, which means that this morning I had to find an extension cord so I could put a lamp in the bathroom to do my leaving-the-house necessities like curl my hair and makeup my face. Curiously, I know I just saw an extension cord somewhere. At the moment, it still eludes me, so I pirated one from the lesser used side of the bed. Actually, I looked better in the light from the little lamp than I usually do in the bathroom overhead. However, I probably do not want to have to jump over the cord several times a day just to look 55 again. I made a little stab at those pesky switches again before toodling off to school, still loathe to turn off everything. I mean, that's hella-drastic. And once again, it did not do the trick. Off I went to study the Mahabhrata, then a truly spiritual experience at WalMart. Home again, I threw all caution to the wind, made sure everything I valued was off, and pulled the big switch. Nothing. Back to the circuit breaker box, and gee, those two errant soldiers were way out of formation again. I coaxed them back, and voila! We are cooking with gas here! And now I know what to do when it happens the next time. Which, spiritually speaking, it always will. Life on life' terms. My karma.

Help me, Obiwan Kenobi! You're my only hope!

Did I mention that I went gaga for Star Wars? I actually had a pirated copy of the movie (I didn't do it, it came to me in a round about way) long before it came out on video. Remember what a phenom it was? We'd never seen anything like it before. Of course, now we are inundated with digitally enhanced special effects, so much so that story and characters play a backseat role. Where is the Obiwan Kenobi of this millenium? Will we ever see another character with so much, well, character? Whatever. I am thinking, HELP, and that is what came to mind. I am taking my art history midterm tomorrow. All I will have in hand is a pen and a blue book. Everything else must be firmly in place, in my tiny head. The old brain is strained, for sure. Though, I did get my quiz 100% perfect, plus 4 points for extra stuff I threw in because I knew it. So maybe it is doable. I am finding that I learn a lot when material is presented to me this way. Multiple choice is maybe too easy? Oh, not. Thanks to Mr. Thompson who will make the quiz on the Mahabharata multiple choice. I could never remember all those names, for sure. The Pandavas and the Kauravas, Yudhisthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva, Paraudi, Krishna, Durodyana, Karna and that's just the beginning. Seriously overeducated, no doubt about it.

The yard of shame is no more!

It is, once again, lawn-mowing season in the neighborhood. Mine wouldn't start. The lawnmower, I mean. I filled it up with the dregs of gas in the red gascan that spits all over me when I turn it upside down, pressed the red rubber thingy three times, and sputter, sputter, sputter. Not even a healthy sputter, but a puny, throat-clearing ahem. So I put it back in the garage and went on a concentrated search for the manual. It wasn't where all the other manuals are, the can-opener and coffee-maker and microwave and toaster manuals, manuals I will probably never need to find again, ever. After a quick prayer to St. Jude, who is in charge of finding things for me, I located it in the tool cupboard. And it said that maybe my gasoline was old. Did you know that gasoline could get old? Well, if not, now we all know. So maybe I needed to drain the gas tank and start with new gasoline. Except that it didn't give me any instructions how to do that little thing. While I was fuming away, a friend called me. And she is the queen of lawn-mowers! In all her years of dealing with these balky things, she had never gotten an old gasoline problem. So I followed her instructions of pushing the red rubber thingy five times, trying (really hard) to get it started, and if unsuccessful, let it stew for a half hour and try again. And that worked! The psuedo-lawn is all mowed down and neatened up! And then it died, just as I was putting the finishing touches on. So I am off to the hardware store for a better gas can, one that doesn't have a dribble problem, and a funnel. That sounds like a quicker, easier way to go. I may even give the backyard a little try. Maybe.

How sweet it is!

I finally got my grades from last semester. Well, first I got this dandy little certificate in the mail saying I had achieved Dean's Highest Honors for the Fall 2007 semester. Really? I thought I royally blew the math final, as you may recall. Then this morning I learned I had scored 100% on my mythology test, and I am pretty sure I did the same on my art history test, so I decided I could now look and see what was up with that last semester. And, lo and behold, three As and a B in the dreaded Math 9, Finite Mathematics! Which makes me want to bang my head against the wall for not looking sooner. And the best thing is that I never have to take another math test as long as I live! My mythology teacher told the class today that they had "young and resourceful brains", and when I snickered he told me "yours is young and resourceful, too". And I think now that he is right. Just a little attention and I can remember the geneology of Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, or that Soufflot designed the Pantheon (otherwise known as the Church of Sainte Genvieve) in Paris in 1755, and that it is Neo-Classical in style. New neural pathways are spitting out all kinds of information even as we speak. So, bravo, synapses! GRATEFUL.

My love affair with Oscar...

It was the 80th Academy Awards Sunday night. I have seen at least 60 of them. Well, that may be in my imagination, we didn't have a television till I was five, and probably they did not televise them till I was around eight, so that means I have only seen 55. And while I would like to say I have seen all the Best Pictures, I will admit that The Unforgiven remains to be viewed (I am westerned out from my youth, Wagontrain, Cheyenne, Sugarfoot, Maverick, etc. etc. etc.), and I skipped The Departed, which just seemed too sleazy. But I did see No Country for Old Men, and was delighted that it rose to the top, since the Coen brothers are idols of mine. Fargo and Raising Arizona and Oh, Brother Where Art Thou bristle with imagination, something that I find in short supply in this world that makes movies of old (and bad) TV sitcoms, video games and amusement park rides. And it is adult imagination, not easy to grasp even for college-educated ones, like my daughter and me. We looked at each other and wondered if the other knew what the ending of that film was all about. Luckily, we are adult enough to admit we don't understand something. And we left the theater feeling good that we had seen this film so we could tell people we had seen it. It just seemed like an adult way to while away a windy afternoon in the City.

PS I also saw Juno, and there is another film with dynamite dialogue, sweetness without the sap, a hopeful little movie about acceptance, surrender, letting go, and redemption. Mostly it was about being different, and how that can or cannot serve you. Diablo Cody certainly knows that, and wasn't she the epitome of daring, wearing a leopard-spotted gown among all the glitz? I liked it better than Tilda Swindon's pajamas, though.

Boo is home, and all is right with the world...

Mothers everywhere know the frustration of dealing with a sick baby, one that cannot say what is wrong, yet writhes in pain and discomfort. Then God gave us dogs, and we all get to know that awful feeling. Boo had been on the mend, then last night, he suddenly was in godawful pain, scrambling around the bed, howling and trying to get comfortable without much success. The first "emergency" vet I called could not see us for two hours. "But" I screamed, "this is an EMERGENCY!" So we went to another clinic. Of course, once he got there, he was no longer howling, and except for his usual vet demeanor, which consists of tucking his tail firmly between his back legs (you're gonna stick that thing where!) and trembling all over, he seemed almost normal. Which led this vet to begin to ring up test after test, xrays and such, till I said, no, I want to take him to his regular vet in the morning. So he got a shot of painkiller, and a prescription for pills, just in case, and home we went. And then it happened again this morning, when the shot wore off, howling and whimpering and scittering around. So off we went, again. Our vet ascertained that it was probably his ears, again, and proposed sedating him for a thorough exam and cleaning. That meant I went home without my Boo. From 9:30 till 3, I was dogless. It felt really weird, and every so often I would look up and wonder where he was. At one time, I had thrown a black sweater on the bed and I thought it was him, stretched out there looking out the window. Lord, I was soooooo happy to get him back. He is sore and kind of dopey still, and not without some pain, either, but on the mend. Not quite my Boo, but a most satisfactory reasonable facsimile. All for just under $500. It's a bargain.

What I did on my (five day) weekend...

My second ex-husband used to put movie reviews on his answering machine's outgoing message, giving plums or raisins, as the case may be. And while I always thought that was rather pompous, here are my reviews of the two movies I saw on this delightfully long, long weekend.
The Spiderwick Chronicles
Harry Potter fan that I am, how could I resist this movie? That young kid from Wonderland had a double role as twins, one meek and mild-mannered, the other a real shit-disturber. I found the interactions of the characters more engaging than most of the computer animation going on, and some of those animated characters were a little too precious for my taste. It was fun on a rather simple level.
Definitely, Maybe
Ah, this is everything I hoped 27 Dresses would be. Ryan Reynolds is sooooo cute (and tall, that's so refreshing in itself), Abigail Breslin is her sweet self, Rachel Weiz, well, they don't get any more sophisticated or disingenuous, do they. Mostly, the star of the show was the screenplay, which was smart and often really funny, a real plus in romantic comedies. I loved it.

In addition to going to the movies, on my weekend I knitted a red scarf, painted two still lifes and a color study of a pear, worked in my sketchbook, read a book and started another, rearranged lamps in the little yellow house, and slept late, every day except Friday, when Boo had to be into the vet early. Oh, yes, I gave Boo his five medications, twice a day. He is terrifically healthy at the moment. And me, I am well-rested and ready to schlep off to school tomorrow with my paintings and the 40 lb bookbag, for my two day schoolweek. It just keeps getting better.

I don't need no stinkin' Valentine...

Ah, another pseudo-Hallmark-holiday has come and gone. I am alone here in the little yellow house, have been for three years. And in the past, that was an occasion of much teary-eyed self-pity when the Hearts and Flowers (and chocolates) Day rolled around. However, here is what I have discovered - I have a built-in Valentine, one who knows exactly what I want and has the income and ability to give it freely. And that would be ME! My Valentine bought me pink tulips (which I immortalized in an alla prima painting yesterday), two DVD's, two books, and a comfort dinner of spaghetti with meat sauce and fresh asparagus. It was a warm and wonderful evening, under the quilts with my book and The Jane Austin Book Club on the tellie. And I spritzed myself with my Christmas parfum, and settled in for a night of self-care and gratitude. Boo curled up next to me in the circle of light from my little Tiffany flower lamp. We were the picture of contentment, an island of sweet serenity in a sea of relationships that, let's face it, are not always the happiest. So, God bless us, everyone. Or it that another Hallmark day?

Boo goes to the doctor...

Since we moved to town three years ago, austerity forced me to be circumspect about finances, so Boo got his innoculations at the local VIP clinic, where we got to stand in line with a lot of other frugal folks. Boo is a pretty healthy little guy, so eschewing annual $200 vet visits was not worrisome (I found they always found something to treat, like why waste a 25 mile round trip just for a pat on the head). But lately, his ear washings had not produced very good results, and I noticed little scabby sores at the corner of his lips, and then this big raw patch in the deep groove below one eye. Eeeeeyuuuu. I put some triple antibiotic cream on it, and it crusted over nicely, but still looked icky, so I bit the bullet and made an appointment for him with a new, in-town vet. Fortunately, I have a buddy who is a vet-tech and studying to become a vet himself, who could recommend his employer. My, they are really nice people. Boo got his ears all washed out, his butt trimmed (dingleberry city lately, yuck), and his eye examined. Damn thing is a hot-spot! We don't have fleas, but Boo has all these nifty folds and creases in his little worried-looking face that harbor bad microbes. I clean down in the deep fold above his nose, but generally don't mess with the area under his big brown eyes. We came away $143 lighter, with five different medications: Omega-3 capsule (poke hole in end and squirt into mouth once a day), eye ointment (smear under right eye twice a day), ear ointment (squirt several drops into each ear 2-3 times a day), antibiotic pills (one twice a day with food, so I wrap it in a little cheese and it goes right down), and ear cleaning fluid for his next deep cleansing. I had kids who never needed this much medicine! I am feeling, of course, like a bad dog mommy. But I suppose that noticing he needed help and getting him there counts to my favor. Meanwhile, he is happily ensconced on the bed, not a care in the world. Me, I am just stoked because I finally figured out how to get him to be still - I put a big fluffy towel on top of the dryer and go at him. Too high to jump off, high enough to be able to work with him, and comfy for his little poochy butt. He got weighed today, and is a little too fluffy at the moment. This means we will both be cutting down for a while. Can't hurt.

Winds of reason blowing here...

It is cold. Okay, I know we Californians are really just weinies when it comes to winter. People in Minnesota would call 50 degrees balmy. But for us sun-worshipers who are used to 70 degrees 90 percent of the time, this is an insult to our sensitive little systems. Everywhere I go, people are griping about how cold it is. And they don't even have the really big bubblewrap coats out yet. A nice fleecy sweatshirt hoodie is all I am wearing today, with my Ugg knockoffs, tights under my jeans, and two layers of cotton tees on top, with my little knitted scarf wrapped around my tender little neck. And I will be toasty as I hoof around campus with my gear. And just in case I feel like griping that my nose is getting all red, I saw that little old bag lady going through the recycling cans that line our street on Monday mornings. I had a moment, because mine is not full, and is still sitting by the side of the driveway, so she came into my yard. I wanted to yell at her "hey, that's my garbage". Then I realized she is looking for redeemable cans and bottle that the rest of us just toss. Perhaps I should leave her a special bag full of them next week, marked just for her, tiny little lady with the big shopping cart full of stuff. Sleeping outside in this weather must be awful. So, I am getting all grateful for the day. Sun is shining, birds are singing, and the heater works. How could it get any better?