Young, that's me (well, inside, anyway...)!

In celebration of impending major birthday, with many digits of the strikingly large variety, I went to see Up today, in 3D. With another wonderfully young 60ish lady. We had Vietnamese food and too much tea for our old bladders, but much time to schmooze before the show. And we got previews in 3 D, too! And, a cartoon! Not like the old days, when we always got 2 cartoons, an episode of a serial (Captain America! Zorro! Flash Gordon!), a newsreel and a double feature (that's 2 full length movies for you younguns). For 30 cents. But almost as good. And certainly, this is a magical movie, everyone in the whole world should see it. It is about love and adventure and finding both in unexpected ways. I'd see it again just to watch Doug, the dog. The animators captured that overweight, classic canine attitude very well. And, like so many Disney features, this one was about the characters. It is always about the characters, isn't it.

Monday meanderings...

Usual Monday stuff happening here in the little yellow house. The leaf-blowing brigade was out, bright and early, for their hour of cacophony. I noticed that the garbage guy emptied the recycled can into the same truck as the generic trash. Like, why am I puzzing about what to put where if they don't? Weather is all puckered up and threatening, so I put away the lawn mower, which has been residing in the backyard for a few days, waiting for the mowing inspiration to hit me up the side of the head. Hasn't happened, yet. I need gas for the big red can, and stamps, oh dear, how much is postage again? It all feels overwhelming, in a tiny sort of way. So I am going to the movies. Yes, there's a plan. I'm off for UP!

On the wings of song...

When Aldous Huxley died, he was high on LSD, and listening to music. I hope. That is what he wanted, according to his book, Doors of Perception (and I could be wrong about the title, it's been a lot of years since I perused it). In his honor, when I did my little experimentation (hey, it was the sixties), I listened to music through the whole experience (but did not die, obviously). Later, when I heard the same music, I could reconstruct the "trip", and see what garbage my mind was spewing. That was what it was about, you know, taking out the garbage. It wasn't a joyride, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was scary and thrilling and scary again. There were demons. Mostly, there was guilt. And I only did it twice. Really. And it was worth it. I looked into my own morass of self, and came back to tell about it. I heard some of the music lately, because of my project of recording my vinyl into ITunes. And some of that stuff was still there, in Tchaikovsky's Suite No. 3. Sounds pretty innocuous, but Peter dear had an undercurrent of pathos that just oozes, especially in the waltz. I don't need a drug to sink into the music any more. Perhaps that is what maturity is all about? Or maybe just a lot of years under the bridge.

Singularly uninspired here...

Little headache lurking behind left eyebrow this AM. And my eye is all red on that side, too. Really rude. Going to my noon meeting, anyway. Can't save my face when I'm trying to save my ass (old AA proverb, very wise). Summer is gearing up all around me. Much mowing still to do, as well as sweeping and chopping vegetation back to manageable levels. Watercolors waiting for attention. A walk, must do a walk. Baths for the fur people. Oh, the many responsibilities of the gratefully retired! Vacuum! Read mystery novel! Well, someone has to do it.

If you ask me...

And even if you don't, I'm going to say what I think. I think it is interesting that some people think they know better how other people should act and think. Gee, most of the time I'm not even sure about how I should act and think, much less deciding for you. But here in California, the land of Birkenstocked tree-hugging liberals, we can't let our gay folk marry one another. I am ashamed of my fellows here in lalaland. It seems to be that, if you are different from me, then you must be wrong, because, if you're not, then it could be me that's wrong, and that doesn't work for me. Never has, never will. Sigh. Really, can't we all just get along? Finally? After two world wars, a whole bunch of little ones, lots of dead folks (some of them gay, get over it), lots of sad mommys and kids and even a few sad daddies, you would think we could look back and see that our enemies are our future allies (Germany, Japan, remember them?). And gay folks are just another brand of human, with all the same things going on inside that I have going on: insecurities, worries, great loves, sweet thoughts, ugly thoughts, the whole gamut of humaness that is so precious and venal. So, people, get over yourselves, and realize you are one among many, and no one is wrong here!

It's another day, at last...

Could this be the other day, the one I have been waiting for? You know, it will all be fine, another day? Well, I have decided that yes, this is indeed that day. Nothing particularly wondrous has happened. A friend who left her purse here dropped by to pick it up, with another friend, and the house was its usual disaster, and I was in the middle of mowing the front psuedo-lawn, and not at my most sartorially splendid, either. And none of that mattered. Because this is that other day! Now, I am on my way to Costco as we are perilously low on dog food, which makes the fur people surly, and we want everyone to be happy on this day of days. Pressing onward here.

Gray days...

Not every day can be full of sunshine, you know. Some days are just meant to be gray, like this May morning here on Wild Rose Drive. Gee, I remember summer mornings were always gray. We had swimming lessons at the city pool all summer (I was a beginner for a record four years in a row, scared out of my tiny mind of the water). The more advanced you were, the earlier lessons came. The sun never arrived before the beginner's classes at 11 AM. So, intermediate and swimmer's classes were always in the murk. Which was fine, if you never had to get out of the water, which, of course, you had to do, eventually. Then it was goosebump, shivery cold. Even in July. And when I got to lifesaving, at 7 AM, well, I froze my little fried-egg sized tits off. So a little fog in the morning is kind of sentimental for me, now. After all, it must be summer, school is out. And actually, it won't be here for another month. So, we will all just have to get over this gray morning thing. Well, yeah. Maybe tomorrow.

What's it all about, Alfie?

Lots of important dates coming up, real soon. My stopped-smoking date is June 2, and it is twenty years this year. That seems really ponderous. And on the 6th, Pickle and I will have our first anniversary of life together. Then comes the big 65 on the 8th. In recognition of all this frivolity, I have begun an eating plan and exercise program to shed the winter's fluffiness that seems to have creeped up around my middle. Again. So I made myself a little tribute to my austerity this morning. It was really fun to do, and looks like my insides are feeling about now. As long as I don't get tired of yogurt and fruit and broccoli slaw and walking, I will persevere. And wind up thinner, less like an Italian sausage in my jeans, and lighter. Lighter always lightens me up inside and out. School is over, time to jump around, create, and become.

Those thrilling days of yesteryear...

Sentimentality has been oozing from my every pore lately as I explore my vinyl after many a moon. I really love this old schmoozie music! Percy Faith, love of my life, where have you been lo these many years? And then there's Mantovani, even drippier, just sluices over you like warm syrup. Got so gooey, I ordered some on CD, too. It's still out there, so I must not be the only one. And yes, the title comes from the prologue to the Lone Ranger, which was fine on television, but ever so much more exciting on radio. And I remember both, that's how old I am. And happy about it, too!

Okay, stick a fork in me, I'm done!

The final in art history is, well, history. I sure hope God remembered the date Polykleitas carved the Doryphoros, because I sure didn't. I put one down, ballpark, of course, and it could even be right. Don't even want to open study guide to see, not after days of study, and fitful night of stuff like the Laocoon and the Flavian Amphitheatre running through my tiny mind. My plan is to decompress for a few days, then plan celebration of 20 years of not smoking, and 65 years of life, both coming up in next couple of weeks. Oh, and anniversary of Pickle's arrival, too! She was a stop-smoking gift to myself last year. About this composition, this is a photo I have always loved, and have actually framed for a wall in my house. I didn't do anything to it, not even cropping. It is as it came out of the camera. Sometimes all I have to do is look around, and there, right in front of me, is wonder.

Not my best day, no, not by far...

Into every life some bad news must fall. And, tender little soul that I am, it always sends me to the painbody, that part of me that says I don't deserve goodness. Oh, hell, that's my mother talking! Let's put her back in her closet for a while. Like the rest of my life. It helps to have an outlet for that pain, when one of the scabs gets ripped open, again, and active bleeding begins. This is actually one of my favorite images so far. I found out a lot about styles doing this. Sometimes, color gets in the way, you know. Sometimes, things are just black and white.

This is so how I am not feeling today...

Happy to report Boo is not throwing up or skewed like he was yesterday. The fur people spend a lot of time out in the backyard, which I am 99% certain does not contain anything toxic or dangerous. Nevertheless, once in a while, the Boo gets puny. I felt his nose right away of course. It was wet, and warm. That was strange. So he sat there, kind of crooked, like maybe a little stewed, until a dog walked by outside and he followed the yappy one out onto the porch to do his "woowoowoo" bark, and I decided he was on his way back to the land of the living. But it seems that whatever he had yesterday, I have today. No energy, just kind of blah, and feeling like I am not tracking well. So I messed around with Photoshop all morning, and made three new compositions for my teacher to peruse tomorrow in our final class. And updated my studyguide, printed all the dates in red, and began the arduous task of memorizing all this stuff for the final on Wednesday. So, forgive me if I am not eloquent today. At least I am not cleaning up Boo barf.

Live long and prosper...

I was prepared to not like the new crew of the Starship Enterprize, NCC-1701 for you trekkie types out there, but one gander at the baby Spock and I was smitten. And then the embryonic James T. Kirk came along, with Bones and, later, Scottie, and I was a total goner. Now, there was a lot of shoot-em-up stuff, with appropriate special effects, which were pretty much lacking in the original series, but in the framework of this picture, they remembered the humor that permeated the series, the tribble kind of humor, Bones's propensity to hysterics, Spock's lifted eyebrow, Scottie's remarkable ability to find a last minute last ditch solution to the impossible situation. I remember the debut of the series 40 years ago (yikes!), it was so very inventive and different and we never missed an episode, never. We wrote letters when NBC threatened to cancel it and kept it alive a little longer. And then we watched all the reruns, over and over. My son's first words were "space, the final frontier". I burned out after TNG, because it lost that sweetness that was in the interaction of the characters, and became just another western in space, us against the rustlers. Happy to report, the spirit is alive, and back for another round. I fully expect several more movies with this crew. Soon, please.

Power to the people!

Always wondered how to get black and white photos out of my digital, and here it is, easy as pie, well, pie isn't easy for me, but it was easy. Photoshop has all these dandy filters. Yes, I know I have been waxing eloquent over this program, but I have never had one that did all the wondrous stuff this one does. And there is something eloquent and elemental about black and white photography. Every nuance is enhanced, which is why there will be no B&W of my face anytime soon! But my hydrangea seems so elegant, speckled with afternoon light. Ah, creativity. It oozes from my very pores sometimes. Hope it is sweet and not just sweat. Oooh, that's bad. Mea culpa.

The right way to do it...

Once upon a writing class, we had to begin a piece with "there are two kinds of people in the world". I wrote about dog lovers, because I am one and cannot understand others who aren't. What's wrong with hair stuck to every square inch of your life? How hard is it to pick up a little poop, anyway? Well, now I know a better dissimilarity, people who put the TP roll on with the end over the top, and those who put it on with the end under. Now, I am an over-the-top person. I think that way the TP is sort of user-friendly, like it is just sitting there waiting for you to sit down next to it. Hi, it says, I've just been waiting for you to show up. Take as much of me as you want. But when it is coming at me from underneath, it is contrary, like,I'm hiding from you, just try to find the end of me, and when you do, I'm not going to let you have one more square than you need. Niggardly, you see. Okay, I am being a bit weird, anthropomorphizing the TP roll, but hey, it's a hot, slow Saturday, and this has been on my mind for a while. Oh, and the image has nothing to do with what I am talking about, except that I took a really long drive today, and this sort of popped out of my head. Feeling Dadaesque, I guess.

It's not easy being me, redux...

So, I was feeling blue and needy, and a friend told me about a dandy homeopathic mood elevator, so I spent $34 at the Community Market, the closest of that genre (watching my carbon footprint, you know). And actually, I walked there, having parked at the college down the street (getting the most of my $50 parking pass, and some needed exercise). I remarked once to my son that people in health food stores look remarkably unhealthy and he replied "Yeah, Mom, they look hungry", which I thought was wonderfully droll and funny, and true. At the checkout stand, the young stringy looking guy was just learning, and took a really long time, which was okay, I was, as usual, early for the meeting I was hoofing to just down that self-same street, and then, he didn't give me a bag, but no worry, I was wearing my cargo shorts, so the pills went into a convenient pocket. And then they fell out of that pocket during my AA meeting, not my most together moment. Having big bottles of pills at an AA meeting is not the best protocol. Whatever, I shrugged it off with an aside of "vitamins", so the newcomers didn't think I was half-measuring my sobriety. And after the meeting I schlepped on down to the college, but not until after three different people asked me if I needed a ride somewhere, yelling at me out of open car windows. I guess I could decide that I am well-loved, and don't look like I am limping or anything. Truly, usually when on foot, it means dire car problems. Happy to say not so this time. So here is a happy little composition that reflects the 60s, when pink and black were very soigne. Twiggy wore it, for sure.

Any minute now...

Summer is about to blast off here in lalaland. And I am ready! I hit TJMaxx yesterday for some little things to fill in the gaps in my wardrobe, and cleaned up the backyard after major mowing and weeding. My plans include two pre-summer blockbusters this weekend, Angels and Demons tonight, and Star Trek on Sunday. Will have to wait till July for Harry Potter, and thinking IMax again, for the 3D thing, would be superfun. Planning on not growing up very soon, as you may have perceived. My (very mature and ohsosensible) mother is shaking her head, again. Why would I ever want to see something as juvenile as Harry Potter? Of course, she runs the world from her perch on the end of her (afghan covered) couch, with her fat dachschund at her side and crochet hook in hand. Reruns of Las Vegas (and how mature is that, anyway) are the most avant garde experience of her week, and she would never read a Potter tome, ohnonono. I am going to be a different old lady from her. It's reactionary, for sure. Well, if you can't be a good example, you'll have to be a horrible warning. It's good to have some of those warnings around, to point me in the opposite direction.

From the sublime to the ridiculous, part deux...

In between bouts of wrestling a bucking lawnmower over the backyard savannah, I have been drinking copious amounts of water, while recording more of my vinyl into ITunes for future comsumption on the ubiquitous IPod, and noodling around with Photoshop, where I made this from an hommage to Cezanne I painted in my very first art class, design and composition. Lucky for me, the teacher was this delightful ditz who let us do copies of the masters for our final, and not yet another of those fretful design pieces that would tie my tiny mind in knots every time. This wasn't the final, I did Van Gogh for that (of course it was hella-difficult, because we were working in safe, non-toxic acryllics, and Van Gogh painted in those nasty oils, sometimes right out of the tube onto the canvas), but Cezanne was easier, because his hues were more subdued, and he never worried about things like horizon lines, which tended to jump around a lot. Anyhoo, I made this in class yesterday for wont of something to do after the lecture. I think it is rich, just love that green. And simple, after all the busyness I was into, plunking thing after thing into the frame. Less things, more content.

What I didn't learn...

I put everything except the kitchen sink into this little ditty. Oh, wait, I think it's in there, too! Haven't learned some stuff, like how to get photos to be just an object instead of a little square, like my face in this montage. And how to get more than one photo into a piece without doing a contact sheet (you would have to know Photoshop to understand that). And how to get the background one solid color instead of a gradient of colors (it looks that way in some of my compositions, but I hid the other color behind stuff). And why would I want to know this stuff, anyway? Interestingly enough, I learned a lot about composition putting little marks and objects into the frame. I think this is what my painting teacher was trying to tell me when we did thumbnail sketches of our paintings before committing to the canvas. So this was a really valuable class, in a lot of ways. And it has provided many hours of amusement, with my tongue between my teeth, seeing what happens when I do this, and what is this mess all about, anyway.

I think, therefore I create...

And now for something totally new and improved! Nifty filters let me render my photos in so many amazing ways. Here is a charcoal of my desktop, the real one, not the one on the monitor. Okay, it was a seriously cleaned-up version of my desktop, all spiffed up for its closeup. Most of these little compositions suggested themselves to me, often by the little objects in the pen tool (not enough of those suckers, not by a long shot). I looked at those scissors and paperclips and thought, aha! I add the text last, and find that the choice of font can really enhance a piece. I haven't gotten to the point where it makes the piece yet, still relying on images to do that, but I bet that could happen, too. Much, much easier to let an idea realize itself than to try to realize an idea. Maybe that's a clue for how to do my life? Like, let things reveal themselves instead of trying to make things happen? What a concept!

Not your ordinary bear...

Every morning, I sit down with my steaming cup of Sumatra and fire up my big baby to read the e-mail, cyberlurk on my kids on Facebook (new status symbol, I found out, how many friends do you have), and noodle around with one of my little games as my mind settles into place for the day. And, every morning, the Real Message Center pops up with news of the day. News about pulchritudinous bimbettes, inebriated celebrities, and multi-racial studmuffins. Does it seem to anyone else that we are inundated with tripe? Everyone wants to be beautiful, and there are so many of them, it is like God has opened a Barbie and Ken factory of his own, so it no longer feels special and certainly, not unique. I can't keep track of the current crop at all. In my day, celebrities had to have talent. And they were remarkable, meaning, you could tell them apart. No on mistook Kirk Douglas for Tyrone Power. Errol Flynn could outdrink Paris Hilton, for sure. Humphrey Bogart was plain homely, but absolutely endearing, and mega-gifted, too. Time for a re-think. And another cuppa.

Decisions, decisions...

I painted this pear to impress my color theory teacher. Everyone else was doing an orange on blue background, complimentary hues, you see. So I did a red pear on green, also complimentary, and I was the only one who thought to do something different, which was different for me, to buck the system, albeit in a tiny way. And my pear is fully fleshed-out, as you can see. When I selected it to be immortalized in one of my little compositions, I realized that it is very subtle, and none of the very colorful gradients supplied by Photoshop would suffice for its backdrop. And I was tired of black, having rendered recently several Dadaesque montages. Then I found this honey color, and gave it a nice little glow, and practiced some unaccustomed restraint in the number of little doodads I so love to spread about, and got this rather dandy little homage, starring my self-aggrandizing pear. Tell me you love it.

Oooey gooey me...

Sorry, just couldn't stop myself. I found a neat filter that turned my little $3.99 Safeway bouquet into poster art, or that's what it said it was doing, and I thought that was just so sweet. I refuse to hate myself, though. I like sweet, after all, I listen to Mantovani and Barry Manilow, and I'm not ashamed to admit that, no, I'm not. Really. And the neat thing is the flowers are still sitting (sweetly) on my table, right where they were when I took this photo. How sweet it is!

My favorite season...

Once again, tiptoeing along the learning curve in Photoshop. Lots of effects that can be applied to photos, like this stained glass image of a shot I took last year, right up the street. I cropped it, then messed around till I found this dandy button to push. Just love color, you know, and here it is, in abundance. I might even print this one out and put it up on a wall somewhere. The thing is, what looks so fabulous in this moment might not in the next. Funny how that happens.

Histrionic me...

Well, into each life some angst must fall. I keep finding buttons to push in Photoshop, and voila! This little ditty suggested itself when I selected the frame, that just smacked of the wicked queen's magic mirror in Snow White, and the composition grew out of that. I take care of lying to myself by never looking at myself in the mirror with my glasses on. My eyes are so bad, all my wrinkles just smooth right out! And, hell, maybe that new Neutrogena Deep Wrinkle Creme will be just the ticket. Wouldn't that be swell? Otherwise, it will have to be a Life Style Lift.

Project for a rainy day...

April showers bled into May, and, alas, I could not go out and mow or trim anything green yesterday, so I sat here and created some more little images for my dear teacher. He will have quite a selection to review. This is perhaps the simplest, because the photograph is eloquent all by itself. It was a windy day along the coast, one of those superiorly clear days when the sea boiled beneath a perfect blue. I don't know why I included the sun, didn't even know I could do that, but the result was just stunning. God is a consummate artist, n'est-ce pas?

The learning curve...

It is easier to begin one of these little creations with no idea of where it is going and let that reveal itself than it is to begin with an idea and try to make that happen. I started with my portrait, then began searching through all the available stuff. And, shazam! I found the "all" button in objects, so I didn't have to go through menu after menu to find the ones I wanted for my expressions, but the styles sort of chose themselves. Not enough background choices, though. I need a lot of variety. Comes from being a Gemini, I suppose. Oh, Gemini! There should be a selection of astrological signs in there somewhere. You think?

This says it all...

I've had that "what's the use" feeling lately, don't know where it came from, nothing is different. Well, that's not true, every day is different, isn't it. I actually got into some self-pity, a little dance with Eckhart's painbody. And I noticed it (how conscious am I!), and moved out really fast. That's progress. And so I created this edgy little composite. Notice that I found some new stuff. Photoshop is bottomless in its design capabilities. And I haven't even gotten to Illustrator or Indesign yet! Planning on pushing many more of its buttons after I outline my study guide for next week's quiz on the Greeks. Exekias and Lysippos and Polykleitos, oh my!

I learned some new stuff today!

I got to play around with a pen, to do these interesting images. Gee. I just love new stuff, don't you? I am sore from sitting glued to my monitor for two hours straight, checking out all the little buttons. I also now know how to add text to my images, and that in itself is swell. I made some interesting messes, not all of which made it home with me, because I had to beat a hasty retreat, I overstayed my class time. Anyway, I love it when something engrosses me like this did. Possibilities are endless here. Much more to learn, as usual, but I have begun, and that is all that is needed, a beginning. I do that every day.

Growing up Pickle...

How fast this happened. We are coming up on our anniversary, the Pickle and I. On June 6, she will have lived with us for a whole year. My, how she has changed! Actually, she is everything I would want her to be, even the devilish little imp that seizes onto bits of stuff to shred all over the place, even the big-foot that tracks mud behind her, even the barky hooligan with sonar ears that has to blast every vehicle that plys our little driveway, and even the little thug with her teeth protruding. She still comes up to me in the bathtub and wants to lick my face. She still minces around the bed in the morning, poking at me to see if I am awake yet. And wherever I am, she usually is, too. I only step on her occasionally, when I forget she is at my feet and leap up to turn something off on the stove, or set the DVR I forgot to program earlier. And, the older she is, the quicker she is at getting out of the way. Learn and grow. That's my Pickle.

The other end of the kitchen...

Okay, the kitchen is suitably immortalized. I like the fuzziness of the pear painting, and the sharpness of the calla lilies. Maybe you noticed, but I have paintings that I executed hanging in my kitchen, four of them currently, and there are a couple in the studio that could come out and hang there as well. Paintings hang on every wall of my house, because I have been doing them for ten years. Some are not mine, but gifts from my ex-partner, like the sweet miniature in the bathroom of the sailboat in the Jenner estuary. It is postcard sized, and very sweet to look at as I brush my teeth. I think it is time to move outside with the photoessays. And I need to mow.

And this is the kitchen...

Well, it kind of makes me dizzy, now that I look at it. And how much do I love color? The red cannisters are my newest aquisition in the kitchen, so cheery, and since the counter opens into the back room with the red curtains, it all harmonizes sweetly. My counters are white tile, as is the floor, and the walls are white, with blonde cupboards, so color is definitely called for there. Before I got started, the only spot of color was the blue and gold very regal dogbed I put down for the Boo four years ago, the one he finally crawled into to get away from Pickle.

And here it is!

I took my camera to class the other day, and just snapped a few pics on my way there. Did I mention how lovely our campus is? Some of the buildings are really old, older than I, and trust me, that's old. Some are newer, but most are fashioned to blend with the older ones, except the ones built in the 50s, when things were disgustingly modern, but at least they kept the brick scheme going. The new library, and the new student center are huge, lots and lots of bricks there. In this time of dire news, when the upwardly mobile aren't, mobile that is, it is refreshing to watch our little community college thrive. Such a privilege to get to go there at all, you know. And they actually like me!

It's kind of like Pringles...

Just can't stop at one, or maybe one hundred. So many ways to look at things, don't you know. And this busy mind keeps thinking up new stuff to do. I have another one already perking in the gray matter, and soon, it will be up here for God and everyone to see. That's my studio, all swirled around. If you think it may be a little chaotic, you may be right. It's on the to-do list, which is slowly getting accomplished. I put my self in the center, because, well, I am in the center of my life, as it is mine to live and enjoy, and endure. Many moons of painting expressed here, in one little image. I like this better than I like some of the paintings!

Pickle Glamourpuss...

This reminds me of those glam shots women used to have done, with lots of feather boas, all stretched out and lissome. Will you get a gander at that tail!! My little one is now all grown up and beautiful. Strangely, she still has big feet, and if there is a mud puddle in a three mile radius, she finds it and tracks it into the house, like she did this morning. I get lots of exercise just trailing around after her, squatting to pick up the detritus of her chewing episodes, the plethora of dog toys she drags out and deposits all over the house, and bits of garden that hitchhike in with her and fall on the floor. Boo never did this stuff, you know. Boo was perfect. No perfect Pickle.

Exciting stuff!

I did this color montage from a series of photos I took of my own artwork, some of it the pedestrian things I did at school, which hang on the wall of the studio, dutifully waiting to be painted over someday, like soon, now that dastardly term paper is written. Finals are nothing in comparison for this stubborn student who hates citations and bibliographies, footnotes and endnotes, and research! Which is why I am now an art student, instead. I think there are multitudes of possibilities for this new skill, like how fun it would be to put pieces of a life together in an artful fashion for gifts. You think?

Jumping up and down here!

The dreaded term paper is history! Both literally and figuratively, that is. Gee, what am I going to do while not obsessing about the paper not being done? Let me think. Hmmmmm. How about reading something that is not about Egyptian art? Or making some art of my own, doing that project of going back into everything I ever painted and painterlying it up? Or making a whole bunch more of those dandy collage thingies I learned to do in Photoshop? Or taking myself out to a movie? Treating myself to something that has no redeeming nutritional value at all at one of my many favorite fast food emporiums? Or, best yet, NOTHING AT ALL. Yeah, that sounds like the ticket, at least for the rest of today. Tomorrow, I am bound to be tired of doing nothing at all, and I can begin doing something. Anything except writing a term paper.

The thing about prostitution...

That is the premise of this (very lousy) term paper I am writing, that Ancient Egyptian artists were the whores of religion. Well, aren't (really successful) artists always whores of one kind or another? Find a niche and fill it? If we're talking about Thomas Kinkaid, well, yeah. I've seen his art before he began his current oeuvre of kitsch, and it was fine. Not unusually fine, of course, just fine. The stuff he churns out is spun sugar, and the common folk eat it up. Well, taste is not an inborn trait in most of the race, for sure. My folks love him. Me, I like the vibrancy of a Cezanne, or the edginess of a Matisse. Not a Picasso fan, but I do admire his elan. He was a maverick for his time, and fortunate to have made a fine living on his creative vision. Most artists cannot do that, even today. Anyhoo, back to the Egyptians. The art of these mostly anonymous craftsmen prevailed in their society for 3,000 years. That's because their society prevailed, sometimes in disunity and disarray, but it did prevail. And most likely, that was because of its firm structure, God and Pharoah-God at the top, everyone else below. Their religion came out of their dependence on the Nile for all things. After all, just a few miles in any direction was burning desert, not very hospitable. And, too much water was just as bad for them. So they had an elaborate pantheon of gods to handle all that fear for them, and to assure that, after a life filled with the immenance of danger from every direction (and there were lions, too), they could walk forth into a paradise, and still visit their relatives they left behind. And that's where the artists came in, decorating their tombs with their good deeds in life, predicting a successful weighing in of their heart against an ostrich feather, providing them with lots of servants to tend to them, and make them a ka statue to inhabit on their personal altar. Ah, the good (after)life, Egyptian style. And all this had to be done in the strict code of rules. No willy-nilly creating allowed! There was a canon of proportions in which to portray the human body, eighteen fists high, face, legs and feet in profile, torso and eye frontal, otherwise known as twisted perspective. The more important you were, the bigger you were (hieratic scale). And this was not a portrait, oh nonono. You were portrayed perfect, youthful, free of defect or disease, the ideal human, to please the gods. And these artists churned this stuff out with only the tiniest nuance of change (upon which the art historians leap with great gusto) for three freaking millenia! Well, except for the Armana period, when everyone had a drooping belly and looked like dying fish, but even that strange and very short period had its rules and regulations. Okay, there was no song of myself in this age. But hey, art is about expression! Happy to say that they often portrayed animals in humorous ways. Probably their way of coloring outside the lines.

Having a blog means never having to say you're bored...

I had a rather long wait for my turn at the hair salon today, so I got to peruse the various magazines I never would buy, and am always curious about. My favorite today was GQ. How rewarding is it to know that men can be as vain and shallow as women? They have their own designers. Neil Patrick Harris did a photoshoot in a plethora of suits that all looked pretty much the same to me, but his projected ennui was breathtaking. Most of the men in the ads had that how-lucky-are-you-to-lay-your-unworthy-eyes-on-my-obvious-youth-and-splendor-and-how-much-don't-I-care-anyway look, reminiscent of Vogue haute-coutier sneers. One AX ad had the models, male and female, looking at each other while she had his pants down over his buns and her hand down the front. Snotty porn. I did like the Daniel Craig lookalike in the Bloomingale's ad, at least he looked real, not so very pneumatic or plastic. But best of all were the celebrity endorsement ads, Matthew McConaghy in Dolce and Gabbana fragrance, trying on his own lip-curling disdain, and yummy old guy Sean Connery pitching Louis Vuitton as a high-style Bahamas beach bum, in fedora, classic navy sweater and Dockers, slouched on a pier in the shimmering loveliness of a tropical beach. The coverboy was Robert Pattington, at least I think that is his name, you know, the blue-balled vampire of Twilight, and his visage was perfect, hooded eyes, sensual sneering lips, unbridled youth spilling out all over the place. Apparently, some men worship at the same altar. It was sad and hilarious, all at the same time. And, eventually, I got my haircut, too.

Too personal?

I included my itty-bitty bathroom in the current oeuvre of personal montages, and isn't it amazing how much junk one can stuff into a small space. The painting was a final homework project a few semesters ago, a trompe l'oiel, or fool the eye project, a painting of a (vastly evacuated and spiffed up) shelf in the medicine cabinet. I executed it standing over the sink with the canvas in my left hand, brush in the right, and palette on the covered trash basket below. It is in acryllics, of course, as they are water based, and less damaging as I slapped away. I hung it on the wall there, because where else could I hang it?

Music from another room...

This is another in my "personal" series of montages, images from the room I am now sitting in. Of course, it doesn't include my rather cluttered desk, and actually, "cluttered" doesn't begin to describe the chaos that reigns here at the present moment. Hey, I'm working on it! See how much fun one can have in Photoshop, when one knows just a smidgeon of how-to. Wait until I get up to speed! Oh, never mind. Time to knuckle under and do that paper on the Egyptians. After a trip to get hair cut. And buy more Bisquick for pancakes tomorrow morning. And get a pedicure. Sounds like a plan.

I am smarter than my computer...

The image you see here was created in my very own Photoshop program, right here in my little yellow house. Let me tell you how that happened. We learned all about it at school, you see, in the CS3 program they have. I have the new, improved CS4 at home (how lucky am I). When I began the process, the menu item I wanted was not on my menu, where it had been at school. I tried again. Still not there. So I e-mailed my teacher, like is there something that needs enabling here? No reply. So I began the arduous task of contacting Adobe Customer Service online. They said I was not a new customer, had I forgotten my user ID? Well, yeah. Didn't know I had one. I had to wait for an e-mail from them to get it. Then, had I forgotten my password? Another e-mail. Thank HP, I had arrived! After going in circles for about 20 minutes, I got a dialogue box that let me ask my question, like where is this menu item I need? Another e-mail, taking me to a long list of instructions. I am not good at instructions, in case you wanted to know that. It took at least a dozen tries, going back and forth from the instructions (which I would never have been able to print out, don't ask) and my disk, copying files from the third disk I tried, from the Goodies folder into designated areas of the Photoshop and Bridge programs, copying the wrong versions (well, 64 bit sounds ever so much better than 32 bit, you know), putting them in the wrong place, not putting all of them in, blahblahblah. Happy to say that I finally got it all to work, and made this nifty composite of my living room, the first in a long line of personal statements about the richness of my life. Please, tell me you love it! It represents hours and hours of frustration, and perseverance. A rather weak and pooped-out yay.

Great way to mellow out...

Ah, I love my piano. And I love that I seem to have reached a fearless place, where I just find the right keys, like I always knew where they were! Not ready to play for anyone, no, not yet. Just entertaining myself, an hour at a time, leafing through pages and pages of music, tinkling away. It's no Steinway, for sure, but it has a great big bright voice and a light action. I know, I set them myself. Can't do that with a Steinway.

My head is exploding, again...

I suffer from exploding head syndrome. Yes, there really is such an animal. And, it is rare, so lucky me. Obviously, my head is still hanging in there, right on top of my shoulders, so it is not really exploded (well, not yet, there's still finals this semester). What happens is this really, really loud noise wakes me up, usually right after I have fallen asleep for the first time. The noise is always inside my head, which is a good thing, because it would be catastrophic if real, it is that loud. And it always scares the you-know-what out of me. I was sooooo happy to know there is actually a documented syndrome, that other people (and it is mostly women over 50, like me) have experienced this phenomenon. I am not nuts here. Well, not in this particular area, anyway.

The Easter Pickle...

My little Pickle is one year old today. Everyone is hoping that means puppyhood is a thing of the past. No more Kleenexes shredding on the floor. No more baskets chewed up and spit out. Less barking. More snuggling. Yeah, that'll happen. She is a blessing on so many levels. Her main dog job has been to get Boo off his little Boo butt and keep him lithe and limber as he enjoys double-digit dogdom. And she does a wonderful job of that, especially when I am on the phone. As soon as I pick it up, they start to growl and tumble around my feet like two year olds, usually fighting over a toy, one that Pickle has hit Boo in the face with enough times to peak his interest. And I suppose I must give up the notion that she will grow into her teeth. My mother says she looks like a little thug. Really, Mom, this is my little Pickle-muffin, my little Pickle-fluffy-butt. My sweet Pickle.

Have thumb drive, will travel.

By the way, that screwed up image that I created at school came home with me on my handydandy flash drive, about the size of my thumb. This class was worth its weight in gold just for teaching me about these gizmos. I got three for $35 at Costco, and they hold 4G each. That's a whole bunch. The file that I posted was 60 MB, or 20 MB larger than my first hard drive! That's big. And just think, the MAC at school is talking to my PC at home! I am really stoked here. Technology is ever so much better in just the last 20 years. Now I can take files off my laptop and put them on the PC, to print because the laptop is independent, not attached to anything so it can never get screwed over by any lousy virus, without burning a CD. I have piles of those, all with a few document files on them, a Psych 5 disk, a Critical Thinking disk, a PoliSci disk. The Cruzer, sweet little baby, could hold all these and 5,000 more. And I have three of them! And my computer has a USB dock on the front panel, making it super easy. So here's another all mixed up fun thing I made yesterday. Verrrrry interrresting.

More than all mixed up here...

I was kind of grousing yesterday; it was raining, I didn't understand anything we were doing in digital imaging class, why do I want to learn this anyway, why don't I just drop out, blahblahblah. And I loaded up the bookbag and all the little doodads I wanted to scan into my student folder and went, anyway. And then I had kind of a breakthrough. We got to work in the Bridge, part of Adobe's suite of programs, and I got to play with it myself, with some photos from my lexicon that I brought with me, because the scanner was busy. Our assignment was to make three contact sheets, that's what this thing is, a contact sheet. It was kind of like pistacios, one cannot do just three. I kept messing around, actually only using two of the tools available there, move and transform, and I made seven of them. When I found the warp tool, well I really took off. And I figured out a whole bunch of stuff that had eluded me before. Happy, happy. Excited, even. Ready to buy the whole shebang and mess around with it here at home, make some art, maybe. Not this month, though.

It's not easy being me...

As excited as I am to be about to be a Medicare recipient, I am also totally confused. Now, I am pretty sure that I am enrolled, they do it automatically unless you tell them not to, at least that is what I understood from the pile of stuff they sent to me. And I have made my decision about a Medigap policy, one that fills in all the things Medicare does not cover, including preventative care, which I consider to be most important. Now I have received this letter from CMS (Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services), which has invited me to MYMEDICARE.GOV to fill out my Intital Enrollment Questionnaire. It is a "secure online service for accessing your personal Medicare information" blahblahblah. Now, because the suffix is GOV, that means it is government, right? Official government? Well, I hope so, but I have been stung enough online to not believe a thing they say, and you won't catch me within a mile of that website until I call these people and find out what they are selling. Yeah, I'm that way, totally skeptical of just about anything. I already leak money daily, might as well not throw it away on purpose (any more). So, we will be having a little conversation tomorrow morning, CMS and I. Just another thing on the never-ending to-do list, like return the mophead that does not work with my sponge mop and get a piece of wood matching the spoke of my market umbrella that broke when the wind blew it over last night. A life of purpose, mine.

Lighten the load...`

Time has come for an unburdening. My garage has been the repository of every little tidbit that the wind blew into my life for the last 10 years. And it was all hodgepodged together in boxes stacked on boxes stacked on boxes, so I had no idea what was what or what was where. Today was the day to find out. Dear friend came and helped me put the precious things into the attic, like the cradle both my babies slept in, boxes of their baby things, years and years of tax records, two love boxes (cards, tickets, programs, loving episodes that I will never throw away). And I now know what is in all the boxes. A big pile of stuff got tossed, right into the 1-800-GOT-JUNK truck, and I waved byebye to it. Some stuff came inside, like the china and silver stuff, to get washed up and put away where I could actually use it if the mood stuck. Now things are neatly in place, I can use the nifty rack I put up to hold brooms and racks, my lawnmower can live happily in its own corner, and, I swear, if I arranged things a little more compactly, I might even be able to get my car in!

Out of my dreams...

When I was a sappy teenager, we had these big band leftovers, like Mantovani, Billy Vaughn, and Ray Conniff, whose Bouquet of Love is playing now even as I write, happily now living on my hard drive instead of being in black vinyl prison. Lots of strings. Sentimental songs like If I Loved You, from Rogers and Hammerstein's Carousel. Pretty music, without vocal. My daughter was so stunned when she heard her first "instrumental". I actually loved the songs without words, even have a couple of compilations of Puccini without the singing, so one can truly appreciate the lushness of his orchestrations. And today, with the amplification and digitalization, anyone can become a pop idol. It's like kareoke out there, and often just as disappointing. Songs have no melodies, leading to lots of just riffling around. As far as I am concerned, the only singer ever allowed to do that is Ella Fitzgerald. Everyone else just sounds like they forgot the words. Anyhoo, later I hope to borrow some of my mother's ooey-gooey Mantovani and 101 Strings albums. And find a copy of Andre Previn's Like Love. She shall have music wherever she goes. She has an IPod.

The thing about casseroles...

Now, I used to be the casserole queen, when I was cooking for the FOO, and later for my own family, which at its apex was seven people. Now, I am down to one, so casserole recipes languish in their pocket of the recipe collection file. Then, I was reading a magazine in bed the other night, and saw this picture of an interesting dish. It was made with Campbell's tomato soup, flour tortillas, ground beef, salsa, and cheddar cheese. It looked yummy. So, the next night, I made it. I just made a few substitutions and additions. Instead of the soup, I used organic diced tomatoes. Only 1/2 the meat was ground beef; the other was chicken Italian sausage. I used pepper jack cheese instead of the cheddar, and added onions, green pepper, and zucchini. Oh, and some black beans. I did use flour tortillas and salsa. And, after I cooked it, I sliced avacado on top. I got to eat it for four days. And I liked it so much, I made it again last night, this time with corn tortillas, and taco seasoning instead of salsa. Next time, I think I'll add corn, and olives. Yes, that's the ticket.

New me...

I got bored just watching my soap, and I was out of new library books, and too whipped to get up and go get more, so I got out the drawing pad and some charcoal, and a mirror, and there I am, all over the place. Okay, I was not inclined to be terribly honest, or maybe just too tired to fiddle with it any more. It does bear a vague resemblance, although I did youthify it a bit. Well, isn't that what its all about, portraiture? If I wanted an honest portrayal, I'd take a photo. Somehow these days I kind of look mushy and droopy in photos. Probably because I am sincerely senior. And yes, the portrait is cockeyed, but then, so am I. It is fun to do this kind of thing. Fun is good.

Tote that barge, lift that bale!

My little community college is erecting a behemoth of a student center. It is at least as big as our new library, and that's four freaking stories tall. Yesterday, I sat on the patio of self-same library for a few, soaking up the vitamin D, and watched the workers. Now, the frame is all up, the walls are (mostly) bricked in, and the roof is about half shingled. It seems to me that it hasn't changed at all from the beginning of the semester, in January. I saw about 10 guys, in their little orange vests and white hardhats, just ambling about. None of them stayed still for very long, but none of them did anything as well. They shuffled from one end of the room I could see into to the other, several times, sometimes actually carrying something, a bucket, a tool belt. The one working the backhoe stood and watched his pal write things in a notebook. One guy climbed up to the roof, apparently just to look at it, because he immediately climbed back down. Funnily enough, he was the biggest of all of them, up there on that scaffold. Now, I know the economy sucks, and, if it were me, I wouldn't be in a hurry to finish a paying job either. But, guys, you've got to look busier! I know someone was working as I could hear an electrical tool buzzing somewhere in the guts of the monster. I figured that was where the foreman was at the moment.

Fun at the supermarket...

After my favorite Sunday morning meeting, the one where there are two speakers, and no one opines from the floor, thus saving me from hearing, yet again, what those really tiresome folks think, I headed out to Raley's. Now, usually I shop at (soul-sucking) Safeway, or Trader Joe's, or Costco, or Walmart, but today, I needed 1)AA batteries, 2)baking soda and 3) new garden gloves, not a long enough list to send me 6 miles up the freeway to Walmart, or down to Costco, and none of those things sit on the shelves at TJ's and I didn't trust Safeway to have good gloves at a decent price. Besides, Raley's has a nice public bathroom, always a relief. And I did find everything I needed, plus organic bananas and some nice Mandarin oranges for my nightly salad. Also caught up with the latest dirt on the beautiful people. Brangelina seems to always be on the verge of breaking up, and, let's be honest, don't we all wish they would, after being so nasty to that sweet all-American Jennifer, who by the way is never going to marry again? Britney has another baby bump, or a fondness for 31 Flavors. Unfortunately, the line moved too fast for me to get any of the juicy details. I had uncharacteristically remembered to bring in my green grocery bag, and found that Raley's gives a $.05 credit! How sweet is that! So, I toodled on home, put a battery in my wall clock, put a dish of baking soda in my waterheater closet (it's not a gas leak, I had that checked - something died under the house, I think), and am about to travel to the backyard, to sweep up the patio and pull some very big weeds, before putting up the market umbrella and unfolding the chairs so I can sit and admire my newly mowed pseudo-lawn. Ah, Sunday.

Rustling here...

Spring, ah. Return of life and all that stuff. What it really means is that the backyard is a jungle, again. And I always swear I will not let that happen, no no, not again! However, it rained, then I got sick for a week, and here we are. Happily, the lawnmower did its chugging best, and most of the really tall stuff is down to manageability, yay. Then I folded up the last of the piano box and crammed it into the recycling can. It begins, that good old ritual of spring cleaning. And nice as it is to feel so righteous, it is even nicer to have everything (well, some things) tidier, too. And isn't the mustard spectacular? It is everywhere now. I stopped by the side of the road on my way west the other night, to breathe in our sweet air, and shoot some lovely pictures for my collection. I am so blessed to live here in this amazing place.

Not so funny, no, not at all...

I am thinking of inside jokes, mostly because, in the process of sloooowwwly converting my vinyl into MP3 files, I was listening to Prokofiev's Classical Symphony, a little 12 minute marvel meant to emulate Mozart or Haydn, and considered a tiny gem in the musical lexicon. It rigidly adheres to the classical framework, while also kind of doing its own raspberry at the rigidity, too. Now, I hate inside jokes, actually. They are mean-spirited, even when I am one of those in the know. There was a time when I would just play along even if I was so far outside the know I couldn't find it at noon in the Sahara Desert, because not being "in" seemed to negate me as a person. It is a testament to my recovery process that I have no problem asking "what?" whenever I am out of the loop. And in that question is always a kind of "shame on you", I fear, like how nasty can you get, leaving me out here all by my lonesome. I'm not all that recovered, after all.

Photography, anyone?

I started taking photos with an eye to producing reference pictures for paintings. Then some images were just so fresh and sweet, all by themselves, I wound up framing them and putting on a little show, in a podunk bakery in Duncan's Mills, out in the middle of nowhere, but still, MY SHOW. I don't ever know if what I am doing is any good, really. I only know that, sometimes, something happens that I just love, like this yellow iris that was just minding its own business in our garden. I walked by it and its sisters for years there before stopping to focus my lens on it. Now, it is immortal! Well, at least noticed. I took a bunch of my images to the Digital Imaging class, heart in mouth, and hoped they were at least okay, and found that I was in the ballpark, for sure. An eye for photography is a gift from HP, for sure, and isn't it interesting that I can compose through a viewfinder, but have such a difficulty in my paintings that I just ordered a book about it from Amazon.com?

Happy accidents...

When I took my first art class, a defensive measure to counteract the mega-algebra Math 151 (two semesters in one, how smart am I), I thought I was taking a drawing and composition class. Surprise, it was design and composition. And the teacher was a ditz, and we did very little of either. Actually, I painted, a lot. That worked out just fine, was easy and fun. Now I have started my digital imaging class, which I thought would involve photography. Not so. Don't even need a camera to do this class. It is actually a photo montage kind of thing, very Dada. Not my favorite art style, one of those reactionary things that says anything new and different is also good. But I am up for this, mostly because one of my bugaboos in painting is composition, and arranging objects sounds like a good thing to do to learn about that. And I just love this teacher. I think I may be up for the BIG Photoshop class after this. We use Macs in this class, and I was surprised to find I enjoyed getting up to speed on one. I like the way the windows whoosh away, just get sucked off the screen. But those little symbols they use instead of alt and ctrl are a bit too cutesy-poo and smack of condescension to me, like we are all kindergarteners and can't read. Of course, they had to make their product different. And confusing.

Sunday thoughts...

It was one of those spring days that look lovely out the window, but in reality, there was a frigid wind that blew into all my orifices once I set foot out the door. This did not make me happy. Screw gratitude parking on days like this. I cozied up to the Center for Spiritual Living and went in to hear all about forgiveness, always a good thing. Saw a lot of dear and old friends I had not seen forever. Then sojourned down the 101 corridor to speak at a noon meeting, where once again, friends popped up. A quick trip to Costco yielded Sumatra coffee and one of those jumbo hot dogs with lots of relish and gourmet mustard, which I managed to scarf up on the short drive home. I then got out my vinyl and took my new turntable for a spin. First recording was Eugene Ormandy's 1960ish recording of Tchaikowsky's 7th Symphony. Wait, you say? He only wrote six, right? Right, but someone found the sketch of this one, at least the first two movements, then students filled out the requisite third and fourth, and voila! Listening to it, it is so obviously Tchaikowsky, so like him, and really brilliant. And kind of poppy and there is a scratch or two. Gee, this record is over 40 years old! What do you want, anyway? I'm actually rather proud that it is as good as it is. And precious. My youth in a cardboard sleeve. I get all gooey listening to it. And I remember a day when my husband yelled "come quick!" and we heard the self-same first two movements played as the 2nd Piano Concerto! I never want to forget that day, and how in love I was with this music. Still pretty wonderful, too.

Red-faced me...

My techie guy came by yesterday to solve my little sound problem with the computer. At his bequest, I had uninstalled the software that came with the new turntable and tried, once again, to get back my audio, alas, at no avail. So, he noodled around, looked perplexed, then decided to update my operating system while he mulled, and we schmoozed, and the dogs played with him. Pleasant moments here in the little yellow house. Finally, the update was finished doing its thing, and he noticed that there was no little light on the speaker, like there should be, if it was plugged in. Oops! Must find a way to keep dogs from under the desk. Was I embarassed or what! No wonder the troubleshooter kept folding on me. Anyhoo, he reinstalled the turntable, which he kind of lusted over, it is that nice. And sound does its little fanfare when Windows welcomes me every morning, and its little raspberry when I mess up. I especially missed that. Wish all problems were that simple.

Healing moments...

Well, just spent a happy quarter hour perusing celebrity mugshots and reading all about the style smackdown between Suri and Shiloh. Oooh, how purient am I! And what a sad comment on our society that this is the stuff that fascinates. Toddlers in designer garb, and SUNGLASSES! You've. Got. To. Be. Kidding. And I think it is a tie between Nick Nolte and Sam Shepard as to the most degrading mug shot. That Culkin kid looked the most stoned. And Robert Downey Jr. just looked fierce and pissed off. In fact, so did a lot of them. Isn't rich and famous enough? Oh, right. That's all about things and illusions. Real connections, now that's where it REALLY is. Bunch of lonely, angry, disillusioned folks out there, some of them beautiful and famous. And screwed up. Happily, so am I, but in a different way. Things have their place (like my new piano, which gives me much joy), but they are just things, and (like my old piano) temporary. What is real and enduring us who I am beneath all this, spirit. A wounded one, to be sure, but at least I know where the wounds are. And I know I can heal. Slooooowwly. And soberly.

Sifting through the pits...

So much for my bowl of cherries. Nasty cold blindsided me Monday, and kept me curled up in a feta position on my memory foam all day. Didn't even eat anything, that's how lousy I felt. I managed to rise up from my bed of pain and make the first session of my eight week class, thank HP, because otherwise I would have had to drop it. Not one that can afford any absences. And once again, today, I made it to Art History, to catch up with those slippery Egyptians, Khufu, Khafre and Menkaure, try to get back in the saddle. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, you would think that having two dogs would mean some puzzlement over the messes all over the house, but not so when one of them is the Pickle. Honestly, I chose this little hellion because of the ten serene years I have spent with her big brother Boo, thinking that this puppy would be mellow and sweet as he is. Alas, not so. If it is down there, Pickle will find it. Stuff out of the waste paper basket all over the living room floor. Stuff out of the pocket of my book bag all over the office floor. Stuff off the coffee table all over the bathroom floor. And let's not even mention all the stuff that winds up on the back lawn. I am fond of baskets. I have lots of them. Most are in various stages of being shredded, slowly, by teeny tiny teeth. You can see the wheels turning in that tiny mind, just waiting for me to turn away. And my attention has not been on her nearly enough lately, as I wend my way back to health. Oh, well, it's temporary.

Disappointments and frustrations...

So, that was the subject of my thought for the day. How apropos. Now, I love my new piano, all put together, plugged in. The first night, I sat and played and played and played. It had been a busy day, I was kind of buzzed, and it felt instinctual to play. The next day, I struggled. Is that an E or an E flat? My fingers stumbled along like a toddler on a mission. True, I was all stiff from sitting on the floor putting the damned thing together. But one should be able to expect to get BETTER, shouldn't one? Alas, not I. So I decided to hook up my new turntable that I got to turn my vinyl into MP3s and CDs. It was easy. And there was this little pink paper that said I would need to reset the default playback device after installing it, and I did that, and the sound worked just fine. Until I turned it on this morning, that is. No sound. I tried doing the thing over again. I hit the "troubleshoot" button, but it just keeps fluffing me off, saying the device is working just fine. It has been a while before I added anything hardware-wise to this system. I had forgotten that almost nothing has ever worked right the first (and second, and third) time. So, my records are here, in their boxes, waiting. Hysterical e-mail to techie person has not yet been answered. Back to tripping over my own fingernails. Chopin, roll over, baby! I'm coming back. Soon.

Wow, that was fast...

Just checked my e-mail, and piano is due to arrive TOMORROW. I thought at least two weeks, isn't that what always happens when you are excited about something? Wait, wait, wait. I just ordered it last Saturday, and if it arrives tomorrow, that's just five tiny days. So, time to flex muscles, and move the roll-top secretary desk to the back room to make room for the new baby piano here in my office/study/den. Really, I don't know what the hell this room is. I just know I spend more time in here than in any other in the house. And it is the perfect place for the piano. The one that is coming TOMORROW!

Another spoonful of guilt, please...

I was perusing my daily New York Times headlines they so sweetly e-mail to me everyday so that I will not miss anything important, like I did when Luciano Pavarotti died, and had the privilege of getting that gut-wrenching stab of culpability so reminiscent of my days as a Catholic. First, this delightful, insightful and frightening article about a $30 throw pillow caught my eye. The writer's decision about whether to buy or not to buy became an issue of immense economic importance. This pillow, already 40% off, represented the economy as a whole, and every structure from the Home Expo that offered it for sale to the Chinese foam factory, to the shipping company and draying company and import agent and fabric designer and sales clerk were sinking or swimming based on the outcome of his mulling. He didn't buy it. I wouldn't either. And in the end, it is a wonder that the designer pillow industry has been able to survive, at all. What kind of world is it that supports $30 throw pillows? And then there was the article about baby strollers. Some sociological person has done a study about the efficacy of forward-facing strolling vs. face-to-face strolling, and found that caretaker and child interact significantly more when the child rides backwards. And, of course, this is integral in the development of all sorts of skills for the baby. Well, both my children rode facing away from me, head on into the world. So I begin my day knowing I have not only deep sixed the economy, I have also damaged my children for life! Oh, hell, I will survive this. I always do. Maybe I will buy something today. For my kids.

Trills, mordents, rests and eighth notes, oh my!

Well, I did it. Twelve years ago I sold my piano, a Yamaha baby grand. I couldn't watch it being carted out my door for the last time. I was moving into a house on a steep hill, with beaucoup stairs, and there was no way we were going to get that sucker up there. The proceeds allowed me to live there, as well. I got more for it than I paid for it, so it was almost worth selling it. But my heart kept aching for a piano, and lately, I am thinking that my days here on the Big Blue Ball are numbered, and putting things off is not such a hot idea any more. So, I got my tax refund and I sold The Peanut Gallery, and I ordered a digital piano from Costco.com, just like that. I tried the one they had on the floor the other day, and it plays just like a regular instrument, with hammer action. And it is small, which is good, because so is my house, but, with digital enhancement, it will sound just like my grand did. How sweet is that! Someday, I hope to have another swell instrument, but for now, this is fine. I found all my music in the garage yesterday, and am happily perusing the Web for more. Abundance! Gratitude!

The time is now...

Gee, I really hate losing this hour that is flying away tonight. The older I get, the longer it takes to get used to little changes like this. I sort of have this internal clock, you know, one that knows what 6:20 PM is supposed to look like, and tomorrow, it will totally be 7:20 PM, and just not look right. I could move to Hawaii. They don't do this little dance with the clock. Oh, wait. I already did that. OK. Now to find all the clocks in my life, and there are bunches of them, like at least a dozen, when you count the coffee maker, the microwave, the stove, two VCRs, the wall clock here, two computers (which think the clock changes at the end of the month, so will have to be reset when they, um, reset), the alarm clock, the iHome dock, my watches (three of them, I like variety) and the clock in the car. Okay, that's FOURTEEN clocks. Like I need all these clocks, really I didn't ask for them, they just came attached to stuff. I am just praying I don't have to find any manuals to accomplish this. I want this watch I saw in one of my Woowoo catalogs, you know, one full of angels and zen stones, stuff like that. It had no hands, and just said NOW. Which is what it always is, anyway.

Okay, this is just tooooo cute!

So, here I am, decompressing from this morning's madness midterm in Art History, kind of diddling around on the computer, and I keep hearing this little knocking sound on the carpet beside me. And there's Pickle, wagging her tail and chasing little pinpoints of light that are shimmering in from between the blinds. She is as happy as a pig in s--t, this little dog, who very well may be part cat, because I think this is cat-like behavior. I wouldn't know for sure, never having had a cat stick around long enough to find out. Anyway, this is joy in a flufly little package, just leaping about, not caring if she looks silly or not. I want what she has!

May I gripe?

Ah, a trip to the post office, guaranteed to bring out the worst in just about everybody. The guy behind me was pretty steamed, for sure. There were 18 people in line in front of me, and two clerks working. One was the Business Line guy. People were coming in with packages piled too high to see over, and he was slooooowly stamping and weighing, weighing and stamping. The other clerk spent 15 minutes schmoozing with this couple, who had one, count 'em, one package to mail. To the moon, presumably. Eventually, another clerk arrived, and he spent 10 minutes getting set up, counting his bills one at a time. while we all shuffled our feet. And his very first customer wanted something he didn't know how to do, so he spent another 5 minutes talking to the other clerk, and neither of them were helping any of us. I would have left, but it was worth $90 for me to stand in that line, to return an item I didn't order and didn't want, so I counted my blessings. After all, as dorky postal employees are, we are fortunate to have a postal system that works as well as it does. And I am GRATEFUL, goddamnit. Really I am. And what do I expect at the post office, Einstein clones? Like, get over it.

Wet dogs and rubber boots...

Well, it's raining, again. And don't you just love it when they say it won't help the drought conditions? Like, it's going to hurt them? Doom and gloom, everywhere. I am pretty cozy here in the little yellow house. Wish I could say that is where I will be all day, but not so. School today, and hairy midterm looms, so I had best show up. And later, some shopping. I broke my only hand mirror the other day and have been using an itty-bitty compact to check the back of my hair before heading out the door. I would be horridly upset if I walked out with my hair all mushed in, looking like a senile old lady. Walmart seems to be my best bet, as I also need mouthwash and dog biscuits and probably a DVD or two. Oh, there's bound to be more stuff I need, just eludes me at the moment. Then home to study like a good little student. Happily, we already had a quiz on half of this material, which I am sure I aced (we get it back today). So, all I need to do is buy my green books (which used to be blue, go figure), fire up my ball point, and off we go.