As usual, I didn't get that memo...

I am of the opinion that when God was handing out the manual, I was hiding behind the door. And it continues to be my challenge to stay up with what is happening for the rest of the world, or class, as the case may be. Today, I thought we were supposed to bring pictures to compose compositions for possible watercolors. But, actually, we were supposed to do washes of watercolors over the pictures, too, and I didn't bring any to class, so I just got drawings, three of them, because I work very fast and get easily bored. I was particularly pleased with this rendering of the Pickle. She has always been a really fine subject, easy to render in any medium, with those enormous eyes and all that blonde hair. Boo, on the other hand, is very difficult to capture, and this is the most satisfying rendering I have ever done. Sometimes, it is just so EASY. And other days, forget-about-it. I just know that time spent with a pencil or a pastel or a brush in hand is precious time indeed.

That's me all over...

Ever since our painting teacher assigned self-portraits, I have been fascinated by that challenge (and the first one was hung in that semester's student art show, a major honor). Of course, I am not alone. Rembrandt, Durer, Michelangelo, Van Gogh, Cezanne, they all did them. And time marches on, you know, a lot of it right over my face. So it is probably a good thing to keep up this process, sort of chronicle my slowly sinking jawline. I can now appreciate photos that ten years ago I thought made me look like a toad. But drawings and paintings, ah, there I can cheat a little, leave out a wrinkle or a crease. I think that is pretty damned special. And, I am happy to report, all the lab tests that the Dr. did were normal, so I expect to be feeling better really soon. Just not yet, at the moment. Follow up coming, to discuss languid thyroid. Notice I hid that sucker under the turtleneck, artistic device to avoid having to display turkey neck. That's the beauty of being an artist, and doing portraits. Smart artists flatter their subjects. Me, too.

If at first you don't succeed, beat it to death with a stick.

Okay, this is the trouble with being self-taught. Your teacher gets strange ideas. Probably this was a bit much to bite off in the early days of learning to use pastels. Probably I should have quit fooling around a long, long, long time ago. I just got so sure that if I kept at it, it would get better. This, despite the fact that over and over and over again, it never, never, never has worked. Insanity. Nevertheless, here it is. At least now I can move on to something new. Okay, I already have. In the end, it is good to learn what works, and even better to learn what doesn't.

How to spruce up a little bitty bathroom...

... put a really BIG painting on the wall. Here is my little hommage to my wrinkle cream, hairspray, and white cork-topped jar, a pastel I diddled up in the middle of my muddle. The frame was just sitting there, on the SALE table, and looked enormous, and a fabulous bargain at $10. I bought it not knowing what I would do with it, thinking of watercolor paintings that are languishing in a cardboard portfolio somewhere in a dusty corner of the studio. Then I decided to frame this painting, because I was all tuckered out and didn't want to search for something else, and it was still sitting on the drawing board, so to speak, waiting for me to pronounce it finished. It isn't signed, so maybe it isn't. I just know it really perks things up, hanging as it is to the left of the toilet. Hell, art should be everywhere. And now it is.

Glass birds, and eggs, of course...

Once upon a time, when the cowwoman was a budding teen, a pseudo-friend gave me a glass bird for Christmas. She was the daughter of a friend of my mother's, and circumstances threw us together a lot. We hated each other. Well, after that, my mother gave me a glass bird that she was sure was a Lalique, and then they just sort of multiplied into a collection. Somewhere along the line they attracted eggs, glass eggs, marble eggs, even an amethyst egg. My partner at the house on the edge of the world gave me a dandy wood and glass case to display them, and it sits in my back living room, collecting dust. Okay, I do flick it off now and then, but I don't pay a lot of attention to them, my glass birds. Until I need something to draw. Talk about challenging. Our watercolor teacher worked with us on painting transparent objects, and I love the look of them on the paper. So, one day when I was bored out of my tiny mind, I took three things out of the case (the marble just ended up there, because I didn't know where else to put it, and it is too pretty to put in a drawer) and immortalized them in my sketchbook. Next, I want to try some of them in pastels. That should be interesting. And challenging.

Please pass the hubris...

Every time I sit down and something recognizable comes out of my hand and mind onto the support, be it canvas or watercolor paper or just a page of the sketchbook, like this one, I get all excited and full of myself. Then I remember, oh, this is just something that was included in the unique soup recipe that is me, one of the gifts, like love of words and a never-ending curiosity that keeps me buried in reference books and searching for more and better ways to be me. I did notice that other artists like to display their sketchbooks, though. I never thought to immortalize these images. They are just little doodles I worked up while watching my soap opera, actually. We Geminis are loathe to do just one thing at a time. And a day without a doodle just is not worth living. I have been doodle-deprived for a while. I actually filled up this sketchbook ages ago, and started another, that I am less proud of. Well, saints alive! Riley Street, our local art supply store, otherwise known as my Mecca, is having its bi-annual beginning-of-the-semester sale, so I can pick up a couple new, spiffy sketchbooks, and begin another one. Oh, joy! Art. It is so healing. Yes, I am better today. Waiting for results of tests, and hoping this lasts, so I can travel out to the library, the bank, and Riley Street.

Decisions, decisions...

I spent a happy hour online looking at what other artists are doing with pastels. Answer: everything. The SAME artist produces a tightly wound, precise little picture, then turns around and does something like this, where it is all mixed up, can't tell which flower begins or ends where, worked over, then worked over again. Funny, it didn't get worse for the scumbling, bumbling around. I think I will fix it, with fixative, then fix it. Tomorrow.

What you can do with an Anthropologie catalog and a few minutes in art class...

Thursday morning, our erstwhile teacher wanted us to work BIG, so she gave us these enormous pieces of newsprint and let us have at it. I know from previous classes that newsprint is best with charcoal, and ink, surprisingly. I didn't bring any ink, so I delved into the vine charcoal, opened the catalog I had put in my bag, and began. The first drawing was the lower right, the girl in the environment. Of course, in the picture, the environment was bigger, the girl smaller, but hey, this is MY interpretation. Okay, I didn't notice that little anomaly until I have finished the sketch, and I know no one looking at it would be comparing it to the original, so I left it that way. My favorite part of this was the shoes. You know how I love shoes as a subject. They are so homely, shoes. The most challenging was the angel statue. Then I added the bust, and about that time, teacher reminded us that we needed to tie it all together, so I put in the second figure, who kind of ran off the page, but that seemed to be an asset, and the shelf with the wonky bowls. It was great to be back into sketching with charcoal. It is such a fun and messy medium, so expressive. And that is me, expressive, forget-about-reality-and-join-me-in-the-lalaland-I-live-in-and-enjoy. I felt all freed up when I left. Well, I was already out of it, and on my way to the Dr. Perhaps that is why I got such satisfying stuff down onto the paper. Art is best when mindless for me.

Well, the whole world is fuzzy, anyway.

The cowwoman went to the Dr. yesterday. Yes, there was a little infection, and then there are some tests pending, too. Certainly, there are steps to take here. So the whole thing is hopeful of a successful outcome. Just not happening today. I feel really fatigued, like I am hauling around 750 lbs, and the world seems to be behind this haze, not very far away, but not close enough, either. So I stood at the kitchen counter and smeared chalk around on the paper, earnestly hoping for an artful outcome. Here is a portrait of my hairspray, my wrinkle serum, and my jar that holds, wait, I don't know what is in that jar! It was inherited by my mother from her dear friend Gen, who died many moons ago, and got passed on to me, so it is kind of precious in its modest little way, and deserving of being immortalized in a painting. And isn't that strange, calling pastels "paintings"? But that is what they are, you know. The process is very like painting, layers of dark followed by layers of light. Hell, whatever it is, here it is. I'm too muddled to worry about it at the moment.

And now for something completely different...

After my last post, on that frabjous day when I was feeling so very fit and hearty, I woke up with vertigo. Now feeling like I am lugging 500 lbs around with me, all tuckered out. Tired blood. Does anyone have any Geritol? I talked with the RN on the AARP health line, and we decided I should see my primary care physician before going back to the gym. You think? I also dragged out the medical encyclopedia, which told me I could have Meuniere's disease, an inner ear thing that is minor but really irritating, and may or may not clear up, and may or may not get better, or worse. Gee, that's encouraging. So, I made an appointment. Mostly I am concerned about anemia, because if that is it, I may have injured myself again. Many moons ago, I had a totally weird thing happen. I split open a muscle in my abdomen and bled out a quart and a half of blood into my belly, coughing. Yeah, coughing. I had pneumonia, it turned out. Rare occurrence. There was no outward sign of bleeding, but, during my five days in the hospital, armies of health professionals came through my room to peer at my navel. Needless to say, I was pretty wiped out for a pretty long time, like six months. They never did transfuse me, something I was later really happy about, since the whole AIDS thing happened shortly thereafter. So, off to the Dr. to check out the CBC, and other bodily fluids. I feel more present today, and that is a good sign. Just want to get back in the saddle at the gym.

Home is the cowwoman, home from the gym...

Ah, there is nothing so righteous as getting my buns to the gym. I bounced in, and I bounced out. Don't know why that happens. Somedays, everything is such an EFFORT. And then there are days like today, when it all seemed mega-easy. And I am doubly righteous becase I am reading LITERATURE. Frankly, I think people who say they only read literature are lying or just pretentious prigs who enjoy looking down their noses at us common folks, chuckling over the new Stephanie Plum or Kinsey Milhone tome, not to mention Qwilleran, KoKo and YumYum. Poor peeps never got to read Harry Potter! That, folks, is a wasted life indeed. But I am plowing my way through The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo. I have taken a lot of writing courses in my tiny life, and like to read writers who can compose a good story with dynamic characters, lilting narrative and pithy dialogue. This writer is on the cusp, as far as I am concerned. Plus the first 10 or so pages had me yawning so large I could have broken my jaw. First rule of writing: Hit them with a dynamite opening. Next is the very selective use of modifiers, which you don't need if you pick the right noun or verb in the first place. Specifics! It is not a bird, it is a robin, or a finch, or a hawk, or a nightingale. The sky is not cloudy, it is bruised, puckered up, cottony, windswept. We didn't walk, we ambled, skipped, scooted, slunk, trudged. Oh, there are so many wonderful words. And, when at a loss, just make one up, like Annie Proulx does. Drenty. Try to find that in your Funk and Wagnalls. Life is so delightfully complex. And righteous.

New, old, whatever...

This is where my art began. I painted this about ten years ago, back in the house at the edge of the world, where my easel sat in the kitchen under a skylight, with a little Formica-topped cabinet as my tabouret and an old glass-fronted cabinet held my current objects. I labored there in fits and starts, pushing the paint around, often really frustrated. At first, the background was not so deep in value, the candle remained unlit, and there was no plate with an orange in it. The square canvas just felt so unbalanced, and uninteresting, despite the (totally accidental) use of complimentary colors. Then, one day, we ate breakfast in town, at the now-defunct Lyon's restaurant (where there is now a new sparkling In and Out), and I saw a painting of fruit with a halved orange on a plate. I painted it in as soon as I got home, then, aha moment, I lit the candle, scumbled darker pigments into the background, and I had a more dynamic composition. Not the best way to paint. It worked though, and I am not ashamed to hang this on my bedroom wall, even if my perspective sucks, which it does. Actually, it is my trademark that something is always flawed. And, funnily enough, there is always a sweet spot, too. I think it is in the juxtaposition of the two pears and the yellow nasturtium in this composition. There is a spot of light on the pitcher there that I don't remember painting. Tiny moment of inspiration. Those are so precious. If I painted this picture today, the perspective would be more precise, and the objects much more loosely portrayed. It is good to remember the beginning. Every artist that I studied in art history 2.3, the French salon and Salon Refuse, all began tight and representational (yes, even Monet and Van Gogh). It was later, after many, that they fell into who they would be, so very individual. This may be my year for that kind of revelation. Sooooo exciting.

This little light of mine...

Okay, mark your calendar. Today, the cowwoman is happy. Feeling fine. Feeling wealthy and young. On the inside of course. This flies in the face of the actual truth. I find myself fluffier than before the holidaze, probably because if it wasn't nailed down and stood still long enough, I ate it. Back to the gym with a vengeance this week. Feeding frenzy is not quite over, but gym should keep it from piling more lumps and bumps around my midsection. Feeling prosperous, too. That could also be an illusion, but hell, I'll take it. There is enough crappy stuff happening around me to choke an elephant, but I seem to not be in its path at the moment. New pair, here. Studying various ways of laying down the soft pastels. I started this one by going in with a wet brush first, then scumbling over. You can tell how joyous I am feeling from my selection of pigments. Gee, I wonder what the grown-ups were doing today!

Happy epiphany...

Otherwise known as the twelfth day of Christmas. Hallelujah! It is officially over, all those smarmy emotional movies done up in red bows, yuck. I celebrated by getting out the pastels and proving to myself that I can make mud in ANY medium. Not awfully unhappy. I let it be all loose and messy, that is my style. I could have worked on it forever, blotting and smoothing out and roughing it up. Whatever. I am taking it out to spray it with fixative, then will probably go back into it again, brighten up the highlights, darken to shadows, scumble the hell out of it. Gee, I love making art.

Simply sublime day, so far...

Have I mentioned how much I love shopping? And two of my favorite spots are Dick Blick and Anthropoligie, which just happen to be right around the corner from one another. Only glitch is that they are in Berkeley, a little 40 minute drive south and across the Bay, but ever so worth the trouble. My friend and I chatted all the way down, solved our own, each other's, and most everyone else's problems. My thrust at this art supply store was accessories for my new media, soft pastels. Friend commented that every new media requires about $100 of expense. This one has done me in for almost twice that, and I have so far only completed three little ouevres, all pretty weak. But I think that is because I didn't have the right equipment, which includes a dandy how-to book, a compartmented storage box with see-through lid, tortillions, chamois, sponge brushes, ink pencils, charcoal pencils, dedicated palette knife, suitable erasers, starter set plus 5 new hues of Sennelier soft pastels, a few oil pastels, painter's tape, a new lightweight drawing board, watercolor brushes, fixative, gum turpentine, and watercolor paper. The portfolio is packed for a class tomorrow morning, one offered to seniors by the JC. Now, if I can get up early enough, I will be off to learn all about these very expensive chalk sticks. Won't be wearing my new jacket I got at Anthropologie that fits perfectly and is just foofoo enough without being over the top, and was on SALE (favorite word in the language, that). All in all, a successful morning, and there is still $90 on the gift card to spend! More shopping awaits.

More images from the studio...

I really don't feel so badly now...

One enterprising author has done a book on the studios of current popular artists, so I went to Amazon.com, one of my favorite browsing denizens, to check them out. My, those folks are messy buggers. I think my studio is just awful. It is always full of stuff: supplies, books, completed works, not so completed works, easels (3), a paintbox or two, portfolios full of drawings, watercolors, etc. Every so often I muck it out, but at the moment, without renting a storage unit, it is pretty much unmuckable. I artfully shot my photos of it around the sewing machine and ironing board which now are residing there, too, until I finish major crafting project for little kiddo's wedding, which will be months in the doing. But, after seeing shriveled paint tubes, splatters all over the floor, brushes encrusted forever to the tops of tables I am happy with my little area of creativity. Many wondrous moments were spent doing these tiny works. Whatever, they are mine. And that is my AA in art (with high honors) gracing the teeny tiny drafting table. It is all terribly precious.

That was the year that was...

Strange year, last one. Besides a lot of life on life's terms, stuff that just happened and needed to be endured or dealt with, there was this blossoming of art happening. I took a lot of risks, tried some new stuff, and created piles of paintings. Dr. Oz says this is the way to keep the old gray cells perking, make new neural networks, flex the plasticity of the brain. Otherwise, it gets all hard and brittle and doesn't connect anything to anything any more. Well, here's to newness, and experimentation, to failures and successes, to courage even when I think it is crap. Did I mention I sold three paintings last year? And one already this year? It's precious when I like one of them. When someone else does, that's priceless.

Every day, in every way...

... I am getting better and better. That was an affirmation I uttered over and over again when I was early in my recovery. It kept me aimed in the right direction. And even though I know my feet are firmly on the path, I need to remember what it was like, that icky morass of self-pity that led to self-agrandisement, self-abuse, self-indulgence, and more self-pity. On this second day of the baby new year, I am not making resolutions. I am honoring where I have been, and where I am going. It is funny to remember that, when my therapist asked me "what do YOU want?", I recoiled as from a flame. What do you mean, what do I want? How should I know? No one had ever asked me that before. Oh, everyone else knew what THEY wanted, and most of them wanted it from ME. That hasn't changed. It is still ME that needs to show up, for ME! I am the one I have been waiting for with such patient longing. The new improved version of me knows what she wants most of the time, and she gives it to herself. Pancakes. Bubble baths. PoochieBoo and PoochiePickle. Soft warm blankets on top of the memory foam. Mystery novels from the library. A trip to the art supply store. Or just Walmart, where I was today, getting hairspray and mouthwash and Milkbones. Moments of pure joy that are really just ordinary moments if you look at them from the outside. I did my gratitude parking, way, way, way out in the lot, and hoofed it lickety-split to get out of the frigid wind. Could have been worse. Could have been raining. A friend sent me a hooter calendar. No, not that kind. It was owls. I had several minute of joy watching the slideshow. And there, on my computer monitor, was God in action. Do you know how many kinds of owls there are? Why do you think we need so many? Beauty, wisdom, sweetness is all around me, if I just look up and out. So, new year. Full heart. Better and better.

International me...

I love ITunes radio. I can stream it here on Big Bad Mama, my Dell Dimension dinosaur that runs on Windows XP Professional, and has speakers that can be heard for miles. Usually, I tune in to one of the soundtrack stations on the classical menu, but my mouse slipped a cog the other day and instead of Radio IO, I got RMF Classic. Moosica Classeek. I knew this language was not of the Latin variety, or Russian, or Germanic for that matter. And I kept listening. Usually, when talking is necessary on Radio IO, I get all annoyed. But on RMF Classic, I can't tell what they are saying, and the speech is so melodic, rising and falling as it does, and I know they are trying to tell me something, so I just listen to see if I can recognize any words. French seems to find its way in, as does English. The music is a delightful eclectic mix of classical, soundtracks, American easy listening, really quirky tunes from the other side of the world, and some French goodies, like Edith Piaf singing Rien de Rien, or an Ives Montand ballad. Yesterday, I slapped my forehead in a real DUH moment, and Googled them. I am listening to music from Poland. That took some discernment, actually. Not only is Polish a different language, they use a different alphabet. Then I saw this little button that said Translate this page. And it was from Polish to English. Wow. So, I pushed the Like button to become one of 2,604 fans. Just love that Internet. I learn something new every day. Oh, and today's image is really old painting, in its raw beginning. It has been through many morphs, changing because my mentor did not like it, and has never been finished. Actually, it never looked as good as it did at this stage again. 2011 may find it completed. That would be nice.

Moo-hoo!

Sooooo glad those holidaze are almost history, and cowwoman can get back to dabbing at a canvas with paint, or smearing pastels, or just sharpening a pencil. Too long, no art. It really is an integral part of my psyche now, to create something, anything. Also need a sewing machine expert to come over and instruct me in the intricasies of this very wonderful and complicated machine I have owned for over two years, and now need to know how to use! Help! As this year ends (and lordy, let it be over!), I am reviewing my tiny life, looking in the dark corners where things like dog hair and crumbs tend to lodge, sweeping up, so to speak. I started a 4th step around my mother (again!), because she managed to push the button (again!), you know, the one she installed back in the beginning, when dirt was new. I have been stomping around the little yellow house, yelling at her, telling her off. Of course I would never do that up close and personal. It would hurt me more than it hurt her. But I do know that this anger lives in my body, and unless I get it out, no amount of writing or discerning or pissing and moaning will break it loose. I know it's the right thing because it feels great. And the really fine thing about the 4th step is, that once all the vitriol is out there on the paper, I get to do the real work of seeing MY PART. After all, can't change the old witch of the west. Can only change the old lady here, on Wild Rose Drive. Then I can paint some more cows.

Democracy in action...

Most Americans think we live in a democracy. We don't. Our government is a republic. That is what a college education gave me, discernment. The power lies in the elected officials, who may or may not represent their constituent's wishes. Of course, the electorate can always change their representation, but in the end, the power is still in their hands. Now, AA, that's a horse of a different color. I was elected to be the Intergroup representative for my home meeting. That means I carry my group's conscience to the monthly meeting of Intergroup, a service committee that produces the meeting schedules, runs the bookstore, integrates teleservice for those seeking AA meetings, and produces activities for the county as a whole, like annual picnics, New Year's Eve dances, and the Alkathons, marathon meetings that meet around the clock on major holidaze to give us all a refuge from families and support to not drink. Now, this is a pretty political arm of the program, and I am basically apolitical in nature. But even I have to admit, it was a thing of beauty last night. We had a motion on the floor, to remove the rather pricey ad we run in our local paper, as an economy measure. Most of the reps had taken the issue to their respective groups and gotten the majority opinion. So, first we all stood at the microphone and our individual group's wishes were read into the record. Then, we voted on whether to vote on the issue. Yes, we wanted to do that. Then we voted to see if we wanted a simple majority or a 2/3 majority. That vote tied, 34 to 34, so the chair had the deciding vote. Politician that he was, he decided to do an eeny-meeny-miney-mo thing, and pull it out of the hat, thoughtfully provided by the treasurer. When he selected the 2/3 , I thought we would never be able to pass the issue, but pass it did, with more than 3/4 deciding to drop the ad. You would think this would be an easy decision, but AA's primary purpose is to help the alcoholic still suffering, and many felt we should keep reaching out. However, in the end, most of us felt that our hotline number in the phone book, our Public Information Committee's work, providing literature and schedules in our libraries, schools, etc., were enough for now. After all, we have a strict policy of attraction, not promotion. This is mainly because recovery only works for those who want it. Many who need it cannot recover for lack of desire. Personally, I think those who want us will find us even if we went underground. Actually, that is where we are, anyway. Kind of like an operating system, running in the background. You only interact with it in dire emergencies. And that is how most of us came to be in Program, anyway, bleeding and on fire. Hey, whatever works. And true democracy lives, quietly, with a lot of thought and discussion.

Fast away the old year passes...

And how happy is the cowwoman to see this year slip away? HELLA-HAPPY! Okay, it is just another day in the life of, but there is something wonderfully symbolic about the turning of the year. I mean, I had to buy a new calendar! I don't think it is silly, not at all, to pretend everything can be new again. The year in review is a trail of tears, literally, what with the eye surgery and its subsequent recovery process, and the many, many, many funerals that followed. And it was a triumphant year, where cowwoman saw her artwork grace the tickets to Art for Life, sold three paintings, and, best of all, gained a new son with the announcement of my daughter's impending nuptials. So, great, bursting heights, and crushing, dark depths. I would love to get off that rollercoaster in 2011, just ride the carousel, and maybe the Ferris wheel, for excitement.

This I know is true...

Good friends are ever so much more valuable than pissy family members. So, my Christmas with the women who are trudging the happy road of destiny with me was precious. It started at my home group meeting, where I stood in for the secretary, who had family obligations (probably much more pleasant ones than mine). My extraordinary sponsor chaired. Then we mosied over to the alkathon, for most of a meeting and some really sweet stuff, like pecan pie and apple strudel, before hitting the 1:30 matinee of "The King's Speech" at, TADA, the smart people's movies, which opened again just lately. New owner, but he has kept it an art house, and installed really comfy seats to boot. Dynamite film, with moving and incredible performances, oscar-worthy, for sure. Then a nosh at our favorite coffee shop that stays open for folks like us, poor orphaned gals that we are. We had a swell time, stayed sober through another #$&(# Christmas, and tomorrow, I will have 21 years sober, and a delightful day with my kids, who are the best family ever, and now, I have three, because one will soon be my son-in-law, how sweet is that! Many blessings to count as this danged year closes. It was a doozy. Hoping next year brings less drama. That alone would be super.

The dark sacred night...

It is winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. In my neighborhood, the sun made a valiant effort for a few moments this afternoon before surrendering to storm clouds that have now piled up again, and it is ready to rain. The big puddle across the street is at tidal status, ebbing and flowing with the pass of the moon, it is so deep already. I like the idea of the sacredness of this time, a time to go inward, examine the so-far-unexamined, take stock of the virtues and character defects, and get rid of the stale-dated behaviors that no longer serve the common good. Letting go of judgment myself, knowing that I do not ever know what goes on between the ears of another human being. I can only suppose it is the same as what goes on between mine, and that has never been true. Just doing my best to be the person my dogs think I am. I came home this afternoon after a short shopping trip, and found both poochies all wriggly and filled with delight to see me. Just love being loved like that. Now trying to spread that in the world, too, even to people who seem to not love me. After all, one should never wrestle with pigs; you get all dirty, and you piss the pigs off, too. So if someone is doing me dirt, I just let it lie there between us, and continue to believe it was an accident, after all. My job is to BE the person I want others to be. Big job, that.

Happy hands at home...

I had thought my days of entertaining were behind me. After all, the little yellow house is, well, little. And then my folks got too frail to do their annual pre-Christmas get-together, so I decided I could do it, yes I could. And I did, yesterday. We all fit quite well, with a little ingenuity and shuffling of furniture. It was a fine time. Except ( and isn't there always an EXCEPT), Mother did not attend. She was feeling dizzy. Dad made it, along with baby brothers, who are now 63 and 61, my adopted brother (from long association and much affection), little kiddo and her fiance. Food was scrumptious. Well, God cooked it. I was not really in charge. Worked hard to be laid back and not expect perfection. That didn't work all the time, but it was helpful. I decided Mom was really not well, and wasn't doing this to get back at me for times I was unable to attend family gatherings, called to see how she was doing later in the day, and sent her a plate of food. What goes on with her is so foreign to me, I would not even start to figure it out. Just know that because she is who she is, I am who I am. Polar opposite.

Deathly Hallows, indeed...

Still warm and fuzzy after a day in the big City with youngest kiddo and her dear intended. It is kind of a tradition to do Harry Potter movies together. So I plyed the 101 corridor for a breezy hour to get to San Francisco. There are several towns lining the freeway. Rohnert Park grew there during my lifetime, a non-city that serves as a bedroom community for Santa Rosa, Marin, and San Francisco, with sections sensibly named A Section, B Section, etc. Kind of simple-minded, actually. Cotati was a tiny blip on radar, and now hosts the International Accordian Festival, a gala event I have so far managed to avoid. Petaluma was once the egg basket of Northern California. There are still chicken ranches sprinkled here and there, but it, too, has morphed into creeping suburbia. Over the Cotati grade, one dips down into Marin County, and I waved at the herd of dairy cows lounging after their morning milking, waiting for the farmer to open the gate that allows them to sojourn under the freeway to pastures on the east side of the road. Novato is Marin's poor relative, sprawling in mostly flatlands. It does have the famous rotating house, which I noticed had a new blue and white checked paintjob. White egrets stand by the freeway there and watch you pass by with their own brand of elegant disdain. San Rafael is old growth Marin, it even has one of Junipero Serra's missions beautifully preserved off its main drag. Houses perch on the hills in overgrown trees. Mount Tamalpais was almost invisible in the fog. It is Marin's token dormant volcano, and on a clear day, one can see across the Bay to Mount Diablo, the east bay's equivalent. After the climb up past Frank Lloyd Wright's Marin Civic Center, through San Rafael's auto row and up over the next hill, one enters Marin Proper, the artsy fartsy Marin one thinks of immediately when the name comes up. However, if one were to look over one's shoulder, there is San Quentin, sitting on primo real estate beside the Bay, near the entrance to the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, always a sobering sight. Corte Madera morphs into Mill Valley, bastion of the more laid back folks, and then there is Tiburon, with Belvedere Island attached, where the really rich folks hang out. Sausalito sports rows of funky houseboats strung together like Christmas lights, each more outrageously ingenius than the last. And then the ride gets exciting, climbing up the back of the Waldo Grade, where there is no civilization other than highway signs and lamp posts, huge eucalyptus and cypress and pine trees on the steep slopes of the hills, winding up to the tunnel. And one emerges to the Golden Gate Bridge, with the City spread out across the mouth of the Bay, all sparkly even in the mist. It never fails to take my breath away, even as I scramble to remember where in the car is my purse, and do I have $6 cash for the toll booth waiting on the other side. Even the drive down into the heart of San Francisco is wooded and green, as one traverses the Presidio, now the home of ILM (Industrial Light and Magic, Lucas's brainchild) and other commercial concerns. Kiddo live in the Marina, really easy to get to and often offering that very rare accomodation, a parking space. Yesterday, we went straight to brunch, taking Fillmore Street (yes, same as the auditorium of rock 'n roll fame) over the hill (and there should be a much better name for it, it is soooooo steep) and into Japantown, where we had reserved seating (!) for the movie after a delightful Indian meal at Dosa. I had traveled 120 miles by the time I greeted the poochies that evening, and it was all wondrous. Comes from being comfortable in my own skin, sober for 21 years. Now, that's something in itself.

Le'go my MUFA!

All I wanted when I was a child was to be grown-up. For some reason, I thought no one could tell me what to do when I got there. Jeez, was I wrong. Instead of just the parents and teachers and nuns, there were the IRS and the boss and the supervisors and the Highway Patrol and the Catholic Church and, yes, still the parents, and the KIDS. Well, now that I am in the netheryears, I pretty much ignore most of them, anyway. I speed very slowly these days, anyway. And besides all these entities, watching over me like Big Brother, there are all those health advisories. Coffee is bad for you! Oh, wait, coffee has anti-oxidants. Coffee is good for you! Help! Recently, I read the Belly Fat Diet book, like this little pad that has enveloped me for 50 years was going to flatten out like an empty balloon. Hasn't happened. But I did learn about MUFAs, mono-unsaturated fatty acids. MUFAs are my friends. Avacados, olives and olive oil, nuts and seeds, fish high in omega-3 are all MUFAs. And then there is my favorite MUFA, dark CHOCOLATE. I am supposed to eat some every day. How cool is that. And I found the ideal way to do that, at Trader Joe's, that gastronomic Disneyland, Nutty Bits, little bites of dry-roasted nuts covered in dark chocolate. Maybe being an adult is not such a bad thing, after all. And look where I live, in this amazingly lovely place, where hiking is really just walking up and down rolling slopes, with one pristine vista after another. I and my belly fat are happy today.

Glad that is decided...

Just read in my AARP bulletin that dogs are decidedly smarter than cats. The trick is their social skills, trait that the felines have never caught on to. Solitary species have less developed brains than more social animals, like monkeys, dolphins, and dogs. My two are pretty sweet, so it doesn't matter all that much how smart they are. Well, not most of the time. I do like that when I growl at them, they both automatically move to the other side of the bed. Not so crazy about the fact that if I get out of bed, they will move into my spot, every time. Could be they just like the warmth, but truly, they are just so devoted to me, they want to sleep in my scent. How adorable is that! Such a wonder, these little guys. Love on the hoof.

One problem at a time, please...

You know how it is, your hair gets manageable after your last haircut, and for about 60 seconds, it is perfect. Then, bang! It's too long. And if you are like me, you will try and try again to get it to look like it did for that one evanescent second when it was perfection, until you can barely see through your bangs. So I took my head to the hair cutters today, and got suitably shorn. I love it. And guess what? I haven't colored it in months, and underneath, it was all silvery like it was on top! For the first time in decades, my hair is its natural color! And I love it. Strange but true. So here is my dragonfly, the symbol of ILLUSION, resigning that little part of the cowwoman's life. This should save me about $80 a year in hair coloring product, not to mention the wear and tear on my heart each time I blew dry afterward. Yay.

Ghosts of Christmas past...

This is the time that I get all misty about what has been lost over the many, many, many years of this earthly existence. Holidays in the FOO (family of origin, for the uninitiated) were sumptuous times of excess: three kinds of homemade candy (fudge, penuche and divinity), candied walnuts, stuffed dates, mountains of nuts in the shell with convenient nutcracker, cookies (dream bars, thumbprint, Russian tea cakes), presents that began appearing under the enormous tree a couple of weeks before Christmas, and often wound up piled higher than the tree itself, turkey and all the accompanying delights, pumpkin and mincemeat pies, carrot pudding (sounds awful, I know, but it was like the cherry on top) and stockings stuffed with tiny wonders in the morning, after high mass, lots of smells and bells and singing. Major overwhelm for small hearts. Yet, there was this underlying current of guilt, like I was such a BAD kid, I didn't really deserve any of this. Later, it was me doing all this for my kids. Exhausting, it was. And 180 degrees from my former holidaze, because no one did anything for me. Nada. Zipideedoodah. In my current situation, I seem to always go to that place where I feel less-than, because ex-hubby is ever so much more abundant than I. As I ponder, I realize that this may be true, but I am ever so much more generous than he. My heart remains open, and vulnerable. I think that is the most difficult, and only place to be in consciousness. And the strongest place to stand, as well. Takes a lot of faith in the goodness of this world to be open to its many slings and arrows. This year, I am actually thinking of doing a little tree! Just for the kid that lives in ME. First, need a ladder to get ornaments out of the @##&*%@ attic.

Please, no applause.

For a Monday, today was quite successful, in many little ways. I got up before 9 AM, earliest in a while, had apple pie with whipped cream and nuts for breakfast, really yummy. Got into gym clothes, and after little distraction checking email, went to the gym. Since I have not worked out in 10 days, and then only once in 21, I was really puny on the machines. Add to that the fact that my most comfortable ones are history since the remodel. Now have to learn a whole bunch more. No problem. I just wandered around, did a little of this, a little of that, not too strenuous but did have to mop my brow several times. Back home, I got online and bought some gifts. Half my list is taken care of. How sweet it is that! And, I never buy everything too early in the month, because the spirit will hit me later, and then, I buy too much. Just as I sat down to watch the soap opera, there was a knock at the door. Enterprising guy offering to clean the gutters. This was a real concern that I had hoped to take care of soon. I offered him a price, he accepted, and 30 minutes later, and that little task got crossed off the list. Then I got out a knitting project that had nestled in a corner of my bedroom for a few months and finished it to give as a gift, too. And I found that book I thought I had lost, in the bag with the knitting. All in all, a truly productive day. I even got the trash cans back in their assigned places after today's pickup. Usually, they stand at the curb until at least Wednesday. Definite progress, here.

Everything is illuminating today...

Sayonara, favorite Pepperwood piece. I sold it, which is a little like adopting out one of your kids. I guess that was the idea in the first place. It just doesn't happen often enough to soothe the sting, like a piece of me went byebye with it. It will always be in me, this creation. And more will emerge, I just know it. Meanwhile, I got to appreciate the art of others, too. A friend and I went to the 95th anniversary of Corrick's stationary store in our lovely downtown, to hear the owner and his wife play duets on a magnificent Yamaha grand, not unlike the one I sold a few years ago, except that this one played itself, too. We heard some Chopin, Ravel, and Brahms, then checked out the local artist from Art Trails who were displayed, and they turned out to be my teacher from Pepperwood and her dearest friend, whose art is 180 degrees different, very anal watercolors. Delightful, but picky beyond words. I couldn't do that if my life depended on it. I like messiness. And I think it works for me. More schlepping around in the artsy fartsy world tomorrow, with a trip to the Finley Center just up the street for a show by the faculty at my little junior college, and to Luther Burbank Home and Gardens open house, a sort of Dickensian trip into yesteryear. Someday soon, I will do my Christmas shopping. I can hardly wait for that to happen.

I'm pedaling as fast as I can!

The cold seemed to have flown, so I stopped the pills, only to stuff up and get all muzzy again. Nevertheless, I plowed on, doing the proscribed chores I had set out for myself before this little setback. A trip to the library headed the list. I was really bad about returning library books as a kid, often keeping them for long, long time before getting as guilty as a little Catholic girl could and returning them all shamefaced. Now I am vigilant to the point of paranoia. And I had a couple that a friend passed on to me, too. God forbid I should rack up fees on HER account. The main branch was full of frowsy folks in bubbly coats and wool hats, some drowsing over magazines, keeping warm on a crisp fall day. I noticed this really ancient woman frowning over a computer monitor, and realized my mother will die without ever touching a keyboard. What wonders she has missed! And she could have afforded a super system. I renewed Murder at the Museum of Man, a dandy mystery set in academia and full of intelligent mumbojumbo that has me bursting out laughing ever so often, but is abysmally slow to read because of all the twenty dollar words. I decided I didn't need to know what they meant after all, which has significantly sped up the process, but it is a rambling narrative with little dialogue, and demands full attention, something at which I am not very good (notice avoidance of dangling participle there, result of reading scholarly tomes). Next stop was Costco, where I now have an Executive Membership and privilege of getting into the warehouse an hour early, except, after purchasing it, I found out EVERYONE is being let in an hour early. Whatever, I get $$$ back on my purchases now, so I bought those fleece-lined Ugg knockoffs in gray that I had been salivating over, along with an apple pie that I will gnaw away at for the coming week, my supplements, a cake for the meeting tonight, whipped cream (basic food group in the little yellow house), staples like that. Laundry consumed the afternoon. I folded a load that had been moldering in the dryer for the duration of my illness. It contained one pair of sweatpants, one sweatshirt, two thermal tops, two pajama bottoms, one pajama top, four camis, one tank top, a bra, two bath towels, two hand towels, two washcloths, two dish towels, eleven pairs of socks, and twenty-seven pairs of panties. Long time, no wash. And there were still panties in the drawer, not to mention the ones now in the dryer waiting to be folded from the second load I ran and forgot. Well, what can I say. Bikinis just leaped into my basket at Costco for a long time. Now I am on an underwear fast, waiting for some of these to wear out, which will probably be never since a pair only gets worn every fifth or sixth week, and the ones on the bottom will probably never see the light of day, unless I get significantly behind in laundry, and if that happens, I will probably be dead. I know this is all supremely prosaic, but, hey, that's my life at the moment. Small. Tiny.

Precious...

It is 4:10 PM, and the sun is hanging low in an overcast yellow sky. Most of the leaves have fallen from my front yard sycamores, and the pseudo-lawn is filthy with them. Sorry, too frigging cold now to get out there and rake. I am still recovering here! But inside the little yellow house, it is cozy. Inside the cow woman, too. It is a good idea to take my internal seismic readings, often. My tectonics change really fast. Great upheavals are rare these days, but tiny tremors continue. Anything can upset that delicate balance of the inner landscape. Happy today that I am vertical, dressed, and actually fed my recovery a dandy women's meeting after missing my home group due to dastardly virus. Zicam and vitamin C limited its half-life to 3 little days. Love it when that works. House is fairly clean and uncluttered. That will change, no doubt. Whatever, no big storms on the horizon at the moment. And Precious is the teddy bear on the right. Angel Bear, she came to me in one of those mysterious moments. Once upon a time, I would attend an Epiphany party with a group of women from my then-church. We did a gift exchange where we each drew a number, then went in order, either opening a new gift, or taking one from someone else that was already open, and the person you stole from could do the same. The rule was you could only have the same gift in your possession three times, then you had to let it go. I opened this little angel white bear ornament. Lordy, I wanted that little guy. Alas, he went away. But, on Valentine's day, my daughter gave me this one, a cupid bear, that I decided was actually an angel bear. She rode with me in the back seat of my car in my commuting days, and now cuddles with Precious on the chair I had as a tiny tot by the side of my bed. Precious, now that's a story for another day.

Down time...

Second day of dreaded cold. Funny how a little virus can totally upend my life. I did get up, take a bath, which helped my aching back, dressed in casual, warm clothes and sojourned over to RiteAid for some new night-time cough stuff. Very difficult night with tight, painful cough. Now I am up, still dressed, about to shuck jeans for sweats and crawl back into bed for a nice nappy-poo. Thank you, Coricidin and Tylenol. Without drugs, this would be a world of pain, for sure. Oh, and I stopped into the coffee shop that was Cafe des Croissants, then Starbuck's and is now Louie's. They display local artists. Wonderful venue, with red walls. I could handle that. Yes. Just need FRAMES. After the end of the year, I will get a resale license, buy those suckers, and set myself up for business. I have enough paintings to do that. Yes.

Pass the Mucinex, please....

I am up for a while, vertical after a horizontal morning, dabbing delicately at my runny nose, waiting for the Dayquil Non-Drowsy Daytime capsules to take effect. Yes, the cowwoman has her first winter cold. Little scratchiness in the throat, snorty breathing through a new layer of mucus accumulating. Took that Mucinex, too. Great stuff. Horrid commercials. Meanwhile, the world seems to have gone on without me. I notice there are beaucoup leaves piling up out front, waiting for my attention. Sorry. I am all bundled up in my Victoria's Secret fleecy, fluffy wraparound robe (Country Collection, and on sale, to boot), still recovering from yesterday's debut at the renovated gym. They took away my weinie circuit! I wandered around the weight room, spotting a familiar machine here or there, then tried out some new ones, with spotty success. Sore in new places. Just adds insult to injury to be laid up with this $$&*$@ cold. However, it is perfect timing. No school or appointments to miss. Oh, wait a minute. It's always perfect timing. I'm retired!

The devil made me do it...

The cow woman went shopping today. I have been struggling with this #$&^*@ printer for YEARS. It never printed my business cards right the first time out of the gate. And sometimes, not the second or third either. It kind of cleared its throat before picking up the stock, and dropped the print too high on the page. I might get two cards off a sheet of ten. Expensive, when you add it up. And, lately, after printing each page, it would stutter and whine until you opened the cartridge door and shut it again. Clunkety clunkety clunk clunk. Enough! I looked up printers online, and made a beeline for Best Buy, where I picked up a spiffy new Canon that has wireless technology. Okay, I don't have wireless technology yet, but I am ready when it arrives! Now, years of dealing with new peripherals have taught me that nothing works the first time you install it. Well, actually, my wireless mouse did, but that's pretty simple. I did depart from my usual seat-of-the-pants, I-don't-need-no-stinking-manual attitude, and sat down to read the steps necessary and execute them in the manner and order presented. Or tried to. Right away I got an error message that the "inner cover" was open. Whaaa? After trying over and over to do the same thing, I squinted my eyes at the tiny display screen on top of the printer, and figured out where that inner cover was, and closed it. Tada! The print head and cartridges went in without too much sweat, and how smart is it that there are six of them, so you don't have to replace a tri-color cartridge just because you are out of blue. And I can open the top of this one and see the whole cartridge assembly. I loaded the paper tray and prepared to hook my new baby up to my system via the USB connection, and jeez, another error message. I flogged that dead horse for a while before deciding to start over again. In the end, I just ignored the message that the printer wasn't present, restarted my system, and voila! There it was after all. Yay. The whole process took about an hour and a half, and never once did I have to pull hair out of my head or even bite my tongue. I have printed twenty new business cards perfectly so far. I love that this baby packs up all compactly when not in use. And it has a paper tray! Inside! How efficient can it get, anyway. Then I made myself a turkey, cranberry and toasted almond sandwich on my TJ sprouted wheat bagel that I treated myself to. Okay, they each have (gulp) 300 calories, but I did split it into thirds, and the mayonnaise was low fat. Hey, as celebrations go, this was pretty tame. And pretty tasty, too.

Inquiring minds want to know...

I was watching Pickle, enconsed on the bed as she is every morning, and watching me shed my PJs and pull on my outfit du jour. What must she think about this process? How lovely it must be to have only one outfit to worry about. Actually, she always looks worried as she watches me. And I got to thinking about what vulnerable creatures we humans are to need layers of fabric to stave off the elements. And how vain we are to have so many fashions to choose from. I have often noted that fashion is a real racket. If you subscribe to it, your clothes are out of fashion even before you walk out of Bloomingdale's or Nordstom's. And so many fashions are geared to skinny littlewaifs with no breasts or hips. No one seems to be creating for big girls like me. So I keep my wardrobe down to basics. Kind of preppy for dressy events. Lots of waffle weaves for casual. Jeans. Lots of jeans. Cords, too. Sweaters, I love sweaters. Okay, I have a lot of clothes. This is a short life, and I don't like to worry about what I wear. And I don't like to wear the same thing twice, ever. Sad, isn't it. And Pickle only looks worried because she has these furrows in her brow, anyway. I am heading for the day when I can just throw on my sweats, and not worry about what anyone thinks of me. That makes a lot of sense to this old gal.

Grace notes...

I think birds are God's grace notes. You know, those little extra trills that are not necessary, really, but seem to bring a lightness and beauty that would not be there without them. We had a flock of mourning doves that lived across the street from us in the house on the edge of the world. Every so often, they would brave our proximity and feast at our bird feeder, and usually manage to knock it down, too. Their sweet cooing gave every day a grace, for sure. They mate for life, these birds. Kind of special, that's for sure. Oh, they are not nearly so brightly colored. There are hints of pearly violet and blue in their gray feathers. I just gave them this with a little more intensity. I think it works. Yes.

Kind of amazing...

I was channel surfing in the great electronic sewer that is Sunday evening and came on this PBS documentary about dogs. Now, I know all these very different appearing breeds all came from the wolves that were smart enough to ingratiate themselves to men in exchange for leftovers. This program actually went as far as stating that dogs assisted us in becoming civilized, by so enhancing our hunting skills. Gosh, in school, they taught us it was the end of the Ice Age and hence the emergence of stable climate zones for growing our own food. Well, perhaps the canine species gave us our leg up. And dogs are so attuned to our species, they will learn things that even chimps will not, just because they want so to please us. In one experiment, foxes were bred through three generations for tameness. And another amazing thing happened; they became multi-colored and got different attributes, like curly tails, too. And, since we share a lot of ailments, dogs and humans, scientists were able to map a genome in the DNA of boxers that caused a particular heart ailment, which could then be used to find that same genome in human (and much more complex) DNA Now, that's thinking. All this just proved to me once more that dogs are special creatures. Owning one makes a person much less likely to have a heart attack, for instance. And their special appeal to humans may be that they are like children, always. I mean, look at Pickle. She will never grow out of her baby face. Hopefully, some pretty awful Pickle habits will be outgrown, though. But if not, she can always turn that wide-eyed Pickle smile on, and melt my ever so protected heart.

Troubled waters here...

Oh, not in the painting. That is smooth sailing. But I am all turbulent here. Much happening that is tragic all around me. Climbing up onto my tiny island of sanity, painting and just trusting HP to take care of all those other folks who are ill or sitting in a big pile of troubles of their own making, letting it all be what it is supposed to be, knowing I could not change it with all the power available to me. Meanwhile, I actually had a few moments feeling guilty because I don't have the trouble these other folks do. I am like this swan, filled with grace. For the moment, anyway. I know that things can change awfully fast. Not today, okay, HP?

Creation du jour...

I smeared a whole bunch of yellow onto this canvas last night, then dredged up this image today. I love the way objects just kind of materialize out of the ether onto the surface. No big hassle here, it just appeared there, the little red finch. Birds have this innocence about them, and a curiosity about the world, too. It was kind of gray outside, and the leaves were hip deep on the psuedo-lawn before I went out there to rake, in between sessions with this bright and sunny little guy. I am kind of blown away at the ease I am feeling with the paint these days. It is no longer my enemy, and while it has not lost its ability to surprise me, often delightfully, it obeys me most of the time. No joy greater than going to bed at night knowing there is something new in the world that I made that day.

The cowwoman makes a mess...

Homely little painting of rather prosaic bunch of humble flowers in juice bottle. Hmmmm. I just didn't know what to do. It was too cold. It was too warm. It was blah. Today, I took a small brush into it to flesh out the flowers a little, then scumbled the hell out of the background, color on color, until it popped a little. Not a star in the firmament of my opus, but not a total loss, either. Every canvas is about learning something new. This one taught me to not give up too soon, just keep plugging away at it. There is always hope when you can paint over it, and paint over it, and paint over it.

Mea culpa, mea ultima culpa...

I have made the return journey from the fuds. Unfortunately, it required a little bit of rule breaking. Not God's rules, not even my mother's rules, oh, no no no, MY rules. I try to be oh so circumspect here in the little yellow house. Only fresh foods. No preservatives! No trans fats! Whole grains! Locally grown, organic even! Seasonal! Okay, tiny concession to Italian sausage (chicken at least) and Cool Whip. I'm not perfect, after all. But on my way home from my very righteous meeting yesterday afternoon, faster than you could say non-complex carbohydrates, my little black Focus just turned into the drive up at the new In and Out. The guy outfitted with the soda jerk hat assured me the line was short at that time. I kind of gasped when I saw about twenty cars in front of me. Turned out this is short for this place. They took my order when I was about ten cars away, and the line just plodded along and a mere seven minutes later I had my order: hamburger with the works, fries and a vanilla milkshake. Now, I doubt there was any skim milk in that sucker. And those fries, fresh as new mown hay! And the hamburger, on a soft as cotton white-bread bun, ah, heaven! To be fair, this was dunch. Or maybe linner? I didn't have any lunch, because my stomach hadn't transitioned to the new time yet. And I didn't have any dessert, either, unless you count the milkshake, which was a beverage. Right? Mother always said moderation was the key. And fast food, once a season, seems pretty moderate to me. Is it winter yet?

Down in the fuds...

I just read an email from yet another of my geriatric set, about the joys of growing old. Not in that picture today. My sponsor calls this the fuds. Yeah. Well, it is raining, and although the powers that be gave me back that hour they so rudely usurped last spring, an eager newcomer woke me up at 8 AM, thinking it was 9 AM, and I had not slept well during the downpour in the wee hours. So, not a happy camper here. Yet, as I gaze through the blinds at the front yard, it does look rather festive, decorated as it is with golden leaves on the now greened-up psuedo-lawn. And I will go fetch that newcomer at 1:30 to ferry her to the 2 PM meeting, because that is what we do, help the alcoholic who is suffering. Must be hell to not have a car in this weather. So, grateful for my Jolie, little black puddle-jumper that she is. And I will pull on my boots and look tres sophisticated in the skinny jeans that fit again. And I am thinking of having lunch out at the new In and Out that opened where the old Lyon's was torn down. I watched it rise from the ashes, as it were, wondering if it was yet another County bureaucracy, and thrilled to find it not. Actually, maybe I will put the fuds on the back burner, and sojourn over to TJMax to paw through the racks for a while. That always bucks me up. Or I could consider painting my walls pink, as in this photo that got taken when I accidentally put a pink filter on. Don't know which button to push to do that again, but it was fun while it lasted.

It's not easy being me. Sigh.

Okay, long time, no blog. No paint, either. Like, the more time I have, the less I accomplish. Life kind of blindsided me, again. Dear ones are going through rough seas, and I feel like I am floundering here in my powerlessness to heal them. I do know that it is essential that I not sink, in case someone needs me, I need to stay afloat. So now rising up out of my doldrums. There is a canvas all primed in a perky yellow waiting for my attention on the kitchen counter. And I just popped one of the leftover Halloween candies, Butterfinger, my favorite, in defiance of the waistline fairy who waggles her finger at me all the time. Take that! I will work out especially hard for that little transgression. Actually, in my tiny life, nothing is very wrong at the moment. Laundry could use some attention, likewise the happy mess that I live in. Ah, but she who dies with a clean house has lived a pretty little life, you know. I'd rather go to the movies. Oh, and this image is a detail of the fourth painting I ever did. They do that in art books, you know, show details of famous paintings. I am amazed by the attention to detail I had in that early time. I had tamed the paint, I see, got it to spread out in the way I wanted. And I wish this were the whole thing, actually. It is more interesting than the original. Live and learn. Change and grow. Hope lives.