Road trip!

My friend had a trip planned to see her folks in San Diego, could I give her a lift to the airport? Sure, good for blowing any crud out the tail pipe after short sojourns around town. Of course, I thought she meant SFO. I can find that just fine. But, no, she meant OAKLAND. Now, it is my opinion that the freeway system in the East Bay was designed by either idiots, or people who are so smart they didn't feel we lesser folks should be in on the joke. No problem getting there. Smart friend had a GPS system on her phone, and it treated me like the mental moron that I am when it comes to directions, with lots and lots of repetition. One thing I noted was that there were no signs indicating the airport exit, just a little plane symbol on the 98th Street exit sign. Must be an inside kind of information thing. And then my friend bid me adieu, and she and her phone went off. Now came the true test. How well did I mark my route there, so I could retrace it back north? Invariably, I get lost and stuck in some lane that deposits me in downtown Oakland. This is actually not a bad thing, because I know heading east will bring me to Martin Luther King Parkway, and north on that big street will end up on Ashby Ave., in Berkeley, and west on that goes to the freeway I need to get to the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, and the more familiar climes of mahvelous Marin County. Fortune smiled on me, and I made it to my right road without getting forced onto the Bay Bridge, which goes to San Francisco. That is not bad, either, because I know my way around that City pretty well, too. Well, there is the $6 bridge toll to consider there. I find it interesting that you have to pay a toll to get out of the East Bay no matter what direction you are going. Says something, I think.

Naked people and I...

I really love my figure drawing class, especially this morning, when we had a new model, this really buffed out, young, handsome black guy, Walter. No this is not Walter. I also had my midterm review with Kevin, sweet guy, and this was one of the drawings he praised, even though the shoulder area is too small, and probably the shins are too short. Both are areas I need to pay attention to. There is just so much to think about there, the areas where the bone should be evident, non-parenthetic limbs (the muscles are off-set, in case you haven't ever noticed), the size of hands and feet (much bigger than I think they are, actually). And there has been some improvement, and far less major disasters than the last time I took this class. Actually, I think I just want everyone to see me carrying my ever so artful black portfolio I bought myself a few semesters ago. After all, I am an art major, and it is good to look serious when being reviewed. And I am, really, I am. I just want to be ever so much better than I am. Practice, you say? Yes.

Please, no applause...

I got my car serviced today. No gold star this time. I had diddled around way too long and it was past its miles allowed. Probably this was because I knew it was going to be expensive this time. And it was. Flushed fuel injection system. New wiper blades. New (gulp) battery. No wonder it was kind of clearing its throat every time I turned the key! Anyway, this all took a long, long, long time. And, foolish me, I neglected to throw in a paperback or even a newspaper, and there were none on the little stand in the very cold waiting room, where every time someone came or went, the north wind kept the door open, chilling us poor slobs to the bone. Very nice flatscreen TV. Tuned the the GOLF channel. Imagine that, a whole channel about pudgy guys in Izod shirts and pleated trousers hoofing around on impossibly green grass, hitting a little white ball with a stick. Okay, those sticks are pretty chichi. The Golf Outlet store sold them for (gulp) a mere $299! I didn't even want to ask how much the Fred Astaire shoes were, saddle oxford clones with imitation alligator leather insets. Tres interesting. It got kind of repetitive, the action, so that when one ball landed in a sand trap, I gasped. Ditto the poor schmuck who hit it into the lake. After a while, if the ball missed the fairway, things got terribly tense. You would think that golf could go the way of tennis, you know, everyone could have a DayGlo colored ball of their own, make it all more colorful and easier to tell the guys apart. I like that idea. At the end of my hour's wait, I paid my $224, and brought my baby home, all purring and happy. Life, it is an education in itself.

True confessions of the slothful gardener...

The backyard is a mess, again. Now, every year I swear this will not happen again. And every year it takes longer and longer for me to get my motor started. In prior years, I hired someone to work with me, and that got it off the ground just fine. This year, funds are pretty paltry after taxes, so it will all be on my sweet shoulders. Do you know how difficult it is to wrestle a bucking lawnmower through that great wasteland? And the nifty Sterlite chest I got to store my garden tools leaked and got filled with rainwater. My gloves are toast. Ach! These are the days when I yearn for a MAN, to prune and mow and edge and dig. Then he can go home.

The weather did a 180 and we are now basking in 70 degree sweetness. I optimistically moved all the sweaters, wool scarves and hats, and heavy jackets to the back closet and got out the tanks and shorts and capris. Shoes are next. Certainly I can pack away the Ugg knockoffs. Probably I will still need socks for a while. Mornings can be chilly, and it is bound to rain a bit more. But the world is in blossom, or at least budding. Would like to be out in it, but woe is I, that is contraindicated by the prescription I just got filled, for yet another UTI, and if you don't know what that is, lucky you. This antibiotic makes one photosensitive, leading to instant sunburn. So I will continue my swimming indoors at the gym, looking up at the ceiling tiles instead of the wild blue yonder that was over my head Tuesday, when I sojourned once again to the aquatics center in my neighborhood. Sigh. Only three days of medication. It seems my immune system got all balled up with the stress of my eye surgeries. Hope to get back to my bulletproof self, any time now.

Sore here...

Okay, I admit it. I've been feeling sorry for myself. This is never a good thing. And I have had such good reasons, like: it is cold, my eyes are still mega-sore, I am not sleeping well, Boo was sick, they took away that hour again, I have to mow the lawn, I'm afraid of my taxes, etc. etc. etc. This is a self-perpetuating state of mind. The more I engage with it, the more disgusted I am with myself, and the more I sink into the mire of ooey-gooey gunk. My friend Nancy called it dancing with the Tar Baby. Hard to sit one out, you know. Well, today may be the day to rise from my self-made pain. The pain in the eyes is dialed down significantly. Boo seems perkier. Sun is shining (although that can be deceptive, it's still CHILLY out there). I slept better. And I have decided to ignore the lost hour. After all, it is spring break, no one is expecting me anywhere, I have a week to adjust to getting up at 6:30 AM which is now 7:30 AM. Yes, we can rise above all this adversity. It is, after all, temporary. As usual. I may even dispel the mystery and figure out how much I owe the dreaded IRS. Ouch.

Are my molecules dancing or what?

I love that my molecules dance at the same frequency as sound. This means that I am tuned in to music at the cellular level, and feel the resonance all through my being. When I sing, I can feel the vibration in the mask, and stay on pitch. My ear is one of the best my piano teacher ever worked with. Like, I didn't do any of this. It is all a gift from HP. I got born with it, like my little toes that wiggle and my short, fat eyeballs. I just watched Impromptu, a smarmy period soap opera of Georges Sand's pursuit of a somewhat reluctant Chopin, while Lizst's wife procreates abundantly in the background, and launches her own abortive campaign. Whatever, I got to hear a lot of wondrous chromatic pieces hammered away on the Steinway, rubato, of course. And the young Hugh Grant did a great job of portraying the frail, shy guy that Chopin was. Judy Davis was at her bitchy best, and Julian Sand played Lizst, who was the very first rock star. Really, women threw themselves on the stage when he performed. Funnily enough, he ended his rather long life in monastic garb. Not sure if his life reflected his dress though. I hope to meet up with these folks in the afterlife. As with most artists, authors, and composers, they all appeared to be well marinated in wine. Spirits for the free spirits. It was all satire and sexual sabotage. Not much has changed, except that we are now an awful lot less civilized. Maybe it was the starched collars?

A good idea, in principle...

Reality is always a little more complicated. I have had three cable/satellite providers in my five years here in the little yellow house. We began as a "dish conversion" special with Comcast, then the introductory price went up, like a rocket. So we got Dish Network, and again, the wonderful bargain got really expensive, so we got Direct TV. Ditto. Now we are back to Comcast, who is doing the cable, phone and internet for a dynamite price that cuts my cost in half. For a year. And even then, it will still be $80 cheaper. Wonderful. Except I scheduled the installation for Saturday, and I had an event to attend immediately afterward, so I didn't get my inaugual introduction to the ins and outs of the new stuff. I managed to screw up the TV in the bedroom totally. Nothing worked in there. The internet thing had me totally confused. I finally got an email account set up, nervously as I did not want to lose the old one before I got my addressbook into the new one. I wasn't sure the process had worked, and finally figured out how to print out the damned thing, only to find them all there, after all. I am using the same browser, so I still have all my favorite places. Yay. I bit the bullet, put on my hair shirt of humility, and called for a technician to come unscrew what I had done, and show me how to work everything. It is all kind of perking along, just a little limping during the learning curve, and that is probably good for me. This is kind of a downsize thing for me, and I am not good at deprivation. Oh, well, someday I will laugh about it all. Just not today.

My head is bloody but unbowed, redux...

Because I was feeling kind of fragile, I wrapped myself in a super long, super soft white sweater and fluffy white scarf to go to the eye doctor yesterday. My dear friend drove me there with all the care she could summon. Another friend met me there and brought me a little tulip plant and a muffin. I felt loved and treasured, what a joy. And the second procedure was about how I imagined the first would be, and was not. The drops to constrict the pupil hurt a lot, the laser did not. I thanked the doctor, the nurse, the friends and I took my wounded eyeball home where I put on my warmest sweats, curled up with a cup of suisse mocha, my muffin, my puppies and my DVRed soap opera. Then, the anesthetic wore off, and there was another oh-my-God moment before the Tylenol kicked in. I guess you really cannot drill holes in an eyeball without some consequences. However, I woke up on my left side in the night, not even a twinge, and I could not sleep on my right side for a week after it was operated on. And it was all worth it to know that I will never wake up blind from sudden onset glaucoma. It was all a miracle to begin with.

Things change, Opus 94

Ouch! I saw my parent's yesterday, on the occasion of my mother's 89th birthday. Dad has lost his driver's license and his life is over. Mom is up on her cross again, nailed there by her own stubborn resolve that it is all up to her. Help? She doesn't need no stinkin' help. It all goes to show that what we have about us is refundable at any moment. What we have within us is a renewable resource, if we are flexible enough to let go, when needed, and create a new reality that incorporates the changes about us. The image I put up today was the view from our deck at the house on the edge of the world. I miss that view. And I would not trade it for the serenity that lives here in the little yellow house. Life on life's terms, folks. And if you cannot get over yourself after nine decades of one day at a time, well, how tragic is that. Praying for these fear-bound, angry people who served to usher me into this universe.

She puzzled and puzzed...

Here is the deep thought for the day - you can't be where you're going until you get there. Well, duh. But, gee, I hate that travel time. I am halfway to my final destination, when I can lay down any fear that my eyesight will be damaged by this surprising and exceedingly inconvenient condition that was laid on me at birth. I don't like waiting for anything, you know. Sometimes I eat nothing for dinner but dessert. That should illuminate things for anyone who was wondering if I had passed my sainthood test. Not there, not even close. And sorry to say, my eyes are no longer a matched set. The right iris, the one that got zapped, is wider than the left. In fact, the left looks more like a three quarter moon now in comparison. And the pupil on the right is more open, too. That probably means that, like the right eye, the iris in the left eye is convex as well. This is not good. So I pray that on Monday, when Dr does a look-see, he will decide to do the second procedure SOON. Even though it hurts, and is totally unpleasant, I will be thrilled to put my chin in the little rest and let him thump away with his fancy green light. Let us hope it only takes a few little knocks next time.

Terminal uniqueness...

I have always been different. First, I was the only girl in my generation, for 16 years, that is, until my youngest uncle began his family. And I was the tallest person in my sixth grade class, even taller than the teacher, Mr. Magill. Now, in my latter years, I am the oldest in most of my classes, even older than my teachers. Some could be my kids. And yet, I was unprepared for the experiences I had at the eye doctor's. First, there is this rare condition, an inherited anatomical anomaly that threatens to close off the drains for the interocular fluid, allowing the pressure to build up amazingly fast and produce blindness within 48 hours if not attended to. Except that I had little "dips" in the angles, sort of little troughs that helped keep them open. Nevertheless, pressure was building, so we scheduled the laser surgery. I had the first one (one eye at a time) yesterday. Now, I was led to expect that this was kind of a snap, a little zap that opened a hole in the iris to allow fluid between it and the lens and keep a space there, forever. My iris in my right eye was actually bowing out due to the pressure. Scary. I did all my pre-operative chores, getting my prescription for drops filled, and made a special trip to the drugstore for Tylenol, the requisite painkiller recommended, even though I had Aleve and Advil and Excedrin and ibuprofen and aspirin. Sigh. I took 2 Tylenol and headed out, chauffered by a dear friend as I would be pretty blind in one eye afterward. It took an hour for the drops that shrunk my pupil down to a period to work, then they plopped in the anesthetic drop, and we began the procedure. There were two lasers. The first produced a brilliant green light and served to charbroil the area where the puncture would go. It wasn't supposed to hurt. But it did. The second was supposed to hurt. But it didn't. Lucky me, I got extra pokes, lots of them, because my iris bled. This never happens. Except to me. Happy to say the Dr got around that pesky little drop of blood, and managed to consummate the procedure. And I came home with a post-operative instruction sheet that said use your drops, sight will return in a day or two, and otherwise, no restrictions on activities. Sounded like a walk in the park. Except I woke up in the night with scintillating pain. It felt like someone had shishkabobbed my eyeball and was turning it on a spit over hot coals. Nothing on my instruction sheet about this. I had left the Tylenol bottle by the bed with a glass of water, so I took a couple and propped myself up, giving it a moment before I decided if I was dying or not. And it subsided, slowly, but completely. Now I know to keep the Tylenol going on a regular basis. I am guessing that this does not happen to others who have this procedure, either. Just me. Must be another of God's little jokes. Good news is that, though my eye still feels like someone used it for a hockey puck, my vision cleared up and was perfect this morning, just 15 hours after the procedure. Bad news is that this was just the first of two operations. Don't know if knowing what to expect is a blessing or a curse. Probably, it couldn't get too much more complicated. Probably, the second one will go smoother. Please.

Tha little ofd lady valentine, ME!

All day yesterday I thought I should be doing something special for my valentine. What to do? I already had a fluffy white turtleneck sweater. My new Speedo had arrived, so I took it on its inaugural lap swim. Was that special enough? Since I got home and felt like I had broken my body, I decided no. I am not going to make my three requisite trips to gymlala this week due to eye surgery coming up, so I kind of pushed the workout a little. Then I was so sore, I couldn't think of much else than a hot soak and some aspirin. And today, I am tired from a long night of wrestling with Morpheus, a frequent occupation lately. Before I crapped out and laid down with my current novel for a little siesta, I took a trip to Safeway, and while there, plied the bakery aisles, looking for something bad for me, to soothe my sweet heart. Nothing leaped out at me. Then, as I threw yet another tub of Lite Cool Whip in my cart, there it was. This year, my valentine's name is Sara Lee. Lemon cake. Oh, joy in a yellow box! I had it for lunch, and then, for dessert, too. Do I feel guilty? Is the Pope Catholic? But it is a lovely, soporific kind of guilt. Now for that nap.

The current version. Sigh...

It has been cooled down, then warmed up again. Then the light got more intense with lighter values. Then it got kind of scuffed up, because it was too smooth and kind of trite. And here it is, for all that's worth. I have been slapping away at it for days now. I want to slap at something else for a while. The satisfying thing is that the idea somehow got out of my head and onto the canvas. Oh, the rudiments are always there. But the particulars are there, too. The creative process is very fickle. Seldom does it manifest completely as envisioned. Not that that's a bad thing. Actually, usually there is something accidental that is really brilliant, a bit of God's idea, on the canvas too. Happy accidents. Surprises. That's worth the whole kit and caboodle.

Homework...

So, Kevin says "draw a head". Could be from the handout he gave us, or from life. Well, the only live head I have around this house is mine, unless the dogs count, and I haven't seen any canine models yet in figure drawing, so, here I am. It was a quick study, and it really does look a little like me, though I don't think I look this young in real life, but hell, if I am going to go to all this work, I am going to freaking flatter myself a little. Otherwise, I'd take a photo.

Things change, Vol. XXXIV

I balked at the idea of spending big bucks for prescription glasses because I kept losing my cheapo readers. In the end, I was buying them three pairs at a time at Costco, and they just seemed to evaporate. But the world was getting really fuzzy, near and far away. Time for progressive lenses. Ouch. Telling the world you are getting progressive lenses is like telling the world you are pregnant. Everyone who has experienced pregnancy then is entitled to tell you their horror stories, bloody, painful births that they barely survived. And you stand there with your beachball belly, nodding and praying. Too late to do anything about that, folks. So, everyone, male and female, told me their woes with the progressive lenses. And, cheap little person that I am, I decided to do the 21 day persistence routine. I can get used to anything in 21 days, if I just keep pushing through the resistance. And, surprise! There wasn't any resistance. I felt comfortable (and really CLEAR) from the get-go. Just a little searching for the sweet spot at the computer, and need to remember to look down when negotiating stairs. And the piano will require the leftover pair of readers. Can's see the top of the page and the keys at the same time. But, otherwise, I am happy as hell being old four eyes here. Wish I had gotten cuter frames, but I chose ones that I could not see over or under or around. Later, I can get a cutsey-poo pair for social occasions. And, surprise! I have not lost them once! That is probably because I put the on in the morning (usually after a short period of what-is-wrong-with-this-picture), and they stay parked there all day. Really hard to lose them after all!

And now for something entirely different...

My daughter once noted she didn't like still life paintings because they seemed so contrived. Well, yes, there must be some artifice in setting the objects to their best advantage, for sure. I decided that it would be fun just to take little slices of my life and immortalize them on canvas. So here is my Walmart lamp, on top of my teensy rolltop desk, with books and a painting I did earlier in my opus, another still life of sunflowers. I's just the beginning, of course. I will be diddling with it for a while yet. But I am liking it already, very warm. I think the microwave may become my next subject.

Sometimes, you just have to give up...

I have been trying to make this painting interesting, change the values, change the pigments, make the cow cuter, painterly it up. Just isn't going to happen, folks. And that is what happens sometimes. I thought about doing something outrageous, like go purple or orange or real impasto. In the end, it is what it is, kind of vanilla. Oh, hell, vanilla is more amazing than this poor guy. So, back to the drawing board. I'm thinking a nice still life would be fun.

Sayonara, dear Speedo...

I suppose it is a monument to my diligence that I have successfully shredded my first Speedo. I levered myself out of the pool (had to swim in an inner lane with no ladder or steps to get out), and felt my bare bottom on the cement deck. Fortunately, my towel was not that far away, and no one looks at anyone at the gym anyway, at least not when I am looking at them, and when I slicked it off in the shower, I could see that it was all lacy across the rump. Good that I got an auxilliary suit recently, though it is a little tight still. Takes a while to break in a Speedo, I found. Just in case, I ordered another at swimoutlet.com, a roomier one, on close-out, too. I plan on wearing out bunches of workout stuff. Keeps me from wearing out, you know.

Progress, not perfection...

My second trip through the vicissitudes of figure drawing finds me more receptive to the teacher and less afraid of that great big blank page that stares at me first thing. I am a seat-of-the-pants kind of gal. I don't like looking for the large trocanter or the scapula. I just want to draw what I see. But Kevin, dear teacher, is right. If I can't map the underlying structure, I can't get a true rendering of the subject. This drawing was about as successful as I have been so far. There is a real assuredness of line that is really new for me. Proportions look pretty believable, if not exactly true. The attitude is good, too, because I am doing what Kevin has been trying to get me to do from the beginning, drawing from the inside out, mapping shapes instead of objects. My pencil just seemed to take off on its own. There's hope for me yet!