And the Punk goes on...

It's nighty night time, and what a miracle, he's asleep!  Of course, that does not mean he will not wake up about 15 minutes before I want to turn out the light, and want to play.  Look, he still has his pig belly!  What a guy, my Punk.  That is his new training bra, just like the Pickle's, except hers is pink.  That turned out to be not my best idea, as it is now looking rather dingy.  Maybe I will get her a matching bra.  Punk's is still a little big for him, but I expect him to put on a couple of lbs in the next couple of weeks.  Nevertheless, he is a little guy, a true toy.  Which doesn't mean he isn't all dog.  He now barks with the Pickle at the neighbors as they wrestle their garbage cans down the driveway by the side of our yard.  And, like the Boo before him, he is in love with the front porch, now that the weather is clement and we can have the front door open more often.  Okay, not a lot of excitement around the little yellow house.  What did you want?  Drama?  Try TNT.

Worse, worser, worstest...

This is the third attempt I have made recently at a decent painting, and the best, which tells you where I am at the moment.  It needs a lot of work, especially after I lifted it up to tap off the excess and got black all over the water on top of the big bird.  Almost threw it in the round file after that.  So it feels like time for some alcohol.  No, not the sipping kind, the rubbing kind, that will smooth out the water so I can lay another layer of pastels on it.  Yes, that's an idea.  Or maybe it is just too far gone.  Whatever.  Have I ever told you my ex-husband used to put movie reviews on his answering machine?  Tempted to call him see if he has seen Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, a yummy little movie now playing at the smart people's movie theatre.  Also The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, another little film that is currently making over 10 times it's production cost.  Yes, Virginia, there are folks out there that can survive without CG or 3D, violence or sex.  We are old, but not dead yet.  More, please!  Oh, and back to the geese, time will tell.  It could be worse.  I think.

Progress not perfection...

Well, there is always a new day.  Until there aren't any more, of course.  Looks like I will remain vertical for a while, and today, it is better than it was yesterday, which was better than Tuesday, which was hell.  Have decided to let it be what it is, not try to muscle through my current low energy/high headache phase.  If tests show nothing physical, committed to doing some counseling, which is never a bad idea.  And working at doing more art during this time.  It is the only thing that gives me surcease from the constant barrage of self-interest that runs like DOS in the background all the freaking time.  Well, the Punk helps, too.  He has been the easiest pup since the Boo, is pretty much trained to go outside (with a little help from Mom), and can be trusted more, which makes my life ever so much easier.  So, not jumping up and down, but pretty contented today.  Off to start another masterpiece.  Loving the animals.  This may be what I was looking for when I was casting about for an idea that worked for me, and a style I liked.  The pastels seem to be my medium.  And I even went online and found mats in the size I had been paying a small fortune to have cut for me at our local craft store.  Ordering them even as we speak.  See, not entirely stagnant here.  Sort of treading water, not going anywhere fast, and that's okay.  Yes.

The cookie has crumbled...

Yesterday was one of those days I could have lived forever without experiencing.  Got up early, never a happy thing, and headed for the lab for blood tests to determine why I cannot get my butt off the floor and what is causing hellish headaches.  Nice hour spent there.  Fortunately, I took a book.  Unfortunately, one of my talky friends was also waiting for tests.  The needle-sticker guy was dandy though.  Five humongous vials, he took.  Home again to pick up the Punk, take him for his rabies shot, and out to the animal shelter to get his license so they don't send me a bill for major bucks like they did with Pickle.  What can I say, live and learn.  It was closed.    I stopped for gas, and this annoying guy was tailgating me, pulled up beside me to tell me my gas tank was open.  Red-faced about that.  Home again to peruse Animal Shelter website to figure out how to get Punk official, at senior rate, sans penalty, and languish for a couple of hours before heading out to Costco for prescription, TJs for milk. Found that my glasses had fallen out of my tiny purse, so back to the car to look for them, where I stepped on them and they were totally trashed.  Luckily, I had just sold a painting, so I had $200 to get new ones.  The day ended when Punk threw up in bed shortly after I turned off the light.  Did I mention I put him down every night on a towel?  Best thing that happened all day was that he was on it when he hurled.  Puppy-motherhood.  Not much different than infants, except that yesterday was the first time Punk got left home in the general population instead of his cell in the kitchen.  And he did just fine. 

Fretting, as usual...

Yesterday, I went online to see how puppies grow.  How big will my Punkin be?  He has already topped 6 lbs, which is 1/3 the size of Pickle, though this picture makes him look bigger.  I was prepared to find that he would triple his size.  And was I surprised.  Small dogs reach their full size at 5 months.  And, suddenly, it looks like he will remain really small, for this household, anyway.  He may top out at about 8 lbs.  As with anything, one never knows.  I also looked at pics of other Shipoos.  They are enormously diverse.  Some have curly poodle hair.  Some have really short noses.  Punk didn't really look like any of them, though his coloring was there in abundance.  He is, of course, much cuter than most.  And has the sweetest personality to boot.  So, what will be, will be.  Despite all my web searching and fretting.

And this is the (maybe) finished product.

Heard a wonderful Ted.com talk today on how so many of us were discouraged from pursuing our creativity by peers and teachers who put our work down.  What is that about, anyway?  Does it help folks who are small feel bigger, do you suppose?  In my young days, it was considered bad to praise a child.  This would lead to prideful behavior, swelled heads, bragging.  How sad is that.  It is still hard for me to take a compliment, especially where my art is concerned.  It came from somewhere deep inside, I listened and plugged away at it.  And suddenly, there it is!  I feel peculiarly graced by the ability to take some chalky stuff and paint a picture.  Strange way for a grown-up to spend her time, n'est-ce pas?  Oh, wait.  I don't qualify for that moniker.  I am really only five years old when I do this kind of thing, in love with fingerpainting. 

The struggle...

Don't know if there is anything wrong, but life seems so tedious these days.  Little headache that never seems to go away.  Bane of my existence.  Though I am happy there is not some great big awful disease gnawing away at me, there little irritating symptoms keep pecking away in the background.  So I decided to ignore them, took myself over to Target where, FINALLY, I found a jar opener I can live with, and some other intimate items for other pesky age-related problems.  And came home to work on this new pastel.  I think it is coming up rather well.  And that is what happens, the image just emerges, rises up from the paper , defines itself, says "lighter value here, please" and "okay, this part is done, work somewhere else".  As usual, I am not happy till the whole image is there, filling up the space.  Oh, my.  I am liking this one.  Lots of color.  Lots of values.  Lots of sweetness, without the coy thing happening.  Off to take a pill for my headache, and keep plugging away at the art.  Letting my daemon out to play.

Blss this mess.

The Mother's Day peonies, all immortalized in messy pastels.  No patience today.  I spent most of it chasing Punk around, keeping him from devouring all of Pickle's food on top of his own generous helping, shooing Pickle off the top porch step so Punk could exit the house, taking him out for his numerous potty breaks, in short, being the Punk mommy ad infinitum.  So only a few seconds to slap away at the pastel.  And while I am whining, let me say I really resent the new Blogger template.  I used to be able to select the size and placement of my uploaded photos.  Now it just plunks it down in the center, plop.  Nothing artistic about that.  Well, not a lot artistic about the painting either.  Little headache today.  Static on my art receiver.  Just happy to have done something at all.  Many a day has passed when all I did was play numerous games of solitaire here on the Big Bad Mama computer.  Heck, I even made the bed.  Totally successful day, in my opinion.

Wow, what a Mother's Day had I!

To begin with, it lasted two days.  Big kiddo, my son, came up on Saturday, with this huge box under his arm.  In addition to his card and a Blick gift card, guaranteed to bring glee to this artist, he brought pictures of himself and his new love, and a plethora of gifts SHE sent to me, in gratitude for my son.  Art books!  Watercolor paper, D'Arches, the best!  A necklace she made herself!  What a sweet gal.  Then we took Punk and went to In and Out for lunch, just about my favorite fast food in the world.  And he accompanied me to my mother's  for the afternoon, and that was his best gift.  I was spared being the solitary target.  In actuality, she was gracious and grateful.  Who are you and what have you done with my mother?  On Sunday, little kiddo and her new husband arrived with peonies (currently being immortalized in pastels), sweet journals, and roobios soap, and we climbed into her Mini Cooper to sojourn over to Montgomery Villlage for brunch at Viola.  No reservation, and it was bursting at the seams, but, wouldn't you know, someone didn't wait and we got a table lickety split for a lovely meal together, and some catching up after their latest world junket to South Africa.  I am so blessed with these wonderful kids.  And best of all, they all adored the Punk.  No one has been that enamored of my dogs till now.  This baby just has it all - cuteness, personality, affability that just disarms even the most diligent curmudgeon.  Motherhood - it rocks.

The official state of the Punk report...

You know that my secret of happiness is to be a cheap date.  Just doesn't take a lot to spin my beany.  And my current source of luminous happiness is the fact that the Punk learned how to go out the dog door yesterday.  And today, he seems to have the knack of coming back in, too.  Big yay.  Does that mean he is house broken?  Nope.  Just means he can get himself around easier, follow the Pickle out every time she goes, and I do not have to jump up to let him out, let him in, let him out, let him in, ...  No accidents in the house in the last couple of days does not mean there will not be some in the future.  He is, after all, only four months old.  He weighs in around six lbs., which is six times the size he was when he arrived.  The best view of him is walking away.  He kind of waddles, and has the most adorable puppy butt.  And he continues to channel Boo's spirit.  Yesterday he burrowed into the throw pillows on the bed the same way dear Boo did.  Next milestone is to get him to sleep in. 

Strange days here...

Not myself, no not at all.  Up and down, roller-coaster ride of healing from the big wounding losses not that far away yet.  And I notice that I will refuse to do anything that I love, that I know will raise me up out of my self-made mire of ickiness, not paint, or listen to music, or walk the dogs (now that Punk is ready to go after his last puppy shots).  So, pulling my self up today, doing more on this painting, and ready to get out the last one to work on, as well.  Much to do, and it is a big sucker.  The old bugaboo of how-much-is-too-much has raised its gnarly head.  Oh, just get over yourself, Cowwoman!  Go let the Punk in the back door.  Despite learning yesterday how to negotiate the dog door, he is back to one way only, out.  I give him lots of breaks, he is only 4 months old.  This is a good thing. 

It's a cruel world, after all....

Latest, and last, pic of the nest on the front door.  Funny little guys.  Blow on them, they all open their mouths.  Rather, they did.  Something tore up the nest last night, and mom and three of the babies went to their reward.  One was clinging to the remnants, another was flopping on the front porch, probably fell out.  I put them in a bowl with some shredded Kleenex, gave them some sugar water with an eye dropper, and went online to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do now with these tender little unfinished birds.  And I found, kind of to my relief, that it is ILLEGAL to raise a wild creature without a license.  Imagine that.  So, the expert online said to return them to the nest.  It is a fallacy that the mother will not care for them if a human handles them.  But mom did not show up all morning.  So I called the bird rescue people, who, dedicated souls that they are, were in on a Sunday, and took my babies, nest and all, to the bird hospital where they will be raised up and set free.  They are numbers 0440 and 0441.  I can visit them later this month.  Think I will become a member, donate these old birdcages I have in the garage to their cause.  So happy this was an option.  I would have killed those little things, for sure.  With kindness, of course, but, after all, dead is dead.

Art, the business...

I stopped in the gallery in my hometown, little storefront affair on Main Street, and had the temerity to ask the owner how I could get my art on her walls.  She looked at me like something that had been stuck to the bottom of her shoe and replied, well, I would need to have a body of work.  And when I said I met that requirement, she handed me a sheet of paper.  It seems that my work would have to be juried first.  Well, I expected that.  Then, I would have to pay a non-refundable $600 membership fee.  In addition, I would receive a bill every month for my share of the operating loss, if there was one, and be required to work on the floor 2 or 3 days a month.  If my work sold, I would receive 75% of the selling price on the 10th of the month following the sale.  Let's see now.  I work without wages, pay to show my paintings, pay the rent and utilities, and maybe get some of that back 40 days later?  I think I will have postcards printed and have a private show in my little yellow house, where I already pay the operating expenses and get a place to live, to boot.  Parking is better on my street.  Meanwhile, latest work in progress, another huge (for me) painting on terra cotta red sanded paper.  Coming up nicely, I think.  This is what I like to do, the painting part.  The other part, well, that's the rub.  Somehow, I need to get my name out there, so I can sell the work, too.  Will keep looking.  Phantom gallery?  Maybe.

What the hell do I know, anyway?

Here is the current status of the nest in the wreath on my front door.  Now, I was certain that I had murdered five little avian souls because I did not know the nest was there and left the door open for several hours a couple of days, prohibiting mom from keeping them warm.  I agonized over this, actually.  So, every time I left the house, I would check to see if anything new had happened.  And today, it did.  In fact, a friend dropped by, and when I was showing her the nest with the fuzzy little wormy things, we were privileged to watch an egg hatch.  I will be checking it later for more activity, and am relieved to have not committed bird genocide. 

It's not easy being me. Sigh...

I inherited a lawn mower from my roommate when she moved out 7 years ago.  It was not a bad lawn mower.  It worked, when I could get it started, which I will admit was a kind of a crap shoot.  Usually, it would cough and balk, I would walk away, and when we were both calmed down, it would start right up.  The bag was a bit of a hassle, always getting caught in the starter cord, and really heavy, to boot.  But we struggled along, me and my lawn mower.  That's it in the center there.  The one with the pull cord dangling by a thread.  That is fixable.  Yay.  Trouble is, it would cost me over $100 to have them come, pick it up, repair it, and bring it back.  Sucker does not fit in my Focus.  Now, on the far left is my first solution to this problem, a big honking Honda I bought from a friend, who just didn't like the gasoline model, preferred electric, and didn't have the big yard any more.  Starts right up, she said.  Uh huh.  I tried, my neighbor tried, I went online and looked in the manual, tried again.  Nothing.  Zipididoodah.  So she gave me back the check, and will pick up said mower soon.  And there, on the far right, is my new baby.  I waltzed into Sears today and bought it.  It came in a manageable carton.  They put it in the back seat of the Focus, and that saved me $75 right off the bat.  And then I got it home.  Now, getting it OUT of the backseat was a bit of a process.  At one point, I couldn't get it out OR in.  Finally, I got behind it and shoved with all my might.  It popped right out.  Good.  Hard part is over, right?  Uh huh.  Did I mention that I am really bad at mechanical things?  Well, I am.  And the instructions acted like I knew what a wingnut or a T-bolt were.  Had a couple of moments where I thought about swearing, and then, suddenly, it all dropped into place, and I got it together.  Amazing.  I took a break, had an artichoke, read the manual.  Then I went out and mowed the front lawn.  Just like that.  So happy that there is no dust spraying up my nose any more.  So happy that the grass catcher is really easy to remove and replace.  So happy it is all red and sparkly.  All this is worth $220.  The real test comes tomorrow, when we begin working on the recently tamed backyard.  Will have to adjust the height of the blade for that.  Should only take a half hour or so to figure that out.  Have lawn mower, will mow for food.

Wonderful how my very very old rose bushes survive my tender neglect year after year, and, come spring, do this.  I put some on the table, too, redder than red in the little pear shaped vase my son gave me.  Followed up with a couple of bouquets of TJ's $3.99 blooms, and the house looks, if not tidy, at least celebratory.  Not sure what we are celebrating.  It will come to me, I'm sure.  Meanwhile, it's puppy naptime, so I am free to wander around without fear of trodding on the little tyke.  We are very close to learning to negotiate the dog door.  Oh, that will be the day!  Then he can follow Pickle out into the backyard, and poor big sister will only have a couple of bastions of peace in the little yellow house: the bed and the couch, which Punk can jump off of but not climb up onto yet.  Tiny milestones for my tiny guy.  Funny how life can whittle itself down to one simple question - where's the puppy?

New(and old) horizons...

Adventures in the little yellow house... Gee, I just love Facebook.  Every morning, after a perusal of my email and reading through Hazelden's Thought for the Day, always inspirational, and the New York Times headlines, I head for my home page to check up on my kids first, then see all the stuff friends have been digging through on the great cyber-highway.  One of my more esoteric friends posted a lecture by Terence McKenna, and where have I been lo these 67 years?  Great mind, thinking outside the big box.  He advocated (he was already dead when I discovered him) the return to the mystical shamanic mind for the solutions to all our ennuis.  And his arguments are indeed loquacious.  However, they all kind of fizzled for me when I realized his thrust was to endorse psychodelic drugs, hallucinogens like magic mushrooms and that old fave of mind, LSD.  NOt that I think this is an especially dastardly thing.  It's just that I believe there are some disciplines such as meditation that can do the same thing, help one to embrace the inner journey and move beyond time and space, which Terence thought was the key.  And yes, the current patriarchal structure is pathetic.  Terence would bring us back to Gaia, and the feminine, which is a path I see as gentler and more life embracing than the current religious climate which propagates violence in its stampede for power.  While I enlightened myself, my Punk dutifully waited for me to arise from my intellectual sojourn under the computer desk, Pickle laid at my feet.  It is all very sweet, actually.  Blessed be.

Sunday. Again.

Okay, not liking this new dashboard at my blogsite.  Confused with all these little icon thingies.  Nothing wrong with the old one, folks!  I suppose I will figure it out, eventually.  In the meantime, don't have a clue.  Big horse is almost done.  I ordered a new pastel book from Amazon.com, and it will be here tomorrow, at which time I expect to be inspired and everything I do will be so artful that galleries will be calling me.  Well, it couldn't hurt anything, that's for sure.  Quiet at the moment in the little yellow house.  Both dogs are having their noon nap, the Pickle under the table, and Punk under the computer desk.  Punk is in his "whatever" mode, where he is happy wherever he is, like in his kitchen pen while I slept in, outside the with Pickle, in the pen again while I took my bath, outside again, and then in the office while I tried to figure out how to post this amazingly interesting information.  At least the power tools have ceased for a while. Guess it must be Miller time for the guys down the street.  Plans for the day include starting a new painting, and a trip to the pet supply store for more piddle pads and rawhide bones for my pack.  And maybe framing a couple more paintings.  And maybe washing the car.  And maybe making some noise of my own, contingent on starting my limping lawnmower.  Okay.  That's enough drivel.  An aspirin, then lunch.  That's plan enough for the cowwoman.

Beginnings...

I bought this really big piece of black sanded paper with the idea of working BIG, pushing my envelope of comfort around the pastels. Now, I have only worked on sanded surface once before, and that was dynamite. It picks up every speck of pigment, and the result is thrilling for this little artist. Perhaps it is picking up too much? Well, this is but a mere idea at the moment. The superstucture. Funny, when I photograph a piece, I can see right away where it is working and where it needs more. The white is a little too much, don't you think? I am thinking of muting it with some pale colors. But I am liking the idea of it all just fine, and that is huge for me. I am horribly critical of my own work. Not in a mean-spirited way, but in the what-were-you-thinking way. So, back to the drawing board. Good project for a really warm spring day. Dogs are romping in the backyard when not draped around the floor like discarded clothing. Good movie on the TV running in the background. Up to elbows in pastels. Yes, it's all good. Whatever isn't done will still be there tomorrow. Yes.

After the mice, this.

I caught and released 9 mice, and that looks like the lot of them. No mouse sign for a couple of days. Yay. Then I noticed that this bird kept trying to fly into the house when I had the front door open. Come to find she has made a nest in the wreath there, and laid five jellybean sized eggs in it. Now, we are keeping the door shut, hoping our porch time for the pooches has not interfered with the gestation of these tiny creatures. A couple of weeks will tell. Honestly, wildness all around me this year. Luckily, the backyard jungle got tamed yesterday, and further ministrations should have it all spiffed up soon, so dog and poopie have a place to loll about. At least I will not lose Punk in the high grass any more. What a character. None of my other dogs really cared for the mess of dog toys I have here. Punk loves them. He gets them to squeak. He pulls them all out of the basket the way my son pulled all the pots and pans out of the cupboard when he was a toddler. I put them all away at the end of the day, and we start over the next morning. Teaching him to sleep in next. Yeah. That'll happen.