Just A Keyboard Away

Leopards and Their Spots

2012-01-10T04:34:00.000-08:00

It's an old adage, but so true. If you're young, and haven't heard it yet, I'll be your mama and tell it to you. If you have heard it, I can see your head bobbing up and down from here, and can hear the small, almost silent "amen, sister."

Leopards do not change their spots, darlin'.

My former husband – no, ex-husband – read the previous post and protested much about the reference to his being unfaithful during our marriage. He said that he had made many mistakes during our six years, but being unfaithful was not one of them.

So, his list of "Provable Facts," (numbered one, two and three) about when he met his current love, when he took her to Utah and when he took her to Florida start seven months after the divorce papers were signed. He claimed malicious libel and intent on my part by writing my blog referencing the emotional pain I was experiencing to cleanse myself of all blame in the matter, and mostly, to getting my dates wrong. I heartily apologize for insinuating he was unfaithful to me with his bride. It's clear now that the woman he took to church the Sunday three days after I left and introduced to all our friends was not the same woman he married.

Here's some provable facts (numbered one, two and three):

1. His sister offered me $10,000 and an apartment rented for a year in my name to divorce him during the first three months of our marriage. I'm really not sure why. Several phone calls between brother and sister ensued after we moved to Kentucky, and she suggested he go visit his former girlfriend from Lexington for attitude adjustments. The same former girlfriend who showed up in the small town we lived in, about 80 miles from Lexington, not two weeks after we arrived. The same former girlfriend he continued to e-mail back and forth during the full course of our marriage, from day one to day none. I did protest, but his connection to her was strong. And he wasn't giving up any of his connections with women to make his wife feel more secure.

2. His brother called me the last few months of our "marriage on paper" and recounted tales of my ex-husband meeting with women on business trips. He said I needed to put on my cowboy boots and kick his ass in court. Which I didn't. And get a medical exam. He stressed the last part. I should have listened a little closer to the last part.

3. He admitted to unfaithfulness during his first marriage. Twice. Maybe three times. With his wife's best friend. I have to give him credit for being honest with me about that. His first wife never had a clue.

I could go on and on about how much I loved this man, and why I was willing to live through the emotional hell my life became just on the hope that he would return to being the charming storyteller of tales, the romantic poet and dancer in the moonlight I met and married.

I wished him congratulations and a happy and healthy life and I meant it. Still do.

But am I over the betrayal, the trust issues, the loss of so many dreams? Nope. That will take more than seven months for me.

Emotional Disturbance in the Field

2012-01-09T04:51:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, I was very unsettled. Couldn't quite put my finger on it, but now it seems pretty clear.

I hadn't yet come to the solid realization that there was absolutely no hope that my previous life was over, and I needed to embrace my new one. I've been working like a demon to avoid thinking about my former husband, my old gallery and the friends I left behind in Kentucky. Marrying him had been a leap of faith and I was betrayed in so many ways, yet I carried him in my heart for years after I signed the papers to release him from his marriage to me.

I see where he has married the woman he met during the last year of our marriage. The one he took to Utah to meet his son, the one he traveled to see in Ohio while telling me he was working and the one he took to Florida to get his daughter's blessing. I saw the photo of him standing with his new bride, and I saw my husband there. Not hers.

I had always held out hope that the man I had laughed with, traveled to foreign countries with, and the one who held my heart captive for years would call someday and tell me he had never quite gotten over me.

But, life moves on, it did move on. Time to deal with it.

But, what does one do with all the memories? Pack them up with the photographs and store them in the closet? Bury them in the back yard and hope the dog doesn't dig them up? Sure, we can spend time with others, we can work to forget, we can move to other states, adopt other relatives and hang with other friends....but do they disappear? Dissolve?

As I drink coffee this morning, I know that it's not over for me. It needs to be over.

Wisdom From An Oatmeal Box

2011-11-06T05:26:00.000-08:00

If any of you know me, know where my heart lies, understand that writing is as much a part of me as my left hand. I haven't had much time or opportunity to do so, and I sorely miss it.

With the change back to what is now called "standard time," I find myself still tossing and turning at 4 a.m., with the inability to turn off my brain and the driving desire to write and create. I figure it's an hour of time I didn't "normally" have, so here I am, using that hour to work. As usual.

But this work is gratifying to me, even if no-one on the planet knows this blog still exists. It helps me to clear the brain of things I would normally go off on a rant about, and prevent me from possibly being dragged off to some rest home somewhere for alternative therapy.

This morning, it was cold down here in the South. Well, at least cold by our standards. I was a little gnarly from not enough sleep and a sore throat knocking at the door, so warm oatmeal with milk, butter and a healthy dosing of brown sugar was in order. I got out my trusty box of steel-cut Irish oatmeal and fixed a bowl, popped it in the microwave (which, up until now, was only good for popping corn and warming up coffee). As I waited the infinitely long two minutes, I read the box, which had an Irish blessing quoted on the side.

It read, "May you have warm words on a cold evening. A full moon on a dark night. And the road downhill all the way to your door."

Now, I know that sounds sappy at first glance. I know it's the old, typical Irish blessing. But, When you break it all down, and, if you've ever been to Ireland (in October, as I have), it rings so true.

The words invoked memories I had buried for a bit, until I could wrestle with them in proper context. I went to Ireland in October of 2003, when I was newly married to my Mr. Flynn, and we were exploring the southern coast of the country in a small rental car the size of my scooter.

We were sitting in a pub on Halloween, in a very small country village, and we listened to the conversations of the people in the town who had come in for a beverage and some social activity. They hugged and laughed and joked around, some danced a bit after a few pints. I was sitting on a bench by the front window and glanced out at the dusky rock fences, and noticed it was a full moon, and the light was an eerie blue shining off the centuries-old stones. When we finished our own pints, and given several Euro to the little children who came in for "begged treats," we walked back out to the car and saw that the moon lit up the road back to the bed and breakfast, and that it was all downhill. It really was one of the most pleasant, and most relaxing and emotionally fulfilling nights of my life.

I suppose I was meant to see those words reenacted when Mr. Flynn and I moved to Kentucky the following year, into a little town founded by Scots-Irish in the early 1700s. No pubs of course (dry county, of all the horrible realizations), but full moons so bright they took your breath away, centuries-old rock fences and lots of steep hills, one of which was routinely walked by this flatlander on trips to the courthouse. The people of the town, Flemingsburg, were warm and welcoming, and I felt very much at home after a couple of years.

At the end of six years, Mr. Flynn was no longer my husband, and the downhill trek back to my home was gone. I miss the brightness of the stars and the moon, although the harvest moons over the Atlantic ocean are certainly a close second. There were no more warm welcomes from strangers on the street, and the world took on an unfamiliar coldness for a while. But, Florida has once again become my home, and I'm now comfortable in my time and space.

I'm a little distant. A lot more aloof. Almost uncaring.

The last ten years have been the most trying ones of my life. Yet, I am reconnected to my soul, and have learned to say no to the things that are harmful to me, to be more considerate of those that have not experienced the reawakening of this woman's spirit and know my path and where I need to go (and not go). And, those words read from a box of oatmeal have more meaning to me now than they ever would have. They embody all that is pleasant and wonderful in life: Warmness in word and deed, light in the darkness to calm you and an easy walk to an inviting home, wherever that may be.

I Do...Declare

2011-07-22T14:19:00.000-07:00

I don't get the opportunity to read much anymore, but I am one of those rare individuals that dearly love a good story, and I recently had the pleasure of reading my new issue of Garden & Gun from cover to cover, including one lovely story about Southern women.

Now, I will heartily defend my Southern soul at the drop of a flyswatter, proudly proclaim my love of fried green tomatoes and red toenail polish (is there any other color?) and can eat one mess o'collard greens, complete with pepper vinegar and ham hocks that would embarrass most grown men.

Everything said was so true, except perhaps the innate love of chubby babies, although my own dear daughter was quite the little cream puff when she was but a toddler. She came by it natural, as her daddy was pretty tall and not skinny and I, well, am a bit on the fluffy side myself.

Southern women have an obsession with their hair, and don't let any of them tell you different. I do not care if it is straight as a board, curly as a Brillo pad or resembles the husk on a corncob, it's always a source of worry for us, in any incarnation. We can say, "Oh, I really don't care how my hair looks," but it's a boldface lie, and we'll admit it if you call us out, with eyes lowered and a blush on our cheeks. We color, cut, curl, perm, straighten and iron until it's practically screaming for a mayonnaise conditioner with extra olive oil thrown in. As for myself, I bleach my hair now, although it does have a lot of, shall I say, natural platinum blonde growing in. I wear it like I've stuck my finger in a light socket, with random sprigs every which way, held in place by a healthy dose of Murray's Pomade and Aqua Net. I like to call it "Jeep Hair," because at the very heart of my adventurous soul lies a 1972 bright yellow Jeep with no doors and a bikini top, and I want my hair to be ready. Now, there are some Southern women who don't do a damn thing with their hair, but that ain't saying they haven't thought seriously hard about it.

The South is more than grits with extra butter, more than "y'all" and more than onion rings at the Varsity in Atlanta. The South is not just mansions among granddaddy oaks, covered in Spanish moss, although that is such a pretty picture that it literally brings tears to my eyes . The South is every bit as refined as the finest haute coutre of Paris and New York, just in our own way. Sure, we wear cowboy boots from time to time. But, they cost every bit of $200, and it's okay to get mud and horseshit on them because, well, that's what they're made for. Here is the South, we use things up and when they're all used up, we find something else to do with them. My own beloved cowboy boots with the unfixable soles are destined to be planters in my garden pretty soon, once I can part with them. Ashes to ashes.

Being Southern is a delight. The weather down here is magnificent, most of the time, and we all understand the hardness of life, as well as the infinite softness. Magnolias are associated with the South, and for good reason. The scent of a magnolia in bloom is overwhelmingly calming and the flower is just as white as the ice cream from Dairy Queen. Yet, the tree is so hardy, it can withstand ice and snow for months on end, only to rise up when the spring begins its thaw.

I love the accent of a true Southerner. A man with a Mississippi drawl turns my head every single time, and when a man opens the door for me, and I don't know him from Adam, I know that he "done growed up" with a Southern mama.

The South holds magic for me, in Charleston and Atlanta, in Cape Fear and Gulf Shores. Little towns, like McIntosh, Florida and McClellanville, South Carolina, where homes are still draped in moss and have sleeping porches, will always pull me off the interstates, no matter what my destination is. Sure, we don't have snow at Christmas, at least most Southern states don't – with the exception of our "northern" Southern states like Kentucky, Maryland and Tennessee, but I can forego that pleasure. I can always travel up there to play in the snow. I like where I live – no, I love where I live. I love what I am, and who I am, and where I am. I'm outspoken, hardheaded, stubborn and yes, quite, quite Southern.

Here It Comes Again.

2011-04-10T06:33:00.000-07:00

The Big Decision.

Whether to stay working as a part-time retail person and a full-time artist or take the plunge and go full-time as a retail person and a part-time artist.

This is a hefty decision, and for me, it comes down to one thing: security of a paycheck.

I swore to stay true to my heart and try this full-time artist thing for a year, to see if I could make it work. And, it has worked. But, not without sacrifices. Showing at festivals takes cash – for hotels, for gas, for booth fees and for meals. You can quickly go through hundreds just for the chance to show your work, and pray for good weather and nice crowds, crowds of people that can appreciate your work and want to purchase it. Part-time work allows for the payment of necessary bills, while the added cash from art sales pays for the next show.

Now I'm faced with the opportunity – and make no mistake, it is an opportunity – to work 40 hours a week as a manager, and gain more cash...but less time to be an artist.

My heart says not to give up on my dream. My heart says not to make the jump to something that is not intrinsic to who I am or what I do. My head says I've been living on the good graces of others, and that I should start carrying my weight and to do the right thing.

But, I have this need to create my work, this need to be an artist, to show my work and to have people like it enough to purchase it. I'm afraid that what time I have to myself to create work will become less and less, while the bank account gets a little fatter. Who knows how much time I have left on this earth? Money doesn't buy you time to enjoy the sunlight of the day, or the time to sit and sketch or create art. More money would be an opportunity to do more traveling, but would I have the time to travel? My relationship with my partner suffers enough now. What would happen if all my spare moments were absorbed in creating my art?

It's a ponderous situation. It's evil vs. good, cookies vs. carrots, money vs. time. At the very time when my sisters and friends have retired, and there is more time to spend with them, I will be going back to work, with no time to enjoy those relationships. But, money would allow an easier time of it financially. It might even allow for health insurance and new tires for the truck.

It requires much thought.

The Smells of Home

2011-03-27T11:03:00.000-07:00

Funny how things bring you back to another time in your life.

I was at an air show yesterday, and as I caught a whiff of airplane fuel from a vintage warbird starting up, I was almost immediately back in my dad's old 1956 Chevrolet truck. Not sure why. But, the smell was definitely familiar and all at once, my skinny nine-year-old legs were dangling off the ripped upholstery, riding down the old dirt road near our house in the Hammock, while the fresh summer air blasted in through the vent window. Dad was there beside me, Kent cigarette in one hand and the old, worn steering wheel in the other. He had on his typical work clothes, khaki-colored Dickies and clumpy cement-dotted work shoes, and he was casually just taking all the bumps along the road in stride. His truck, faded and dirty as always, smelled exactly like that airplane fuel. A mixture of dirt and heat, metal and leaking gasoline. A smell that is so engrained in my psyche that I could recognize it anywhere.

I went a lot of places in that old truck. We went to Cedar Key a lot, fishing, and the trip was a long one for this girl, and I always fell asleep leaning up against the door, with the wind blowing in my face. We'd go up to the local hardware store in Ocala, when it still had a fountain in the middle of town and board sidewalks down Broadway. He'd pick up lay mash for the chickens, a few boxes of nails and, if I asked him just right, a bag of boiled peanuts from the old blind colored man who ran the fish store at the end of the sidewalk. Yep, I said colored. That's how we referred to people of color...colored. It wasn't a derogatory term then.

He always kept a horsehoe magnet bigger than my foot in the truck. I was fascinated with it and played with it when he went over to the gas station to get his gas can for the lawnmower filled up. Once I played a little too much and pulled up part of the old metal floorboard. Rather than fix it, he just left it be, so that I could sit up on the seat and watch the road underneath go by. Most times, he covered it with an old cookie sheet.

That smell, which to some might be offensive, is something that makes me remember good times back in old Florida, when things were just swimming in the river and running through the woods with my dog, Sandy. That smell makes me remember my Dad and his stocky hands, wrinkled and brown from the sun, holding that steering wheel of old "Petunia," driving down the road at 40 miles an hour, her top speed, while pine straw and bits of grass and leaves blew around in the bed of the truck.

Good memories, and ones that I wish I could recall more often.

Getting That Gold Star

2011-03-02T18:15:00.000-08:00

Changing addresses is always a challenge in itself.

Massive boxes of books, heavy furniture, wobbly mattresses and bags of dishes usually means pulled muscles, sore backs and bruises that show up and hang around weeks later. You never know where to put all your old stuff in the new place, because nothing seems to fit like it did before. So, not only do you face the physical frustration of The Move, but you have the stress of Too Many Knick-Knacks, which means stuff's gotta go. If you're moving into a new place by yourself, you can cull out the Too Many Knick-Knacks on your own. If you're sharing a residence, it becomes a "Who-Can-Get-The-Knick-Knacks-Out-And-On-The-Bookcase-First" and it can be an all-out general admission ticket race. When one person leaves the house, the knick-knacks get moved around, and sometimes they get moved into a box in the garage. Then they get moved back when the other person leaves the house. The neighborhood thrift store sees a few of the unfortunates that don't make the grade by either party. At any rate, things eventually find their own places. You start to find the necessary items, like the pots and pans and the hair dryer, and life starts to find a little balance.

Continuing on to do the right thing, you go to the Driver's License Agency, to get your address changed, so that you're all legal and stuff. Now, you used to be able to change your address by just showing something that verified your address, such as a utility bill.

Florida has now instituted something called The Gold Star ID Verification Stamp. Which means that not only do you have to show two forms of identification as a United States Citizen, but you have to show two valid pieces of paper to show that you have actually moved to wherever you moved to. And, you have to get your photo redone, your signature re-signed and you gotta pay $32. All this for doing the right thing and changing your address on your driver's license.

But, for this, you get a little gold star in the upper right hand corner of your newly created driver's license.

Which, by the year 2014, will allow you on an airplane and in government buildings. No gold star, no European holiday.

I dunno. I guess it's all worth it. But, that's a lot of paperwork and money to come up with just for a little gold star.

The Dispelling of Myths: Women and Men

2011-01-06T16:55:00.000-08:00

Myth One: Women Give A Shit About Your Hair.

We don't. We give a shit about our hair. We don't care about yours, or whether you have any or not. Now, on the other hand, we know you are always going to tell us we need to grow ours out, change the natural color, or stop using hair products. We also don't give a shit about your opinions on our hair, either. It's our hair. Get it?

Myth Two: Women Think Romance Is All That.

No we don't. You want to know why? Because the whole reason you light candles or send flowers or give us mushy cards is primarily aimed at one thing, and it ain't being romantic. It's so that you can get sex. Period. That's why, after a lifetime of romance that isn't really romance, we don't believe in it anymore. When we light candles, it's because we like the relaxing feeling, the pleasant scent and the pretty light it gives off. When we get flowers, it brightens our day and makes us smile. Mushy cards are great, but if you don't sign it, it doesn't count. And none of the three romantic gestures mean sex.

Myth Three: All Women Love Babies.

Woman do not automatically turn into a blobbering mass of jelly when babies appear on the scene because we are female. In fact, some of us cringe a little. And women who are "nice" to babies do not always make good mamas themselves. Being a mother means self-sacrifice to the Nth degree, takes enormous amounts of patience and gnashing of teeth and requires a partner of the same dedication to raise the child in his or her best interest. And babies don't mean we like sex, either. If we've had babies, we obviously had sex to get them, but it doesn't mean we lie around on our backs like sacks of potatoes looking to have more babies.

Myth Four: Women Are Overly Emotional and Therefore Cannot Hold Positions of Great Importance.

What? What? Women have been brought up for generations to make rational decisions about everything from what wood works best in fireplaces to how to act when your child falls down the stairs and is bleeding from their nose. We balance budgets on a daily basis. And, when we have a job to do, we generally do it. What in the hell makes you think we can't act rationally during acts of war, cannot make decisions about government policy or act properly during congressional meetings? Because we have a uterus and a vagina doesn't mean we aren't solid and logical. We are not led around by our hormones, guys.

Myth Five: Spelling is Not Important.

Oh, yes it is. To women, anyway.

Eating Out and Other Phenomena

2010-11-25T04:50:00.000-08:00

Okay, now I am a woman, and heaven knows, I love to go out to eat. It means perfectly prepared food (usually), no dishes (always) and a lovely, relaxed dinner with no interruptions (sort of) like dogs whimpering for a snack or news on television reporting on new rapes, murders, highway deaths or terrorist attacks.

So, on the Big Day Of Food Gluttony (Thanksgiving), I know that I'm going to eat somewhere, whether at my house or someone else's, where there will be football, grunting, loud laughter and lots of alcoholic beverage. Not exactly candle-lit or pleasurable, but the food is usually served in copious amounts and it's usually damned good. If I cook, I'm in the kitchen until midnight the night before, preparing and cleaning and making sure there are no dishwasher spots on the wine glasses and there are enough forks to go around. I'm putting pine and balsam fir candles in strategic spots and checking the toilet paper supply in the bathrooms. I'm washing dogs and ironing the laundry and filling salt and pepper shakers. The cornbread stuffing with cranberries and walnuts is ready for the turkey, which is marinating in the Beer Fridge and the peach and apple pies are cooling on the side counters.

In a word, it's frenzied. It's chaos. It's a sleepless night. I'm totally worn out when my eyes pop open at 5 a.m.

So, this Thanksgiving, I'm going over to a friend's house, where we drink our alcohol of choice, talk about really important things like former boyfriends and husbands, current boyfriends and husbands and how great the sales at T.J. Maxx are going to be. We're eating turkey and stuffing and vegetables cooked in every manner of casserole preparation known to mankind. I'm bringing my world-famous Cheese Crispies ("it just wouldn't be a celebration without them") and a 12-pack of Stella. No pressures. Lots of new people to meet and laugh with.

The night before I went to pick up Chinese food. It's healthy-ish, and since I won't have the usual leftovers for lunch at my retail job on Black Friday, and not sure how much potluck will be left, I will have plenty to take.

The place was packed, standing room only. The phones were ringing with take-out orders, the tables were full and mama-san looked like a deer in the headlights. As I sat on the designated "you have take-out, you sit here" bench, I overheard a woman standing there with her husband, complaining about all the people crammed into the small restaurant.

"My goodness, look at all these people!" she screeched. "Heavens, you'd think people wouldn't be here, the day before Thanksgiving. It's really an outrage. I mean, you have so much food and it's Thanksgiving. Why are all these people eating out?"

Mama-san's son came over to the couple with two menus. "Table for two?" he asked.

"Yes, please," she replied.

'Nuff said.

It Would Have Been Nice.

2010-11-20T21:02:00.000-08:00

It would have been nice if the person who recently hit that female raccoon on US 1 had stopped and pulled her lifeless body off the road.

It would have been nice if her two three-month old kits had not blindly and faithfully followed their mama so closely that they were also killed, but perhaps not by the same driver.

Because if she had been pulled off the road, they may not have wandered back into the road to find her, to stay with her, as young animals often do.

It would have been even nicer if the driver had been driving slower, been more alert to the little animals crossing the road and stopped before the car tires put an end to their lives.

Instead, there was a mama raccoon, crushed and lying in the road, but with her eyes still open. Wonder what her last vision was. And the two small kits, one about four feet from its mama, and the other at least fifteen feet up the road, also crushed and broken in a pool of dried blood.

Three small, insignificant lives lost? For the first time in months, I pulled over and stopped on the side of the road and prayed that their end had been quick.

My own life is no more significant than those of the raccoon family, and if you labor under the misbelief that yours is, I will pray for you, too.

Hitting 200,000 miles

2010-10-29T19:43:00.000-07:00

Big Red made it to 200,000 miles! That's some sort of big thing, right? I have to say, the romantic, dreamy, sappy part of my soul said to the romantic, dreamy, sappy part of my brain..."Wow. 200,000 miles of marriage and divorce." My former husband bought the truck not two weeks before meeting me for the first time, we got married and traveled from one coast to the other in that truck and now, after almost two years of divorce, I've got the truck and it still runs. And, it's hit the magic number.

Don't get me wrong, I've wanted to get rid of that damned truck.

I'm not really a truck kind of girl. I'm more a Jeep kind of girl. But, the truck pulls the art festival trailer, and that's my line of work. So, the former husband gave me the truck, with the bad universal joints, the nicks and dents and the bald tires. And the many thousands of miles. What a peach.

So, I tried to trade it in, but with no full-time job, it wasn't going to happen. Not to mention I had just moved back to Florida, so no history. I was trapped in the memories of the truck. I knew where every scratch, ding, and dent had happened. I vacuumed the truck to remove all traces of a former life and found Cheerios from the step-granddaughter and gummy-bears stuck to the back seat. I found those annoying plastic toothpicks the former husband used when he couldn't find an old Sweet N' Low packet and I ripped off the Velcro that used to hold his sunglass holder.

I tried, and am still trying, to take ownership of the truck. But, there is so much tied up in it, that it's hard for me.

So, I'm stuck with it for a while, it seems. And, now that Big Red has passed her 200,000 mile mark, we're bonded. Because, I've sure as hell passed mine.

Freedom of Speech

2010-09-20T20:15:00.000-07:00

It's a constitutional right, correct? I mean, I know this for a fact, but there seems to be a discrepancy in some situations where it doesn't appear to apply.

I write what I feel, when I feel it, and when I think it's appropriate to reach out to whomever may be reading it. I don't particularly care if someone doesn't like it. It's my reality, it's my perception and it is valid. I'm always shocked at how many responses I get, from total strangers, who share their own stories that are so similar to my own that I have to wonder.

I've had some hard lessons to learn, but I have learned them. I have no time to mend any more fences. I'm not putting myself in emotional situations that will endanger me or cause me to doubt the truth or to second guess my own decisions. Right or wrong, good or bad, I am who I am. Perhaps not who you are, but that's okay. I'm not supposed to be you - to act like you, think like you or make the same judgements or suppositions.

Sure, there's regrets. Paths not taken. I don't have the luxury of a lot of time now. I struggle with many things. But the one thing I don't struggle with is the feeling that I could have done more.

I urge anyone who has doubts about the constitutional right of free speech in their current employment, their relationships past or present, or within the gentle borders of friendship to realize that only with the ability to share your thoughts, your opinions or your preferences, is it a true reflection. And, without a true reflection, you are fooling yourself and those around you.

Working Without A Net

2010-08-21T04:49:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we need to step outside the comfort zone, jump on a highwire and go for it.

Sometimes we do not.

I'm nearing a crossroads of decision. I need to move on, to create art and to take a more aggressive stance on getting my work out there and seen again. I'm pretty darned sure I'm ready, but I always have a nagging doubt, a small voice that whispers that I should just stay in my nest and be content to stretch the wings every once in a while.

In order to become what we need to be, sometimes we have to study the power of working without a net. To scare ourselves, to let go of the hand that holds us and binds us to the things we are used to. No one can help us take that leap. It has to be something we are ready for inside.

Nets can be two things: They can save us from falling to our deaths and they can entrap us, not allowing us to be free. And, learning to trust the Universe is a hard one, even for me, who has always lived by the theory that with trust, you lose fear.

The Broken Shell

2010-08-18T18:57:00.001-07:00

The Broken Shell

Being alone is easy.

Being lonely is not.

The memories of what used to be and

what could have been pour in and the

what will never be’s cloud the brain

and overcome the heart.

Tears fall.

So many hidden emotions, hidden by

Time

And necessity.

Nobody likes a broken shell.

Only the perfect ones get chosen

Picked up off the beach and placed on a shelf

To be admired for a time.

I’ve become a broken shell.

And I linger

With all the other broken bits among the sand.

Martha, Bar Harbor and The Approaching Fall

2010-08-03T15:12:00.000-07:00

I used to be a subscriber to Martha Stewart Living, but gave it up when I realized I had seven brand new issues, still in the plastic, that I hadn't even glanced at almost three months later.

That means one of two things: A) I've been too busy to look through magazines or B) I've been too busy to look through magazines.

People think working full-time eats up their leisure hours. I beg to differ. As someone who used to work 40 hours+ a week, full-time, for 18 years....working part-time at 26-30 hours a week is worse – much worse. Not only do you not have the benefit of two full days off in a row (or rarely), but your days are literally pecked to death five hours at a time. And, this can go on for weeks, with one day off here and there. No benefits, no chance for advancement, and your eyes are eaten out by ravens.

So, I got released from the job today at 1 p.m. and finally became sane enough to venture back out for groceries, and picked up a copy of Martha Stewart Living...the August issue. Had to get it – it promised simplified living, beachy colors (I'm a sucker for anything blue and green) and I love using the old magazines for my paper mosaics (she uses pretty high-quality printing...).

The calendar in the front literally just fell out of the magazine. It's something I never read. Quite frankly, reading a diary of what one does on a daily basis doesn't quite make for interesting reading, although I am an avid fan of facebook updates.

Well, Martha has been spending a lot of time (and apparently financial resources) in Bar Harbor, Maine. Which, you may or may not know, is one of my all time favorite places on the planet Earth. So, I continued to read about her donating books, hiking around local ponds and eating at Bar Harbor restaurants. I had to smile. She reminded me of a little hen, pecking at the soil here and there, picking up the stray beetle or two. A mega-millionairess, happily going about her homemaking, fertilizing roses, and harvesting the eggplant or two. Ah, the life. Then I read where she had a note down, on August 24, that she needed to "rotate her lampshades for uneven fading." Oh my. That's a bit much. Even I can whip my lampshades around in 15 minutes or so, and don't need to put it on a calendar to remember to do it. And, even if I did...heavens. I'm too cheap to worry about expensive lampshades - so anything I have is under $15 anyway.

Martha, I truly love you, and you're an inspiration. But, lose the weirdness. Lampshades. Really.

Okay, so I'm going to do my own calendar. I'm going to have things like "cut toenails" and "water rosemary plant in front garden" and "feed dog." Just as important and timely.

When do you cut your toenails, Martha? Do tell.

Crankin' Out Another Rant

2010-07-20T18:40:00.000-07:00

I'm having one of those nights where my whole gut is acting like a ceiling fan, cranked up to wind tunnel speed.

I'm depressed and have no real reason that I can think of to be that way, so that kicks in the anger about myself being depressed, which kicks in the 12-year old in my persona that feels all left alone and unsure about the noises in the attic of the house. I've read and re-read posts on Facebook from my friends and sought out all sorts of inspirational hoo-ha on the Internet to help me get through this momentary tangle of fishing line in my brain.

I haven't quite gotten a handle on my whole lot in life, sans husband, step-grandchildren or beloved art gallery and that beautiful grand dame of a building that housed it. I've got a much less stressful life, as far as recognized stress goes. I used to fly off to the beach when I get this way, and the sand and salt air and rolling waves usually work some sort of ethereal and corporeal magic that keeps the chakras from blowing too much out of line. But, I'm not three minutes from the ocean anymore, so if I want to take the pups and drive towards salvation, it requires planning, arriving just at the right time to avoid crowds of people coming and going, getting there to spend enough time to decompress before the sun sets.

I think because I've had to hit the ground running since moving back to Florida, I haven't really dealt with the whole last three years of my life. When something slowly dies, it takes a toll on you, and my dream of being a working artist and not having to play the time-clock game had been unraveling for some time. I was holding on to a single-minded thought that I was comfortable, safe and loved. I took a steadfast approach that I could weather the high waves and hunker down. Betrayal, under any circumstances, is a hateful thing.

I was nice until the end. I signed over everything I had invested my entire retirement savings in, my whole life, in one signature, was dramatically and most assuredly, changed. I couldn't have afforded to keep my lovely art gallery and the building that housed it, but I can guarantee had I been able to, I would have. It was out of love that I gave up my marriage, my investments and my comfortable life. But now, the deep roots of rage have set in, and I have to deal with them without completely destroying the fragile threads of this new tapestry I'm weaving.

Everyone has their own particular species of demons to deal with. One of mine happens to be a nagging habit of remembering snippets of promises and shared dreams and I question the nature of there being a person who could actually stand by their words. I have a small circle of friends that I trust implicitly, but as for the general public, I'm not as trusting as I used to be. This demon is tinged with jealousy and stinks of unfairness.

But, enough. I'd like to move onward and upward, and I believe I might be on the right path. I have to stay focused, and this means some hard decisions for me. It means actively seeking a more forceful mental approach to happiness...to make, as Kingfish would say, every day a holiday....

I'm A Starfish!

2010-06-24T19:22:00.000-07:00

If anyone read the post about the raccoon bite, you'll know I lost a bit of fingertip to a scared little beastie. Good news is...it's almost grown back, nail and all. It's super sensitive, and I still protect it...and can't type half as fast or as accurately as I used to, that's for sure...but at least it doesn't scare small children into the arms of their mothers.

I'm amazed at the regeneration, to tell you the truth.

I've watched the metamorphasis of a nasty, ragged bite into a whole new fingertip, fingerprint and all. Just amazing. While I left a big dollop of DNA behind, somehow, all that was magically reproduced and you almost can't even tell I was bitten (except for the mounting medical bills).

Too bad our bodies don't regenerate whole new limbs...repair damaged organs on our own...but then, if that happened, who knows if we would even die.

Separation Anxiety

2010-06-11T18:59:00.000-07:00

When I go to work, I miss my studio and my dogs and walking the beach.

When I'm in the studio, I miss walking the beach.

When I'm on the beach, I miss being in my studio.

That's all I got right now, folks....

What The Hell Am I Doing Here, Part Two

2010-05-19T17:47:00.000-07:00

Well...I'm officially back in Florida...and in search of the perfect hairspray.

The weather here is hot and humid, and anyone who has visited here or lived here and who has hair knows that you look like a drowned rat in 6.7 seconds flat.

My hair was in its heyday back when I let it grow long and bleached it out. Then I moved back home and cut it all off, anticipating the annoying issues of sweat, salt air and open car windows. It looked pretty great for a while, then I dyed it brown (back to my roots) and for a while, I thought it looked pretty darned good. It got longer, it got highlighted and then it got dyed blonde.

Now I'm at an empasse. I'd like to get it back to gray, and cut it into some sort of recognizable style...but I also want to grow it out longer.

Right now...I look like a German Shepherd....maybe I should book an appointment at the groomer...(sad face)

Photographers and Other Such Animals

2010-05-07T19:07:00.000-07:00

I went to a lecture tonight by Nick Vedros, sponsored by Canon, and held at the Southeastern College of Photography in Daytona.

Gotta tell you, I hadn't heard of him before. Just didn't run in those circles.

But he had a really good message, underneath all the thinly disguised humility of a great big ego fed by corporate-based hundreds of thousands of dollars. The message?

Build a life around the things you love to do and make it work. Period. Make no excuses, stop whining about how you don't have time, can't afford to or have no emotional or physical support in seeking your dreams.

And, do it as early as humanly possible, so that you can realize these dreams before you have to use a walker to get around.

It's a good message, and I intend to carve it in my brain. I do a particularly time-consuming kind of art which doesn't gain me a lot of return in the financial area, but, you know what? Not too many other folk are doing it. It's my style. It's the way I do things. I like it and I like doing it. I may evolve it into something else which may be more financially rewarding, but if I don't, it's my choice.

So, google Nick Vedros. He's got some cool stuff, and most of it was done way before Photoshop. And, if you ever get the chance, attend a lecture. Overlook the references to all of his six-figure jobs, and how he rents machinery at $5,000 a day and try not to get physically ill when you see his million-dollar studio and home. Absorb the message he sends out to the Universe and apply it to your own world.

"You Don't Mess With Coons"

2010-05-04T18:28:00.000-07:00

That was some sage advice from a down-home woman from my neck of the woods.

Unfortunately, I knew this and ignored it. Well, maybe not ignored, but bypassed it, and paid the price.

See, I used to have raccoons all over my childhood imprint. I used to raise all the little babies orphaned by human unkindness or road accidents. Raccoons are social animals and the babies will not leave their mama's side, even if she gets hit by a car. And, people trap them to get rid of them in their yards and they often get the parents, but not the babies, who can be found trying desperately to get into the traps, too. Raccoons are like cats and dogs, all mixed up in the same package of fur, with a little dollop of spider monkey for mischievousness. But, as I knew then and certainly know now...they gots teeth, lots of them, and they are quite sharp.

Let's just say, I'm now taking rabies shots. And, one little young raccoon out there has the tip, nail and all, of my left index finger. It's way too graphic to post a photo, but trust me, unless you're a doctor and have a strong stomach, it ain't a pretty sight.

I know the little thing wasn't rabid, and it was just scared and protecting itself, but eight hours in the Florida Hospital and Halifax Medical for the emergency care for the chomp it took off my finger is a real bummer. The bite itself was a shock, as I originally thought it was just a nip. When I looked at my hand and realized my fingertip was gone, I immediately held the finger tight and got rushed off to the nearest ER, where I sat, soaking my finger in antiseptic and saline for about four hours, got a tetnus shot in one arm, and a really massive shot of antibiotic in the rump. Then, transferred over to Halifax Medical for a hand surgeon to take a look and see if any repairs could be done.

Bottom line, after two rabies shots in a series of six and two really painful shots to numb the finger...nothing can be done. Have to let the finger heal as much as it can from within. The raccoon had bitten through the nail bed and taken off the tip of the spongy bone at the top of the finger. It's a nasty, ragged bite, and I've lost a quarter-inch of finger to a scared little beastie.

I've been joking about it, staying calm and and taking it the way it is. It almost feels as though it's not real, until I take off the bandages to clean it and realize the truth. I'm sure there will be some regeneration of tissue and bone, maybe my nail will even grow a bit. But, it's not going to be normal, that's a given.

I'm thankful it wasn't worse, sincerely hope the finger heals well and have no animosity towards the raccoon population. Life is still good.

Hey, maybe I'll get a discount on manicures. What do you think?

2010-04-12T15:14:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I have this person (Billy Girard, who took this photo) that I made contact with that has a huge sailboat and a huge dollop of courage and he's off touring the Caribbean, although now on his way home, whereever that is.

He takes his furry companions, and send sporatic updates as to his adventures on the high seas.

Very cool. It's one of my unfulfilled dreams, and I think I'd spend too much time writing about it and photographing every freakin' moment to actually enjoy the solitude, but I have always wanted to be out on the open ocean, scary thunderstorms and all. And, I've wanted to be on a big sailboat doing it.

So, of course, these missives he sends out to all the interested parties have me all excited inside, and now he's sending pictures, which is even more exciting.

One of the last e-mails I received was in reference to swimming porkers. Yes, pigs. Swimming pigs. Of all things.

These pigs actually brave the waters to swim out to boats in search of edible handouts. I was enthralled. So, of course, I immediately googled...

There's not much out there on "swimming Caribbean pigs," but there were a few really interesting facts on pigs, mostly pigs in general. They love water, but people associate them with slime and mud, so they never get invited into the pool for a quick dip and hearty libation. They love being bathed. They love human contact, provided it hasn't been through beatings, cattle prods or other unsavory interactions. They're like unfurry dogs.

So, I've pretty much had to rethink my stand on going out for ribs, which I dearly love. I justify things by the theory that "they are raised for food." Doesn't go too far, or at least, not as far as it used to in my head.

I dunno. I think if I had actually seen these pigs myself, I would have had to give them anything and everything edible on the boat, and never touched another pork chop again.

Long time....no write

2010-04-07T18:56:00.000-07:00

No, no....you're right... I haven't seemed to be able to have found the time to update my blog...my Facebook..do anything other than work at Michael's Crafts Store and do the usual eating, sleeping and burping.

It's just got to stop. Life has to start, and has to restart, and start again....

I had a pretty good handle on things for a while in my little cave in Palm Coast....I am now living in a townhouse in Ormond Beach, and recreating my world here..again. I'm not knocking it...moving out of my daughter's home in Palm Coast allowed her to be Queen of her castle without Mom being around...which has been good for her and good for me. I've got a great roommate, my dogs Pearl and Wiggles love their morning walkies in the Trails, with squirrels and armadillos at every turn....

Still, I haven't gotten a handle on my artist persona...the one I nurtured and babied and breathed life in to when I owned an art studio and gallery in Kentucky....the one I thought I could bring back to life after a nasty emotional blip in the road. This bothers me each and every day....I never seem to have the time to sit and do art...I'm either moving stuff in and out of one house or the other or working really crazy hours that totally break up the day...I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever recover.

I know things will calm down eventually and I'll find that artist within again...I have a festival in Fernandina Beach the first weekend in May, and frankly, I'm petrified...what if I don't make any money? What if I don't make enough money to make it all worthwhile? My festivals last year were good enough, but then, the art community has taken a downturn, just like most things that are deemed "not necessary."

Ah, who cares...I am an artist....and need to do art. I need to make the time to do it. Screw the world, screw the money and just do it. It's time for this gal to pony up to the bar and get things done......

But, there's oysters at Snack Jack's at Flagler Beach, and Saturday is "Turtle Day," and it's 80 degrees outside...sigh...that seems to be my biggest problem...living in Florida, a few minutes from the beaches...life is so beautiful out there....

Snow Days

2010-02-10T04:07:00.000-08:00

"More snow than ever in recorded history," "Snowmageddon," and "Snowpocylpse." These are all statements bantered about on today's news. My own thoughts immediately center on my old home town of Flemingsburg, KY, and of the snow I witnessed last year, trying to compare it to this one.

I don't think there is a comparison.

I've got a few cities plugged in to my iPhone for weather, among them Dublin, Ireland and London, England...both of which are infamous for nasty winter weather. Both of which are reporting somewhat sunny days with current temps (as of 7 a.m.) of 39-degrees and 41-degrees, respectively. Flemingsburg? 17-degrees. Palm Coast? 44-degrees.

This is crazy. At a time when people are scrapping for nickels and dimes (myself included) with which to pay their existing bills, the high heating costs because of the increased issues of snow, snow and more snow are piling up. But, with all this fear of the unknown financial futures, with all these predictions of frozen pipes, a drop in business sales because of the inability to shop in a normal fashion...what do I hear from my friends back in Kentucky?

I hear about children sledding down the hills and into the valleys of their own back yards. I hear about snowy woods treks to witness the incomparable beauty of the spruce and cedar trees and of the magical icicles hanging from every board fence. I hear the laughter in my friends' voices when they talk about sitting around the kitchen table, playing board games with their kids, who are home from school. I get pictures sent to me of dogs, up to their noses in snow, still chasing balls and sticks despite the two-foot-high snow drifts.

What I don't hear is the worry, the concern, the desperation of the past few months. Some of my friends are struggling, as am I, for a paycheck. Of four festivals I applied to for showing my art, I received notice that I was not accepted to any of them. Very depressing. But, very predictable, given that increased applicants from northern climes has glutted the southern art market. It just inspires me to go after more tourist galleries and boutiques.

To all my friends and relatives in the snowy northeast and midwest, take heart. Keep smiling, and keep positive. There is an end to all of this, and it will be a glorious spring. Things will have to turn around, because that's the way the world revolves. Through all of this, learn your lessons of prudence and patience. I know I am.

Classic Romance

2010-02-01T11:34:00.000-08:00

Every now and then, you get lucky when you put on the channel to TCM...this afternoon was one of those days...

If you're a gal, and you've never seen "Saratoga Trunk," then you need to. It's one of the most romantic movies ever made. If you're a guy, you need to watch it to figure out just what it is that women crave from a relationship.

"Saratoga Trunk" stars Gary Cooper, one of my own personal heart-throbs, as Clint Maroon and Ingrid Bergman as the lovely Clio, the object of Clint’s affection (whether he likes it or not).

Just about everything that they say to one another in the movie reeks of wisdom and clever wit. For instance, when Clio tells Clint how much she cares for him, she tells him that she loves him more than a pig loves the mud. He tells her that her voice soothes him like oil over a blister. Strange metaphors, but somehow they work. He tells her there are only two types of women: Good or bad, and he wants to know which one she is, to which she never replies, just lowers her eyes and coyly smiles. When she has a fit of anger and claims no one can stop her from doing what she damn well pleases, he merely grabs her wrist and she crumbles like an old newspaper and falls into his arms. When he compares her eyes to a Texas sunset, all deep purple and more beautiful than any he’s ever seen, well, I never wanted to be Ingrid Bergman more, even when she played Ilsa in “Casablanca.”

This, in my opinion, was Cooper’s best role. A humble, down-to-earth Texas millionaire in New Orleans? Well, I’m hooked. He never looked more handsome, more sexy, than in that one movie. And, every woman can relate to Ingrid Bergman’s role as Clio, a stubborn French-Creole, who was every bit a Scarlett O’Hara as Scarlett herself. When her lawyer tells her she’s beautiful, very beautiful – how does she reply? “Yes – isn’t it lucky?” Classic. And dead honest.

It seems that some movies just don’t get the television time they should, and this is one of them. It comes around every couple of years, and I love it so much every time I see it, I’m skating on over to the Internet to see if it’s available. Come to think of it, I’ll need to pick up the black and white movie version of “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.” Pure perfection for this hopeless romantic.

The Now Infamous Pirate Tattoo

2010-01-26T05:53:00.000-08:00

Good grief! I never expected the number of e-mails I received about my new tattoo. At last count, I have 27 asking me about where I got it, why I got it and what the significance is of using the crossed swords and skull.

I checked my e-mail this morning, and I have seven more. It’s pretty impressive, as I didn’t think anyone read my blog at all. My blog started as a journalistic barf bag, and it’s eye-opening to know that total strangers are actually reading it. One e-mail came from Canada, from a man who lives on a boat. Another came from a gal from California who has gone through a life-changing event that caused her to seek out women who have gone through similar experiences. Both said they have been reading the blog every time there’s a new post.

I usually write these posts early in the morning, when I feel at my best, before the day has had a chance to gnaw at me. Now that I’m aware of people other than my close pals reading this, I have a renewed sense of responsibility. Blogs are so haphazard, so self-absorbed, so egotistical at worst.

But, the one thing they are is messages in bottles. You’re throwing out your thoughts into the great Internet ocean, secretly hoping that someone will read what you have written and connect in some fashion. I consider myself a lucky woman that I have readers, and that they have indeed responded.

So, let me reply to those readers who have all the questions.

The crossed swords and skull is the representation of Calico Jack Rackham’s pirate flag. Why Calico Jack? Many reasons. Jack was an English pirate, born on the cusp of Sagittarius and Capricorn on the island of Jamaica. He was also the only pirate on record to employ two female pirates, Anne Bonny and Mary Read, the former of whom he made his partner. He was a gentleman pirate, but a pirate nonetheless. There are similarities in the box-office hits, Pirates of the Caribbean, to Jack Rackham as well, and as most of my friends know, all of my Scotties are named after characters from the films. The Black Pearl flies the flag of Calico Jack, and in all three films in the series, Johnny Depp wears some form of calico fabric, which was Jack Rackham’s trademark, thus his moniker (not to mention, his character is named “Jack”).

Calico Jack was not particularly successful as a pirate. He sort of fell into it accidentally, and only lasted two years before he was captured and hanged until dead in Port Royal, Jamaica. He wasn’t the best known pirate, and he certainly wasn’t the boldest or most courageous of the brethren. But, he had a great flag, and it is the single most copied symbol of pirate lore to date.

I also have a policy on tattoos. They must be able to be seen, by me, as well as anyone else. No private, secret tattoos for me. Therefore, I had the symbol of piracy placed over my heart, and it is exactly where it should be. If I had been born in the 1700s, I have no doubt I would have been a pirate, seeking my adventure and fortune in the warm Caribbean. But, I was born 250 years too late…sounds like a song to me, eh fellow pirates?

If you're in the St. Augustine area, seek out and find Ms. Deborah's Fountain of Youth Tattoo and Body Piercing, and ask for Jesse Britten (www.jessebrittentattoo.com).

In the Midst of a Dangerous Mood

2010-01-24T16:23:00.000-08:00

I knew it when I woke up that it was going to be one of those days that salty-dog mariners fear, a really blustery, emotional day. A scary monster-in-the-closet day, full of highs and lows and no in-betweens. I had incredibly bizarre and upsetting dreams, involving hair-color changes, Porsche Boxsters and my loss of control of my universe.

I credit this to not having my customary cookies and milk.

Anyway, I could feel tide changes in my blood and the wind was absolutely howling through my brain cells today. I was angry and sad and confused and just not in good spirits at all.

So, on a day like this, I knew I had to step outside of myself and become someone else to get through this 12 hours of turmoil. I needed to change something. I know it's part of the artist persona to do dramatic things, and Lord knows I've done some fairly impulsive this-and-thats.

I bought a box of hair color, intent on re-blonding myself, to help the transition from the previous scary-monster-in-the-closet day when I first moved back to Florida and colored my hair to brown back to it's natural state of gray. But, I hesitated. I'll give it a couple of days, I thought.

I bought a couple of new blouses, and even some Italian sandals. Didn't work.

Then I thought back to a couple of rough-and-tumble times in my life, one where I had a life-changing disappointment in love and drove non-stop from my home in Ocala to Key West, to the very last foot of Mile Marker 0 and drank in a little motel bar until I could barely stand. I vowed to never give up hope, and to try to stay happy above all else. After I was sober and in my right mind, I got a tattoo of a swallow on my wrist to commemorate the epiphany. Swallows in the tattoo world mean hope, and they so closely resemble bluebirds, they also incorporate the meaning of happiness. Sea-faring sailors routinely had swallows tattooed on their bodies, as they also meant good fortune and fair weather. I drew one on my arm, and the artist completed the task in indelible ink. As Buffett sings, it became a "permanent reminder of a temporary feeling." No regrets, even to this day. It's a pretty little tattoo, and I love it still.

Four months before my former husband completely destroyed my dreams, we both got tattoos of my art gallery's logo on our ankles. I considered that a renewed commitment, and I was sorely mistaken. Betrayed, I would say. I take no solace in the fact that he carries the same tattoo on his left ankle for eternity and that it forever reminds him of what used to be "us."

Well, maybe I am a little smug about it.

Growth comes in all forms. My heart has been touched by many things – the smallest gestures of someone reaching for my hand to the grandoise acts of my family in their unfailing support. But, each person's journey is an individual one and can only be completed by them. I, now more than ever, believe in the power of integrity and honor. I believe that I need to be stronger now and have more courage than I have ever had before.

So, one guess. Yep.

Let me just say that I love my new tattoo. I drove up to St. Augustine with my kid and we found Ms. Deborah's Fountain of Youth Tattoo Parlor on Lemon Street, right off Ponce de Leon. It was a classic establishment, with every square inch painted ungodly colors and laced with religious icons and tribal masks from Thailand to China. There were racks and racks of tattoos to choose from, but of course, as usual, I brought my own – Calico Jack Rackham's pirate flag. I could go into the whole history of the gentleman pirate, but we'll save that for another blog.

Anyway, I wanted just the icon of the double cutlasses with the skull, and I had printed it exactly the size I wanted it. I was introduced to Jesse Britton, a tattoo artist with a huge amount of tribal work and a couple of the most amazing ear piercings I've ever seen. After having two tattoos done already, with a minimal to moderate level of skill, I was a little nervous about having this small a tattoo done, with the intensity of detail and one small slip...after all, there were curved cutlasses and teeth....this man, this Jesse Britten, created this tattoo in less than ten minutes and not only is it outstandingly perfect, it is positioned exactly where it needs to be. Easily covered by most blouses, including tank tops, and away from the bra strap, which would have irritated the hell out of my raw skin.

The tattoo is one and one-half inches in width, all black, and sits right above my heart. It represents, to me, that integrity and honor of the brethren and the courage it took to fight their own battles against nature and the fallacy of human laws. I've been a pirate at heart my whole life, and it seemed an appropriate time to honor that. My life has been a journey, and my body a journal. I have scars and freckles and wrinkles forged by time and age – and now a brand new tattoo by an incredible artist from my favorite Florida city.

It is so appropriate. And I sure hope it's the last one. Whew.

Danny Zuko Meets The King of England

2010-01-24T05:43:00.000-08:00

OK, am I the only one who finds the cinematic choice of these two pairing up slightly disturbing?

I have not yet seen "From Paris With Love, " which stars our boy Johnny Travolta with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, but I have seen the ads for it on TV and of course, primarily because of the title and my deep-rooted love for Paris, the movie trailers humming all over the Internet.

Now, the series starring Rhys-Meyers as the imposing Henry the VIII was phenomenal. I hated him and loved him at the same time. He had definite attitude. His choice of women sucked.

Travolta, well...he's just a force of nature. I didn't like "Grease," but "Michael" was the turning point for me deciding that anything he starred in, I had to see. Kinda like reading one Carl Hiassen novel: You read one and you can't pass up anything he writes from that day forward.

Now, I'm not a movie reviewer. I let my former co-worker and friend, Christopher Lloyd, do that because he's damn good. Here's the plug: The Film Yap.

Anyway, the part that Travolta plays in this new movie looks to be his shining two hours. Or shining hour-and-a-half or however long the movie is. Travolta, with a shaved head and sexy goatee, gun in each hand and shooting to kill, well, that's hard to resist. That's pure macho. If he's going to take the scenic route, I'd like to be there with him. Women have a natural desire to be around men who can protect them from spiders, financial insecurity and random killers and Travolta, as Charlie Wax, does all that and more.

Rhys-Meyers is outstandingly attractive, in that moth-to-a-flame way. In that damn-he-looks-good-in-a-suit way. Much, much better than in the court foppery he sported as the much-loved but not beloved Henry.

Not to mention that the movie is set in Paris, and who in their right mind doesn't find Paris fascinating and mysterious? Other than my ex-husband? Just the aerial shot of the Eiffel Tower in the movie trailer had me hooked.

So, even though I find the pairing of the two actors an odd combination, I'll be there when it opens because it just has too many elements that I can't resist. Travolta, Rhys-Meyers and Paris. Hoot, mon, I am so there.

A Sense of Timing

2010-01-10T05:08:00.001-08:00

Recently, I had the comment made to me that everything in life is about timing.

I gave that an immense amount of thought, probably more than I should have. I have a tendency to be analytical and, as my daughter is prone to remind me, overthink any given situation and attempt to anticipate the outcome before it happens.

But, you know, I just want to be prepared for the result.

I have a firm belief in the six degrees of separation theory, that the universe will truly bring you want you want, and sometimes it isn't what you need. I am not a believer that the universe could ever rotate on a timed schedule. Life is a circle, and you're always bumping in to your past, stumbling through the present and seeing the future in small glimpses here and there.

I look for signs, and have finally begun to listen to those little angel whispers in my ear. I wish the darned creatures would just knock me over the head with a big stick when I'm about to do something I know isn't right, but then, I've always been a stubborn thing. My life up to now has been a labyrinth, and it doesn't look as though it's going to get any less complicated.

My heart has always been a passionate drifter. It never stops for long at any one roadside stand. I get that wanderlust from my mother, who was tragically grounded out of love and fear. My dad was a solid fortress, hiding his emotions and shielding his inner face from everyone, including his children. I'm a complete blend of the two, as are my sisters.

What I want now, at this stage of my life, isn't up for discussion. It's the same thing I wanted when I was twelve, and the same thing I wanted when I was thirty, and the same thing I wanted two years ago. The things I have wanted out of life were determined a long, long time ago.

I just need to have the courage to go out and get them.

Figuring it All Out

2009-12-28T05:45:00.000-08:00

OK, so I've been sad, happy, confused and frustrated, and all in the past 24 hours.

Right now, in the early morning hours, I feel like a shelter dog, sitting behind the chain link, watching hopefully at every passing person, thinking perhaps that this will be the person that takes me home, cares for me and enjoys my company.

I had a marriage, now I don't. I miss the day-to-day companionship and the reasonable security of knowing that person would be there when you opened your eyes. And, when you closed them.

I miss the shared memories. I miss the casual gestures, the hand-holding and the warm hugs.

What I don't miss is too much to put in to words.

Two people decide on a relationship. Two people choose to marry. It's not always two people who make the choice to tear their lives apart.

Life goes on. None of us have a life clear of emotional baggage. All of us have scars, even those who have been sacred enough to have long-term relationships that are only ended by death. Some of us replace our lost relationships with family, some with a pet and some can never get over the losses and the pain and take their own life, or put themselves in harm's way at some point. Some drink, some overeat and some slide into clinical depression.

Some of us go to the beach and sit on rocks, watching the surf and counting the pelicans as they glide overhead.

Nothing ever really answers the questions as to why things happen, or when they went wrong or how to fix them. Perhaps those questions shouldn't be asked. Perhaps they should, and the honest answers have been there all along.

I know one thing. I'm tired of being the second fiddle, the shelter dog, the unwanted, unneeded and I am so better than this.

Think I'll go to the beach. And search my soul for those honest answers.

Cleaning out the Cobwebs

2009-12-26T19:20:00.000-08:00

Something unnatural happens to me this time every year. Doesn't matter where I am, who I'm with or how much memory-cleaning I've already done. I am driven to go through photographs, tossing a few more each year, and raise a toast (always, Dewar's and water) to this one secret person. He wasn't in my life for long, and not too many people know of him, but he was a great love and taught me some incredibly painful lessons in my life.

Specifically, it's a ritual. I could be living in a box and I'd still find a way to drink to him. Just one drink. Just one raising of the glass. And always, without fail, on December 31.

I lived with him, or should I say, vice versa, for four years. He was an ugly little troll, but outstandingly fun to be around, and playful and positive every minute of the day. I adored him from the minute I met him. He came in to the bar I worked at during the day many, many years ago and challenged me to a game of darts. He was a jockey, and was covered in mud and smelled like a horse stall, but he had a twinkle in his eye and a crooked little smile. He won the game (played three out of four, straight cricket) and in the weeks after that, showed up every day for two months.

He was the worst thing that could have happened to me, and yet the best thing for a little while. He was animated and lively, with a British accent that would have knocked any American gal's heart for a loop – and he definitely had gals! Tall ones, short ones, fat ones and lean ones...didn't matter to him, he just loved them all. But, I was the special gal, the one he spent Christmas with, the one he spent New Year's with, and the one who couldn't see the love in his eyes.

He was too playful and I was too serious. I wanted more than he could give. He was happy to get by, and I wanted to succeed. When he was through riding his horses at noon, he went to the bar. When I was through working at 5 p.m., I went home to find him drunk. He would joke and kid and make funny faces and I would cajole and scowl and worry about the future.

But what passion we had! And how I loved him!

There are people in your life for a reason. When we finally called it quits – he to another gal who could see that playfulness as an asset and not a liability and I to a career and the seriousness of raising my child – it rendered me almost suicidal.

But, the whole affair taught me the value of a smile, the need for playful love and the stupidity of not caring for people the way they are, not the way you want them to be. When I lost him, I gained the knowledge that I would never again lose romance, never again settle for less than a million smiles and the love in a kiss that is true. I've learned to look in the eyes for love.

So, on Dec. 31, I'll raise my glass again to you, my ugly little troll. How many years has it been, I wonder, that I have poured myself a Dewar's and water and tossed my eyes up to the moon and wished you well, wherever you may be.

And, the chances are very good that you're doing the exact same thing.

A Sad Farewell

2009-12-20T10:42:00.000-08:00

They've finally seen their last kick-ass, those cowboy boots of mine.

I've had these boots since high school, when I was the weird kid who wore boots and jeans, and not go-go boots, either. I wore sweatshirts down to my knees because I was so thin I was embarrassed. Of course, now I wear the same sweatshirts because I'm NOT thin...haha! And, if I wasn't wearing Keds or Converse, I was wearing these boots.

I graduated high school in 1973...so that gives you a hint at their age...and mine, of course.

They've seen me through marriage, divorce, childbirth, several dogs and cats and helped me to line-dance with the best of the honky-tonkers in my day. They carried me to concerts – Moody Blues, Black Sabbath, Blue Oyster Cult, The Police and of course, Buffett. They've stepped in cow shit, dog shit and horse shit. They went with me to Ecuador, where I rode horses through the Andes Mountains and waded in pure mountain streams. These boots have been under many beds, and we won't go in to that here, she said, with a smile.

I've played pool in them, winning many games and losing others. I've shot darts in leagues and tournaments, prancing up to the board when I shot a cork and scuffing off when I didn't.

I loved these boots.

They were perfectly broken in and I could wear them without socks. I can get them off quickly when ocean sand called me and put them back on to drive away without a struggle.

I took them in to the shoe repair shop and the cobbler told me that it was pretty hopeless, because of the wear on the leather. "Nothing to sew it back on to," was his reply.

So, here's a tribute to my boots. Just another thing lost in the wind. And yes, for any of those people out there reading this that think I'm crazy, they will be buried. That should confirm it.

And yet another day at the beach...

2009-12-03T16:22:00.000-08:00

I just can't help it. I love watching the ocean, smelling the salt air...walking for an hour or so, listening to the gulls and sandpipers chipper and chatter. It's so relaxing and yet energizing at the same time.

I also get a kick out of the Invisible Beach People. The ones that have been there before me, and left casual markers of playful abandon for others to see. This day, someone had made a snowman out of sand, with driftwood for a pipe and shells for buttons. Very cute. I also ran across three miscellaneous altars made from piles of sand, feathers and wood.

All this to say it reminded me of the movie, "Castaway," with Tom Hanks. Remember his soccer ball, "Wilson"? Made from a bloody handprint and some coconut fibers? Creative energy flows on Hammock Beach. I'm thinking seriously of buying soccer balls from thrift stores and making "Wilsons" and leaving them on the beach, to see if they evoke a reaction from other beachcombers such as myself.

After a particularly windy day, or a strong storm, the seaweed gets torn and tossed onto the beach, along with all sorts of flotsom and jetsom from mankind, such as the random high heel or flip-flop, bottle caps, hair ribbons and other trash. Perfect for an artist to work with, if they were so inclined. Personally, I just pick up shells and bits of wood. I'm trying to figure out how to incorporate retreads from the highway shoulders into some sort of art. I have too much thinking on that to do before I can pay attention to human waste products gleaned from the seaweed.

Food, food and more food

2009-11-27T07:20:00.000-08:00

I've never been a big fan of Thanks-giving. For most people, it includes football games, lots of family and friends and tons of food. So, I've avoided it for the last few years. There's no avoiding it anymore. My sister declared her home my "real" home, cooked all of my absolute Southern favorites and there was no talk of football, even though Roger, Barbara's hubby, is a real football fan...

The menu included everything that makes Thanksgiving the ultimate food holiday of the year. We had sweet potato casserole, corn pudding, mashed potatoes, gray (cooked in the roasting pan, like it should be), juicy turkey (cut off the bones, so that my daughter, Stephanie, wouldn't get all freaky about it looking like a bird), cranberry something or other, green beans wrapped in bacon (to die for) and my Dad's recipe of pecan pie and a new treat: Pumpkin Trifle...like pumpkin bread, whipped cream and pumpkin all mixed together in layers.

Man, oh man...it was like home. Lots of good memories about growing up, more bonding for my daughter and her Auntie Barbara and Christopher, Stephanie's boyfriend, got to see we actually weren't raised by wolves.

I've put in a request for Christmas...roast beast with Yorkshire pudding...(I know, a little presumptuous and greedy but she's such a good cook...)

Coffee and Computers

2009-11-03T19:29:00.000-08:00

I just had to buy a new keyboard because my "2" key wasn't working anymore. I dusted, I cleaned with alcohol, I scoured the Internet for "how to clean an Apple keyboard" and followed all the recommended suggestions from countless forums.

Nothing worked.

I had spilled coffee on the keyboard about three months ago and it never recovered.

Now I just fried my phone charger. I actually kept my iPhone docked on the charger at night, and when it rang this morning, I was doing my usual crossword online and sipping on my coffee when I picked up the phone, the charger came with it and fell off the phone at exactly the right moment to do a nose dive into the coffee cup.

Coffee eats Apples.

Awesome Clouds!

2009-10-15T04:11:00.000-07:00

There are awesome moments in nature no matter where you live or play.

Photographs can't ever capture their beauty.

This was one of those moments, and it was one of those chances to see pure light and radiance. I wasn't at the beach that morning, so the photo had to be taken from where I'm currently living, but still, it was a sight to behold.

Wiggles on the Beach

2009-10-07T04:34:00.001-07:00

Wiggles and I walk the beach on the mornings I get up for the sunrise. He dearly loves his visits to the ocean, and I dearly love his company.

Sometimes, a person can form a bond with an animal that becomes just as strong as the bonds that one forms with a partner or child, and this is the bond I have with him. I had this same bond with my Rita, who I had the pleasure of sharing my life with for 14 years before she died in Kentucky, and was buried on a little piece of property I sadly no longer own.

Norcross ArtFest

2009-10-07T03:06:00.000-07:00

I had an art festival to work up in Norcross, GA. The plans were made well in advance of my sudden divorce and relocation back to sunny Florida, so I packed up the trailer, gassed up the truck and headed out with a few sad memories and hopeful dreams that I would make enough money to have made the trip worthwhile. It's a little over six hours from Palm Coast to Norcross.

A lot of mixed emotions went in to this trip. I was trying out a new way of displaying my art using pegboard, the tent was different than the one I had used for two years before, and the set-up was at 5 a.m. on the Saturday of the show. Seasoned festival workers may have scoffed at my anxiousness. but I certainly wasn't.

Set-up, for those of you that aren't trying to make your living selling your wares at festivals, can be a grueling process. When I first started doing them, it was much more complicated, with little metal thingies that held massively heavy pieces of metal grid together, and it took about two hours to get everything up and ready for art. Plus, the grid had large openings, which meant the art hung on large s-hooks, and it was hard to get the small canvases to hang, much less straight. Not to mention the tent had a couple of broken braces, which required duct tape and prayers. Oh, and the desk that I used to keep all the wrapping paper and bags was one of the heaviest beasts on the planet and even though it had wheels, it was way too heavy for this girl to get on and off the trailer. There were several arguments and hurt feelings and something had to give.

Now, the grid has been reduced to only the corners, and that's more for structural stability more than anything else. I can use my metal shelves to keep the tent square, and it holds my birdhouses really well. I bought pegboard and cable tie it to the sides of the grid, and it works p-e-r-f-e-c-t-l-y. Plus, the new tent – well, I don't know whether it's because it's a different model, but it goes up so easy, I could practically do it myself. I never thought I'd say that setting up a festival tent was a piece of cake, but it was.

Lots of people, lots of really great stuff but the money wasn't coming out of the wallets as readily as it did a couple of years ago. I still made enough to get the truck fixed, which needed a tune-up badly, as well as plug wires and an oil change. I recouped the cost of the gas to get there, and the booth fee. Oh, and I paid the storage on the trailer for another month. Baby steps...

Norcross is absolutely gorgeous, and I fell in love with the town. My daughter was born at Northside Hospital in Gwinnett County, and I used to live In Norcross, so it was nice to see how revitalized the town had become. Fall was beginning, and there were pumpkins everywhere. The leaves on the trees were starting to show color, and it just made everything feel better. One thing I will miss about relocating back to Florida are the change of seasons.

First Gallery Sale Here On The East Coast!

2009-09-12T08:17:00.000-07:00

I know, I'm overreacting...

But, I'm so excited! It's been less than a month, really, that I've been here in the house in Palm Coast, and less than three weeks, really, that I took some mosaics in to Mullet Beach Gallery in St. Augustine for the owner, Aimee, to show. You know, when you go through major upheavals in life, sometimes it's a little scary to get back out on the tightrope. But, even though it was a small sale, it was reaffirming to me and gave me the little nudge I needed to feel as though I was on the right path, so to speak.

Aimee even put images up on her web site, so check it out – www.mulletbeachgallery.com. So, "Happy Octopus" has a new home, and I have a little scratch to buy some more canvas. Ah, this is the life. Now, if I could just do this same thing in, let's say, Tahiti....

We Got Us Some Puppies!

2009-09-10T10:27:00.000-07:00

Pearl came through like a champ!

We were so worried because she was huge!

We didn't plan on puppies. But, the romance was evidently high in our little month-long stay at the Flagler Beach motel (for the dogs, anyway). You know – the motel without Internet access unless you went across the street to the beach? The motel where you had to practically crawl across the beds to get to the bathroom? But hey, they were friendly, cut us a good deal and after all, we were directly across from the ocean, and we needed it. After all, it's why we moved back to Florida, and chose this area to live in (by the way, it's the Beach Front Motel, it's clean and friendly - just ask for Chris - and Room #5).

We noticed Pearl had gone into heat, brought in a crate for Jarhead and kept doggie diapers on them both but one turned head and a mere 60 seconds and boom. Love was in the air.

So, through all the moving and the stress and the depression and the arguments – well, Pearl carried on and gave birth September 9 to seven lovely Scottish Terrier pups. All healthy, all cute as a button and all duly registered as of yesterday. We have only one boy in the bunch and were blessed with two wheaton-colored girls. You'll just have to wait for the photos...I'm nursing a cold and a cough and am just content to sit on my butt until it's time to go to work, when I don't get to sit on my butt.

Gosh, I just love the pups. In eight weeks, hopefully they will all have new homes, with people that love them as much as I do. If you want one of them, I'm taking deposits!

The beach is still gorgeous, the sun is still shining, the grass is mown and edged and the house is cool and clean. My festival tent arrived via UPS this morning, so my worries about getting everything together in time for Artfest in Norcross, GA are a little less. Now I just have to get the pegboard panels built, which, with any luck, will happen next week.

Wandering

2009-09-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

I wandered off yesterday in search of a little place in Florida I had never been before – Vilano Beach. I had chatted with a photographer who lived there, and I was curious.

As I drove up A1A North, through St. Augustine, all the familiar names popped out at me...Jungle Hut Road, Surf Road...I passed a couple of new art galleries and old standbys, like the Hammock Hardware Store – which is about as rustic as you get.

As I pulled in to St. Augustine Beach, I had to stop at the Wednesday Farmer's Market. It was too tempting not to. There were propagated orchids for only $8, and lots of fresh, local produce. Not to mention my beloved boiled peanuts. I ended up with radishes to munch on and some Silver Queen corn for dinner.

Vilano Beach was a surprise. It's located on a little barrier island just north of St. Augustine. It's not very active, but has a retro feel to it, with fairly new town improvements, such as mosaics, street signs and recycled glass pathways, all in bright turquoise, pink and green. It looked very South Beach, Miami to me. There just didn't seem to be any people milling around, so it looked a little depressing. The public pier crawls out into the water, and there's a quasi-marina there, but not much activity there either. I rolled around the residential areas, and fell in love with the architecture. Almost all the houses are retro – very 50s and 60s. There are some older wood frame ones that date back to the 30s.

The beach is gorgeous. There are two public accesses that I found, and both had ample parking and a wood boardwalk. In the dead center of town, there is one of the fanciest Hampton Inns I have ever seen, with giant concrete lions and a fountain out front.

This is one of those Florida towns that begs to be explored. I'm sure there's something deeper than what I saw on the surface here. Stay tuned. Maybe I'll find it.

Another Day in Paradise

2009-09-01T06:41:00.001-07:00

It was extraordinarily calm today – hardly a wave at all.

I was content to seek shells today rather than contemplate.

I did not encounter another human being for almost an hour.

This is a shot from the curve, almost a mile away from the public access point. If nothing else, I'm getting my daily walking done!

Hammock Beach

2009-08-31T13:06:00.000-07:00

I've recently started taking advantage of my early morning hours by walking along Hammock Beach, just a couple of miles away from my new home in Palm Coast. I get there right about sunrise, and stay for about an hour, walking along the shoreline, picking up shells and bits of coquina and coral. Occasionally I find beach glass and driftwood pieces that are used in making my mosaic birdhouses, so that's a plus.

I have a special parking place that I covet, right underneath the golf cart bridge (I drive through the Hammock Beach Resort to get to my little mile of beach). It's one space, next to the outdoor shower and the public facilities. Couldn't be more convenient. And, even on the hottest days, it's shaded, so the truck stays cool as a cucumber.

These mornings that I have to myself are starting to mean more and more to me, and I'm almost crabby if I don't get to walk the beach or sit and watch the life along the shoreline for an hour. Some mornings I can't go, because of work but mostly I can.

See, this is one of the main reasons I needed to move back to Florida. I have to get my fins wet every so often, and it was becoming more and more evident to me that time might run out before I moved closer to the sea. It could have been anywhere where there is an ocean and a shoreline, such as Maine or Cape Cod. But, Florida is home to me, and this part of Florida just felt right. I would love to have a small beach cottage nearer to a shore, so that I could just walk there every day, and perhaps the Fates will grant that in my elder years. Only time will tell. Maybe it will be in cooler Maine, where the snow coats the rocks along the cliffs or maybe it will be in the Florida Panhandle, where small fishing villages survive and the locals know everyone by name. But, right now, I'm here, where I can smell the salt air and watch the commercial fishing boats offshore. I can see the pelicans in formation, their bellies scraping the salt waves and I can hear the cries of the ospreys, swooping down to snag a fish, carrying it back to the nearest high spot to dine.

Some people are in tune with the mountains and the forests, and I'm in tune with the sea. I don't look like a sea creature, with my freckles and pale skin. But, inside I am. I don't care for the heat and humidity, but it's all part of this grand design called beach. This need to be by the ocean cost me dearly in many ways, but sitting there, journaling and feeling the breeze against the back of my neck is becoming all worth it.

2009-08-26T07:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've figured out that sunrise is a magnificent thing and that I should do everything in my power to make sure that I see more of them. The tide is coming in and the natural rock formations on Hammock Beach, which is on the northeast coast of Florida, are starting to disappear – just like the anxiety I've been feeling the past couple of weeks.

Sunsets are beautiful – especially over water. But sunsets signify the end of the day, and at the end of the day, I don't have anything to celebrate. Sunsets are for people who have people. Sunrises, on the other hand, are for people who have no people. Early morning sandpipers and pelicans in perfect formation scan the shallows for signs of bait fish pools. The tangerine sun begins to creep out of the clouds, lending aurora borealis hues to the sky.

It's 7:23 a.m. now, and all the granddaddies are out, with their precious cargoes perched high atop their shoulders. They walk the shoreline at a leisurely pace, kicking at a shell or two, while the pelicans bring a squeal of delight from the wiggley rider. The childless couples begin to arrive, with their mandatory two dogs (usually golden retrievers or labs, because they might be good with the kids they have someday). The joggers are next, dedicated and silent, with iPods in ears and a single, solitary purpose of doing their two miles before getting ready for work.

The rays of the sun are now getting stronger, which is a nice complement to the chilly Atlantic. The first of the All-American Families have arrived, toting their chairs and umbrellas and coolers across the gritty red sand. Cheerios and fruit drinks come out almost before they've set up their beach fortress, and mom immediately stakes out her chaise lounge, positioned for maximum sun exposure.

The beach itself has taken on a coppery glitter as I squint my eyes into the sun. There is so much energy in the ocean that I find it hard to sit still myself. I walk over to the water and go knee-deep, fighting the urge to jump in, clothes and all. Dragonflies flit dangerously near water's edge and I spy dolphin – a pod of three – surfacing about 15 feet offshore. The Turtle Patrol begins to execute their daily route of the shoreline, marking any possible turtle activity and checking established nests.

The surfers are coming in now, excited by the prospect of larger waves due to storm activity farther out. I decide it's time for me to leave, because I value the beach when it's just the beach, and not a source of outdoor fun for the masses. It's been a great morning, and I intend to have many more of them. Perhaps I'll have the sunrise one morning, and drive the three hours over to the other side of Florida, and have a sunset, too.

Life in Rainy Florida

2009-08-16T23:03:00.000-07:00

It's been a hectic few months.

Now that I'm back in Florida, I remember certain things I'd forgotten about my home state.

Like the oppressive heat, that will melt, quite literally, anything and everything you keep in your vehicle or in your garage (unless you've got an A/C unit in it, which I of course, do not).

And the lizards. There must be hundreds of them everywhere. They're anoles, and the dogs are having a field day with them.

And the rain, a deluge of it given that this is hurricane season, and we literally have two right off either coast as I write this. Florida is below sea level, so the water doesn't really drain well. One street had water you could drive a boat on.

But,when the conditions are right, the moon and stars peeking out from behind palm trees and the sound of the waves hitting the beach is some compensation. And, once you find the right hair spray, you can actually keep your style from wilting within a few minutes. When the dogs get tired of throwing up lizards, they'll stop eating them, too.

Don't get me wrong, I miss Kentucky. I miss the incredible vistas, with the mountains and the crisp morning air. There is no traffic and I love the rural areas, filled with wildflowers. I am honored to have been a part of that state. But, I'm rooted here in Florida - not necessarily in Palm Coast, which is where I am currently. So, I will acclimate myself and my thick blood will thin down and I'll be more comfortable. I'll make some new friends and make a new life. Perhaps in a couple of years, I'll find a sleepy fishing village somewhere up in the panhandle and move there, becoming once again a local in a small town. Someday, I'll be happy again with myself and my life and stop treading water. Maybe I'll even fall in love.

I do have a new set of rules for myself. I've been neglecting my soul far too long, and if I can keep my health long enough, I'm going to concentrate on making Brenda happy again. I was an awesome girl five or six years ago, and that child of wonder is going to make a reappearance. Perhaps I'll start doing what my ex-brother-in-law kept telling me to do: I'll put on my cowboy boots and kick butt.

My art has definitely taken a hit. I haven't really created anything in over two months. But, that is part of what's wrong and needs to be fixed. I may not be able to fix some things, but that is one thing I can. I can fix me.

Flawed Sense of Priorities

2009-08-09T05:39:00.000-07:00

As I have just moved in to a new residence, I don't have access to television news yet. Some things have to come first, like groceries and electricity. Oh, and Internet. Internet is a necessity for me because not only can I communicate with all my friends on Facebook, I can also look for job postings, watch videos on YouTube and pay bills. I've also got to look for a new E-Z Up tent for my art festivals, because the last one bit the dust at my Lexington show.

I've also found that I can access crossword puzzles, so my much-beloved habit of drinking my morning coffee (now in the outside courtyard, amongst my palm trees and banana plants) can be happily continued, and I've discovered BBC and CNN online.

I was skipping over some of the more interesting news on Sunday and read how a hot-dog vendor in New York City was paying $54,000 a MONTH to "rent" a spot to sell his wares. People, that is just a hair less than most HOUSES cost in the southeastern United States right now. He got behind in his payments to the city of New York by three months, so they booted him off his four square feet of "rented" space by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I have two questions at this point. First, how much does this man charge for a hot dog and second, isn't the Metropolitan Museum of Art a public building?

The spot in question was near the museum steps, on the sidewalk. Both of which are public spaces. If he wanted to dance a jig in his bathrobe every day on that spot, he would be allowed to by law. Why then, can he not sell hot dogs?

And, if this man makes that much money that he can even THINK about affording $54,000 a month to pay for a spot to sell hot dogs, then why can he not fight this in federal court?

There is something wrong with this picture on several levels.

I researched the price of a vendor hot dog on the streets of New York (gotta love the Internet) and it's approximately $4.95, loaded up with all sorts of condiments. Math question: How many times does $4.95 go in to $54,000? Answer: 10,909+ This man sells over ten-thousand-nine-hundred-and-nine hot dogs a month? At the very least?

You know, I'm happy if I sell over $1,000 worth of art at a festival, and this man is racking up incredible amounts of cold, hard cash selling hot dogs.

Look for a "Doodles Hot Dogs" yellow festival trailer near you soon!

2009-05-03T07:03:00.001-07:00

I just put down the Sunday edition of the Lexington Herald, after reading a very interesting column written by Leonard Pitts, Jr., in which he bemoaned the loss of all things familiar and, well, old.

Bemoan is perhaps a strong word. I think he meant something a little sad, but not altogether moan-and-groan sad. He compared the 20-something generation and how they were so used to everything wireless and technological and immediate to those of us ever so slightly over the age of half a century. It made me think of how things changed for my parents, and how I never considered what it must have been like for them to see television become a household necessity, or a microwave the preferred mode of cooking food. You know, the old ways of doing things, like preserving your own food in mason jars and tending to free-range chickens are definitely, and there is no other word for it, bemoaned by at least one person – me.

For, although my adventurous and independent nature would probably have gotten me either killed or shunned by all sane men, I would have loved the cowboy days, when women made quilts for utilitarian purposes, and they were just as beautiful as the ones we have now, hanging on walls for decoration or put in contests to win fame and fortune. Food was grown in the front and back yards, and excesses of one vegetable or fruit were traded with neighbors for something you didn't grow. I think I would have been a mite queasy about killing the family cows or chickens and having them on the table for dinner that night, but then, in my part of the country, kids as young as eight years of age are shooting deer and posing with their bloodied kills with immense pride, so I suppose it's all in how you're raised.

I know life was tough back then. No indoor plumbing, much less indoor toilets. No electric lights, and heaven forbid, no Internet. Scary stuff.

But, there were horses and carriages, which are sources of great fun for me. And, there were buildings that you saw your family build, from the ground up, so you knew every stick, every brick and every log that went in to them. Things seemed to be more personal then. People were important to each other, whether because they were related or whether they needed to be avoided or whether they could extend a bit of credit to you so that you could buy imported peppermint sticks for the children.

Gosh, I don't know. There is so much good about our world, and then, there's so much that we as a civilized people have ruined for our souls. Newspapers, an institution for over 200 years, are being scrapped in lieu of reading your daily dose of world information via the World Wide Web. Books? No, no...e-Books are much easier. Click to purchase via a credit card, it downloads to your desktop and you're done, without ever getting up out of your ergonomically-designed computer chair. What's that you say? Can't take the newspaper or book in to the bathroom with you in the morning? Posh. That's why they make laptops, right?

There were no gyms with fancy work-out equipment – there were plows and fields and barns to build. You made soap from tallow and candles from beeswax and treated yourself from time to time with the stuff the town's general store, not WalMart, ordered in from big cities. Children played in open fields of wildflowers and climbed trees and had chores.

Yes, my fantasy world doesn't consist of space flight or other planetary searches. I don't care about life on other planets, I'm still mourning the loss of the life on this one. My fantasy world was 1800, and I would have loved spending some time there.

Easter Egg Trees and Other Such Phenomena

2009-04-27T15:36:00.000-07:00

Easter Egg Trees are right up there with garden gnomes in my book. There's a place for them, and it's not in my garden (assuming I will have another home someday that includes a grassy lawn and a tree or two).

Before you get your typing fingers in an uproar, hear me out.

Have you ever stopped to calculate the amount of time it takes to physically tie or otherwise adhere each of these plastic eggs to a hapless bush in the front yard? I mean, really. In Florida mobile home parks, the "in" thing is to cut up colored Styrofoam egg cartons and poke all the rounded pieces on to Spanish Bayonets (otherwise known as Yucca plants in other parts of the world). It looks just as silly, believe me.

If you really want to add color to your lawn or garden, how about planting something seasonal that will rev up in the Spring and add that boost of color without the intervention of plastic and will add a little oxygen to the planet in the meantime? I can't think of much else that could be more beautiful that a bright red or pink dogwood, or a redbud in full dress uniform. Plastic eggs, no. Nature in all its glory, yes.

Gallery Openings and Other Phobias

2009-04-14T17:38:00.000-07:00

I must be crazy to own an art gallery.

Openings are one of my biggest sources of self-induced stress. Kind of like driving the Jeep without a gas-o-meter or a speedometer or a spare tire. Or like walking three dogs at a time because I'm too lazy to go around the block twice. Or like taking the scooter out on the road after it being in hibernation for six months.

Now, all of these things are easily alleviated. Fix the Jeep, walk around the block twice and quit being a wimp about riding the scooter more often. But the art openings...well.

See, I have to be manic about cleaning the gallery (and studio, which is where I live every day, so it's a lot messier than most of the other square footage in the building). I get crazy about it, and drive my daughter nuts about it, too (since she's been living with us, she's conscripted for "helping" get the place in tip-top shape). Then I have to self-induce stress myself about the food items and getting the wine and making sure I have napkins and oh, God, do I have enough plates? Hanging the art? Oh, that's another story altogether. Will it all fit, which wall is best, which art goes in the window....will people show up....that's the worst fear.

Arts, in today's economy, have taken a considerable downturn, both in the purchasing from artists and in showing up to openings and receptions to support artists emotionally. And, believe me, as I are one, there is a lot of emotional turmoil in creating something and having someone admire it (and hopefully purchase it for their own homes). It's like being naked in front of the school class. No, it's like being grossly overweight and naked in front of the school class. No, no, no....it's like being grossly overweight and naked in front of the best-looking boy in the school class. Etc.

So, if anyone out there is reading this within a few miles of Flemingsburg, I certainly hope you're not terribly busy this Friday night, cause you need to be here at Doodles Studio & Gallery around 5:30 p.m. We have some artists that need your presence. They need your support. They need you to look at their art and give them a reason to continue. They need to know that what they're doing is being seen. That what they do is important to a civilized and cultured society. Very few artists really get rich, and most never can exist by just doing art and it's not always about the money anyway. It's about who we are and what we create.

It's about who...we...are.

A Perfect Day

2009-04-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

There are some days that are just made for playing hooky, and Thursday was one of them. The sun was out, it's spring in Kentucky and the temperature was a steady 67-degrees. I had an artist friend of mine who offered to show me the way to a place called Sunflower Sundries, run by Jim and Jennifer Gleason, and I had always wanted to visit. I mean, I've lived here four years, and haven't been out there even once. It was the perfect day for it.

Grabbed the camera, grabbed the keys and that was that.

The minute I drove up the road to the farm, I knew my heart was just going to burst with good vibrations. Three lovely pups greeted me like I was an old friend, and there were chickens - nice, fat happy chickens - running all over the place. Happy animals and a happy, sunny yellow door on the small gift shop where this marvelous woman named Jennifer makes her own soaps and grinds freshly dried corn in a small electric mill. I'm greeted with a smile and a welcome hug, and the smells of scrumptious soaps filled the air. I've made my share of soap, but this stuff is like gold (I ended up with a bar of the Rose Geranium and it is hard-milled and leaves your skin feeling like it just woke up from a long sleep).

I roamed around with Jennifer while my artist pal, Ken, took off on a canoe trip with her husband, Jim. We talked about all the wonderful things she's growing in the garden, from the fresh sprouts of asparagus to gooseberry bushes, from which she gleans the fruits and makes the tastiest jams. We talked about a curious weed called Henbit, which she allows to grow wild because the bees like it. This woman is a true child of nature, accepting of the wild things in life and allowing their souls to prosper. She fretted a bit about the chickens, who are as free-range as it gets. She protects the growing plants with pruned gooseberry branches and bits of cattle fencing. On and on she went, naming every shrub and plant - a woman very proud of her blessed life and everything in it.

She offered me herbal tea, while she made some labels for her new batch of hot garlic mustard. I had shot photos of everything from old glass jugs to corn shucks in burlap bags. She asked if I could help her jar some mustard in the cellar, and I jumped at the chance. She showed me how she prepared the mustard from organic seeds, garlic and horseradish and she spooned the mixture into jars, while I screwed on the lids and applied the labels.

This one solitary visit brought me back to my own childhood, watching Dad prepare huge pots of pear preserves and strawberry jams, made from fruits from our own garden. I remember picking baskets and baskets of green beans, limas and peas, tomatoes and corn for Mom and Dad to can for our pantry. In the middle of winter, we always had vegetables from the seasons before. We had chickens, too, and I can still smell the hay in the roost and feel the warmth of the eggs as I gathered them.

It was time to go when Ken and Jim got back, and I left with a half jar of that wonderful mustard, a pound of cornmeal (which Jennifer ground just for me) and a killer recipe for cornbread, a dozen fresh eggs (some from araucuna chickens, which have those lovely greenish-blue eggs) and a bar of Rose Geranium soap. My heart was full, my soul revived and my life forces kick-started.

There are places in my life that I have been that I want to revisit, and this is one of them. As Ken so succinctly put it, "this woman is a living treasure," and I heartily agree. She calmed my anxiety with her friendliness and welcomed me into her home and her life without reproach. She allowed me a day in her world, which is sunny yellow and full of love from every corner. She works hard, sometimes too hard, but it's a good kind of work. As I left, I picked up a map back to her farm, just in case I couldn't figure out my way back.

Take a look at her website: www.sunflowersundries.com

2009-03-28T16:41:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those poster child days in Kentucky, when all the daffodils are blooming, the lilacs are starting to bud and the tulip trees and forsythia are really showing off.

It was supposed to be a gray, tornado day, with rain showers and general negative depression all the way around. But, about 1:30 or so, the skies opened up to a bright robin-egg blue, the rain completely stopped, the sun came bursting out and I swear I could hear show tunes.

So, daughter and I went out to pick up some organic free-range hen eggs from a local farm and took the Jeep, rolling down one-lane Kentucky roads into deep country. Mud-slinging and marveling at how well the Jeep goes through clay-soaked pasture roads, we arrived at the farm, where we dropped off eight or nine empty egg cartons and picked up three dozen of the best tasting eggs on the planet. We saw barns and cows and horses and chickens and collie-dogs and it was just exhilerating to get out into nature and hear the birds and beasts.

I miss a lot of things about having a yard and a place to dig into the earth, but at the same time, I'm am glad I'm not out mowing and weeding. My two birdfeeders on the tree out front keep finches coming around, and Lord knows there's plenty of Amish buggies and trailer loads of cows coming through town on any given day. Getting in the Jeep and going anywhere brings me back to the country, and my wanderlust is abated for a while.

Destruction Always Makes Me Smile

2009-03-26T18:39:00.000-07:00

I have five dogs, and I'm perfectly happy with each and every one of them. They are each infinitely different from each other, although they're all the same breed.

But, as my power cord flashes on and off as it's plugged in to my laptop because of one little puppy using it as a chewie toy when she was but a little wobbly thing, I tend to remember why I'm also perfectly happy that all of the dogs I do have aren't in that adorable puppy stage.

When my first grand-doggie was just a little scamp, he completely ate my new red Justin boots. He still had the shoe tongue hanging from his mouth when I caught him, all out of breath from fighting with the Monster Boot he had dragged off the shoe rack and under the bed.

My second two grand-doggies have single-handedly chewed up the cushions on my plaid couch downstairs, eaten off the wooden rockers on the rocking chair, chewed one of the legs on my favorite high-back chair, torn through several assorted towels, rugs and socks (none of which were actually given to them) and made quick work of any book or magazine that was within nose height. Oh, and did I mention my laptop power cord, which I rely on so heavily, it's on a permanent check list when I travel? I don't go anywhere without the camera battery charger or the laptop power cord. Ever.

But, you know, I can't help but smile when I remember that boot hanging out of Wiggles' mouth and his little victorious puppy dance when he had finally conquered the Red Beast. And those books and magazines? Well, I really don't think I remember one of the book titles, and gosh knows I have plenty of magazines. As for the furniture, well, it's just furniture after all, and you'd be surprised what a little brown shoe polish will hide. I've got some electrical tape that should repair the power cord for now.

The little things that really made me mad when my dogs were pups are all in the past now, and all those little things have turned in to happy memories. They still have a few accidents, and I have to keep an eye on the two youngest ones every now and then. And I keep my power cord well out of reach.

Some People Just Got The Positive Vibes

2009-03-21T08:41:00.000-07:00

These two people are a couple of the artists I've met since I moved to Kentucky (and came out of my self-imposed cave d'art).

Jo Ann is actually a transplanted Kentuckian, living in the City, as in New York. She's a writer who is currently working on a book of memoirs, and she's a friend I met through the guy on the right, Ken Swinson.

Now, Ken is a walking, talking ray of sunshine to anyone who has met him. He is an outstanding artist (okay, if you don't believe me, go to www.kenswinson.com and check it out for yourself) and his work reflects that positive outlook that just oozes out of his pores. I mean, the man hasn't lived here all of his life, and yet he has bonafide COLLECTORS of his work. He takes off with his dog on creative meanderings in his van. He takes off on 100-mile radius bicycle trips. He creates stuff constantly, and he is my personal art hero.

Now, I have a lot of heroes. Einstein is a hero. Ashley Judd is a hero (ine). But all the artists I've studied have little dark sides, myself included. This guy, Ken, doesn't have a dark side. At least, not that he shows to the public. He works in many mediums, throws pots (as well as hand-builds them) and creates web sites on the Internet that have me a steaming pot of green-goo-jealousy most of the time! This guy makes a walk in the woods (even a freezing cold walk in the woods) a creative event.

Maysville, you're lucky to have this guy in your town. Use him wisely.

Objects d'Comfort

2009-03-12T15:21:00.000-07:00

There's a lot written about "comfort foods." We all have our own. Mine are generally dripping with grease and served up in a basket. No, really. I love fried green tomatoes and fried okra and, more recently, fried pickles. The common denominator seems to be "fried." I also happen to seek out shrimp (fried) and yellow squash (yep, in a cast iron pan). Those are my comfort foods.

But, how about all those other things that bring comfort?

I adore flannel pj's during cold weather. I dearly love Keds and Converse sneakers. My dogs are an endless source of comfort to me, especially when they get on the bed and snuggle up real close. Waking up to sunshine always makes me smile, and smelling salt air with a tinge of boat fuel and fish bait is even better.

Knowing that the people I love are safe is a real comfort. I also like to have an extra can of coffee in the pantry and when I know there's plenty of toilet paper and paper towels, well, that also helps me sleep at night. Go figure.

I suppose it's important to identify the things that give us comfort and make honest efforts to arrange all of them in order of priority, too. Too much emphasis is placed on job stability (yes, even in today's economy) and money (indeed, the love of which is the root of evil). We should all look at the smallest things that give us comfort and be thankful we can achieve these things in our lives. The bigger things, well, sometimes we confuse comfort with want.

There's lots I want. I'm no different than any one else. We all want stuff.

But right now, one single fried green tomato would be heavenly.

Spanish Moss

2009-03-08T10:24:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's the gypsy in me, but I'm still looking for my paradise. I've lived in some wonderful places, and have visited many, many others but I have yet to find that comfortable rug in front of the fireplace.

The old saying goes that your heart is where your home is. Or vice versa, because I never have understood that one. My home is currently in an old building in northern Kentucky. My heart is in a little cottage near the ocean, with a couple of great old oaks in the back yard and a single palm tree in the front. I can practically describe each board, each nail hole, each squeak of the front porch step of this small abode, almost as if I've lived there before. The paint is peeling a little on the outside, and the windows in the front all have dog nose prints on them that need to be cleaned. But, the old motel chairs on the side porch are comfortable and a little cool in the early evening, and the smell of honeysuckle, growing profusely on the back chain link fence, is almost intoxicating.

Now, if I had any wits about me when I was younger, I would have recognized all the red flags in my soul that told me to pursue these longings on my own and I'd be a happy little gal with no regrets or wistful thoughts paths not taken (see previous posts – very unhealthy). But, I also searched for a life companion, and most of the time, their places of home weren't my places of home.

There are some things I don't expect to be forgiven for, by any one. But, I still wrestle with my own conscience over the fact that I'm not in that infernal little house (at my age), cursing the fire ants and grimacing over the fact that I can't keep my zinnias watered enough to make them bloom.

I'm a Southern gal who never learned to talk back, like most good Southern women do and will and should. I let too many people have the upper hand, and I eat way too much of the bad things and not enough of the good things. I never cultivated enough friendships, and I miss the people I did develop friendships with. I carry that burden myself because I tend to disappear, and for a while, these people try to drag me out, but I always cower back into the darkness.

But, what I miss most is Spanish moss. For those of you reading this, Spanish moss is a uniquely Southern beast, a parasite that can suck the life blood out of even the heartiest of trees given, say 200 years. It grows downward from the branches and drapes along each knob and crook in the tree from way on high. The slightest wind can make the beautiful grey tendrils wave in the breeze, and when it rains, the color deepens and drops of wet diamonds hang off each small strand. I cannot even begin to describe how I felt when, after living away from the moss for a year, I started seeing the stuff hanging from the trees along the interstate on a trip back down South.

Spanish moss to me means something deep and mysterious within my gut. To us gals who grew up with it, it means chiggers if you don't handle it carefully. When I played with it in the back yard, it became spaghetti at my play-time diner (and bark off the pine trees was always bacon, so most people ordered spaghetti and bacon). I braided huge veils of it one year for pigtails for my Halloween costume (Bo Peep, and my poor dog Sandy had to wear a white cape so that she looked somewhat like a sheep – not). Dad hated it, because it coated every tree and every shrub in the yard, especially during spring and he had to pick it off. But, on the up side, when he burned the huge mounds of it in the garden, I'd grab the coat hanger and the marshmallows and have a pretend camp-out.

So, I guess it really is something that is born and bred in to you, this need to be around the places that make you happy when you wake up. For me, it's the smell of gardenias on hot summer days and a brightness of sunshine that makes your eyes hurt and your skin burn. It's the kitschy tourist stands and fresh fish off the docks. It's sand that you can't vacuum out of the carpet on the floor of the car and azaleas that bloom almost year-round.

It's that damn Spanish moss.

The Art of Being One's Self

2009-03-07T04:19:00.000-08:00

At one point or another, we all ask ourselves who we really are.

Over the years, we all adapt to living conditions, relationship situations and personal challenges. We begin to realize what makes us angry, what makes us happy and what helps us to survive the things in our lives we cannot control. We give up on some issues, take up the sword and fight other issues and let some things die a natural death.

We think back on the choices we've made in our lives and wonder if things would have been better or worse if we had chosen a different path. Undoubtedly, we will never know the answers to those ponderings, and therefore it's a little self-destructive and unhealthy to look back and question why we did the things we did. Living with one foot in the past, and one foot in the future doesn't leave much room for living in the now.

Living in the now is a lesson we could all take a refresher course on. I equate living in the now with how animals deal with their own personal deck of cards. A deer in the forest has one goal every morning they open their eyes, and that is to find food. Their instinct keeps them on their feet from day to day. They smell things, they sleep, they find protection, they eat and they reproduce. One day, whether through the natural course of their lifespan or by the unnatural course of man, they don't wake up any more and that's that. Is their life any less because they did not leap higher than another deer, or because they didn't have two fawns instead of one? Do you think deer actually have the cognitive reasoning to think, "Oops. Shouldn't have stepped out onto the median." Animals don't second-guess themselves.

But, people do. And we do it all the time.

We equate a successful life with that of being able to exchange our time for money, exchanging money for possessions and providing for our progeny a life better than our own. And yet, many of the other people that we admire and pay homage to did exactly the opposite, and still had what we call a successful life.

Henry David Thoreau was, in effect, a pauper and a hermit, and scampered off to a cabin in the woods to experience the day-to-day living in the now. Yet, he is considered one of the finest writers in any century. His name is revered in colleges and universities around the world.

Mother Theresa turned her back on the prosperity of modern living to live among lepers and outcasts. Because of her, many others felt comfort and peace within themselves. She is certainly successful – in her role as a human being.

St. Francis of Assisi, born into wealth, cast off his good fortunes and lived among animals, choosing to take each day and live within it with humility and love toward all creatures. Buddha teaches that the giving up of one's possessions frees the soul. Jesus humbled himself before all men, choosing not to take a throne or crown, but to walk among even the poorest and do good works.

What makes these people successful in our eyes? They had the courage to be who they were (and are), and to make the best use of their time here on earth. Each day to them was (and is) an new day and they can do good things or not. These people learned to accept who they were (and are) and to live in the now.

This isn't a rant about destiny or fate or karmic implications. It's an observation about how we act and react. It's a suggestion that perhaps we complicate our own lives by equating our self-worth with our accomplishments or earnings. It's a questioning of why we have the need to jumper higher than the other deer or have two fawns instead of one.

Tahiti

2009-03-05T16:00:00.000-08:00

I want to take off for the Tahitian Islands. I've watched three Food Network shows now, and they've all been based on one island or another. The No Reservations one was filmed on Tahiti, and if I didn't want to go badly enough before, I certainly do now!

He was feasting on a fresh salad mixture of coconut crab and various green goodies, with some really scrumptious-looking nuts and stuff. Fresh snapper for dinner, rolled in banana leaves and cooked on an open fire on the beach. A big bucket of icy beers. I am so there.

Then of course, the camera panned out onto the ocean, a most incredible blue. Palm trees swaying in the wind, white and coral-colored sands and the most magnificent sunset ever captured on film.

Now, I know from having visited other such places that there is always a little annoying downside to such paradise (such as spiny sea urchins in the shallows, which can give you a very nasty case of the itchies and swell up your feet or hands to the size of basketballs if you're not careful). There's also the cost of getting to said islands.

I checked online for pricing, just to stave off my curiosity about what such a trip might cost for my hubby and I. Well. At almost $2500 each just for airfare, I'm pretty certain we won't be flying out of Kentucky for Tahiti any time soon.

I'll have to settle for traveling armchair express for a while, I'm afraid. And, for right now, I'm content with that.

Those Country Melodies

2009-03-02T08:26:00.000-08:00

You know, I'd like to send out a message to all those country song writers out there.

You might make a living belting out those words of yesterdays and long-agos, but you're just making me so depressed. I mean, really deep-down, knees-of-my-heart depressed.

I was a second wife. Second wives are little non-important atoms in the nuclear family. They usually come around when the kids are grown, or at least in their teen years, and they didn't marry the childhood sweetheart, go through the tough early years or have that happy-life fairy tale. Second wives deal with ex-wives, and they are worse than Category Five hurricanes in the emotional sense. The ex-wife has the knowledge and power to cause great damage and what's worse is they know it. Now, if they've given birth to your former husband's children, you had just better buckle up for the ride. They will be in attendance at every birthday, every holiday and every major event that links them to him, the children and their progeny. If this makes you uncomfortable as The Second Wife, just uncork a wine bottle and deal with it. You're in that mess alone.

So, none of the country songs wax and wane about the plight of The Second Wife, or at least, none of the ones on the radio stations that I listen to. The songs are all about butterfly kisses to small children who grow up and leave their daddies, men who are thankful they are married to their childhood sweethearts or about how all of their marital struggles with their one and only wife brought them to the wonderful world they live in now.

I'm going to work hard on writing a song that extols the virtues of being a Second Wife. It's about time that someone, somewhere recognized that we didn't get in to this for the sport. We met a man, fell in love and struggled to deal with his demons. And, any man who has been married In The Before You has demons. Doesn't matter if it was a mutual decision, His decision (moderately better), Her decision (recipe for constant anger) or they lady died (forever an eternal saint). There be demons. All second wives have issues and the smart ones don't let their husband know about them. Smart husbands don't let the Second Wife feel inferior to the First Wife. But, that's another story.

It'll be one of those songs that only some whip-crackin, boot-wearin', long-haired bitch of a country singer can sing. She'll have to have attitude to carry it off, and since most of the country gals have attitude, I think it'll be a big hit.

If someone can write a song about killing an old boyfriend named Earl, I'm pretty darned sure this one I'm cookin' up will be in the Top Ten.

Home of the Smashburger

2009-03-02T07:59:00.000-08:00

When I travel, I love to try out regional diners. I like to hear the conversations of the local people, listen to their dialects and eat their food, although in some places it might not have been such a good idea. I figure that's why they make Immodium.

Anyway, traveling through Pikeville, KY brought me to Dairy Cheer, Home of the Smashburger. I'm not a big fan of burger joints, to be quite honest. I much prefer a grilled cheese sandwich and pickles at some diner counter, but it was lunchtime, and the rules of the road for that day didn't allow much time to locate food. Having never been to a Dairy Cheer, but suspecting it was much like a Dairy Queen, it was something for the Been There, Done That log book.

First of all, I still don't have any clue what the actual definition of a "Smashburger" is, or why it's called that, other than the obvious. The menu also listed a "Smasharue," which I can only determine is a "Smashburger" with cheese. I ordered a "Smashburger," with onion rings on the side. When I got it, it was wrapped in foil, and was fairly flat. The buns were very soft and oversized. The meat was, shall we say, some combination of meat and something else. It came with lettuce, tomato, onion and pickle just as most burgers do. It wasn't hot, and tasted a bit like it had been under a warming unit for a while, but what the heck.

The onion rings reminded me of the ones I used to order when I lived in Atlanta, GA, and went to the Varsity for lunch. It was right down the street from where I worked, and it was back in the early 80s, so it wasn't as notorious or packed to the gills with people as it is now. The onion rings from the Varsity were over-fried and greasy, just the way junk food should be. Loved 'em, and still do. It's a cholesterol dilemma for me, but since I don't make a habit of eating them every day, I figure I can get away with it from time to time.

The other menu items were typical: corn dogs, hot dogs, fries and a whole complement of ice cream products. The menu looked very much like Dairy Queen. The names were changed to protect the corporate innocents.

I doubt I'll drive off the interstate to visit another Dairy Cheer, but at least I can say I've been. And, for someone who is always on the lookout for somewhere new around the corner, I'm happy to have stopped. The onion rings are great. Order them.

Everyone Doesn't Think Like You

2009-02-19T05:03:00.000-08:00

This is a universal truth, but one of those universal truths that you just don't grasp until something that could shake your belief in all that is comfortable and snuggly and warm happens without warning. Notice I didn't say "safe." Nothing, and I can repeat this until I've used up all my breathing space on this planet, is safe.

You roll along, in marriage or in relationships or career, and do your every-day things and never give a second thought to the other sides of the box. You never think about what the woman on the bus seat next to you is thinking about her world or about what your employer might have to say to you that morning. You don't really ever consider anyone else's thoughts. You're too wrapped up in what you think, what you want to accomplish or what you need to get done.

What other people who touch your life think and do and need is just as important as your own thoughts and actions. There is no other way to put it. You cannot continue to roll along in your own self-absorbed being and pretend that you are the most important soul on the planet, and that others need to recognize that fact. You also cannot work on a team – and also recognize this universal truth – that we are all on some sort of team, with the egotistical theory that no one else really knows you, or that no one else can help you or that no one else has as much important things to do as you do.

Everyone is important. Everyone matters. Their thoughts and opinions and their work, regardless of what it is, is important. Don't make the mistake of thinking that the guy holding the signs asking for money is not as important or necessary to someone as you are. He is. You are no better – or worse – than anyone else.

Thoughts From Previous Lives

2009-02-15T17:38:00.000-08:00

I dunno. I sort of believe in the whole past life thing, and then again, I don't. I have an analytical brain that screams for scientific proof, but as much as I'd like to believe that somewhere along the way I was, say...a cat, I just can't get my arms around it.

I've had enough previous lives in this one I'm still living to make up for hundreds of years past. I mean, I think most of us have had pretty remarkable lives when you get right down to it. It's worth a little introspection, don't you think?

I love the ocean, and have an almost unnatural craving to be on the coast. I love being on a sailboat as it's gliding through the waves, and could literally eat seafood every day of the week. I suppose one might think I was some sort of sailer somewhere, and that could very well be true. I did learn to scuba, but found I also have an almost unnatural fear of being trapped underwater, so that's not something I pursued. I mean, I can't even put my face under the shower in the morning. I hold my breath and start to panic. I might have been a sailer, but I definitely went overboard. So, that's not a previous life I want to know about.

I love to travel and get a little crazy when I stay in one place too long. A little cottage near sea water would be lovely, but make sure there's enough room in the driveway for a 38-foot motor home. I want to be able to leave and discover other stuff, but take my snail shell with me. And, of course, my dog, my own toilet paper and my beloved Water-Pik. Call me eccentric. Not sure what this means I was in a previous life. Maybe a bus driver. Or maybe a gypsy, which is much more preferable to being a bus driver (my apologies to all those bus drivers out there).

I feel like one of those hound dogs that had to turn around and around on a rug before finally settling on the right place to lay my head. Not sure what this means in the past lives annals. I'd be scared to find out.

I'm also a pack-rat. Pack-rat is almost too nice a term. I literally have problems throwing anything away that I think could be recycled into something else. I'm currently on a "save-the-egg-cartons" kick. Especially those ones that have the fold-over plastic, which protects the eggs. I love those things. When I used to make fizzy bath salts, those were the perfect containers to make 12 at a time. I didn't have the luxury of a bathtub for four years, so I stopped making bath salts. But, you never know when I'll need a fold-over plastic egg carton. I'm also hoarding jasmine rice, but I suppose that's a whole 'nother story. My hoarding tendencies must come from a recent past life as a person struggling through the Great Depression.

So, although I would like to believe that in one way or the other I was, say, some Egyptian princess, I sincerely doubt it. I may have been something like a field mouse perhaps, or even a flower seller in merry olde England, but never anything of major significance. I just hope that once this life is over, I come back as someone born in to lots and lots of money,who lives by the sea and I get to travel a lot (with or without an egg carton fetish).

My Favorite Alligator

2009-02-08T13:36:00.000-08:00

Growing up with an alligator pond in your front yard wasn't easy.

North central Florida is noted for its summer deluges of liquid sunshine, which come and go without so much as a hint of warning. After a couple of weeks of these daily rains, the alligator pond, unfenced and fed to overflowing with water, would spill out onto the limestone road encircling the thing. Which meant that it also overflowed into our front yard, as well as the yards of the only other two residents in that tiny hammock. The shimmering black waters would creep all the way up to an old oak tree, a massive thing which was too big to cut down, so Dad just build the porch around it. Water moccasins liked to take up their summer homes inside that old tree, which had a gaping hole at the base of its trunk. It was always interesting trying to negotiate a clear, snake-less path to the newspaper box when we had too much rain. My poor dog, who never saw a leash most of the time, had to be tied up to the clothesline during the night to prevent becoming a fatality, and you might as well forget about the cat.

In this pond lived one sole resident, a huge grandaddy of an alligator well over twelve feet long. From time to time, I'd watch him as he climbed out of the water to sun, and then made his way around the entire limestone road which encircled the pond. He'd walk about four or five feet and rest, completely blocking the road to any and all traffic. Not that there ever was any, of course. He was a particularly commanding force in when and where you could play after school. As always, how close you could get to the actual pond when he was in it was only determined by the last time he ate.

See, to keep that relic of the dinosaur era somewhat less interested in eating our pets, and my baby sister, we fed him. Every week, Mom would buy a bag of inedible chicken parts from the local butcher, and I would skip out to the pond and throw a few pieces in, to figure out just where the alligator was. Usually by the third chicken neck, I knew exactly where he was. He would come closer and closer until I couldn't stand it any more, and I'd throw more.

After a few years, the beast recognized me as the bearer of all things yummy and would keep two watchful eyes out for my countenance at water's edge. In the beginning, if it got too close to the bank, I'd back away, stumbling over rocks and branches and my dog, who never quite got the whole picture as to why I was keeping this thing alive. After a while, my dog stopped trying to figure it all out and just sat high up on the bank, knowing that I would always save a scrap or two for her.

There was something there, between its ridged, narrow mouth and expressionless eyes that led me to sense that we had some sort of agreement. The gator started keeping to its own territory, even when the pond overflowed, and no longer felt the need to march up to our front doorstep in search of a furry feline morsel. As long as I made my weekly rounds, all was well in both our worlds.

That gator and I lived in peaceful co-existence for almost ten years before it was time for me to fly out of my comfortable nest. One day I went out to throw out chicken necks and there was no gator to throw them to. One of my neighbors was Ross Allen, who was a well-known herpetologist and he had been pressed by another of my neighbors, Bobbe Arnst, to rid our little hammock of the toothy threat. Ross Allen was the original Crocodile Dundee of the 40s, and he also had a penchant for alligator suitcases. With coils of heavy nylon rope and several rolls of duct tape, the alligator had been removed. Word had it that he was well over 17 feet long when he took a ride in the back of Allen's truck. I'd like to think he was relocated back to the Silver River, which we lived a scant few miles from, but the odds weren't in his favor. Alligators weren't on the endangered list back then.

Allen ended up buying property beside the old alligator pond, which he fenced in for protection, calling it a storm drain. He dug a new alligator pond and poured concrete, raising small alligators for his Ross Allen Reptile Institute attraction at Silver Springs. There were so many of them it looked like a miniature attraction all by itself. I visited them when I came back home, but never established any bond as I had with the old gator. Over time, and over additional pressure from new residents in our little hammock, those gators also disappeared. The pond was eventually filled in to make room for less threatening, and much less interesting, human development.

Dealing With The Cards We're Dealt

2009-02-07T17:43:00.000-08:00

I just read over an e-mail from my sister for the fifth time. It was one of her wonderfully worded missives that she likes to call a rant, and I like to call brilliance in typed form.

All three of we Branton women like to rant. It can be the slightest thing that can send us off like a bottle rocket on the Fourth of July. We all rant about different things, not the least of which are the general state of religion in the world, the link between male and female brain waves (if, indeed there is one) and how work sucks, depending on the day of the week, the time of the month and the overall mound of crap that we've had to sift through.

Today, I had to really go off on a rant at cashier station #13 at WalMart. It involved a coupon, a stubborn Customer Service Manager and my somewhat annoying adherence to my belief system, i.e. that principles count for much more than worldly wealth (although I would really like some of that worldly wealth right now).

Case in point: I had a manufacturer's coupon for $1.oo off a bag of dog food. It was, however, printed on paper that bore a Kroger grocery store logo. The coupon clearly stated that it was a coupon directly from the manufacturer, and that it would be honored anywhere, as long as the required product was purchased.

Well, according to the cashier, she would not accept it, as it had a logo from Kroger on it. I ask you, if you have a coupon that reads: Happy Valentine's Day, and you go to redeem that same coupon on St. Patrick's Day, would it change the coupon in any way? No. As long as it's from the manufacturer, it is not expired and you have made the required purchase, what difference does the paper it's printed on matter?

Long story short, I would not back down. I called the number on the receipt, which also got me the manager's name. I explained the situation, and he said I should come in and he would resolve it.

Resolve, he did. I got my wrinkled old dollar for my nice crisp manufacturer's coupon. Was it worth the half-hour of time I wasted on my explanations of why it should be redeemed and the hassle of trapsing back and forth from the parking lot to the customer service station inside the store? Yep. This wasn't about the money. It was about the principle of the thing.

So many people just back off. It's not worth it to bird-dog such a small matter to the ground. Oh, but with me, it is. As well it really should be with everyone. It's these small matters that need to be addressed and dealt with and conquered each and every time they occur. It's about knowing you're right and sticking to your guns.

I'd like to say that I managed to lock horns with the cashier, or that I was publicly vindicated by having won my windmill battle. It was a quiet defeat, with the store manager punching in a few keystrokes and handing me my dollar without so much as a smile or a courteous apology. It was almost as though I were personally sticking up said store manager with a Glock or forcing her to perform an illegal act that would result in her being incarcerated for several years.

It may have felt somewhat like a shallow victory, but by golly, it was a victory. Brenda Flynn=1, Sour and Matronly Customer Service Manager=0.

The Toilet Paper Roll Gene

2009-02-03T18:57:00.000-08:00

I'm convinced that there are certain people that are born with the innate knowledge of how to put a roll of toilet paper on the holder. People that don't have to to told how or when they should replace the roll. People that just do it automatically, like blinking or breathing.

Unfortunately, I happen to live in a household where those people don't exist.

Without fail, if the roll of toilet paper is empty, there will never be another one to replace it put on the roll. Oh, every now and then, there will be a fresh roll placed on top of the empty roll. But never will the empty roll be removed from it's holder.

Now, it's not rocket science. You push in one side, it springs loose, and you can then replace the empty roll with a fresh one. Doesn't matter which way the paper rolls, under or over. I'm not that picky (although I prefer the over method of replacement). It does, however, matter to me if there's no paper there when I need it. That drives me absolutely nuts.

But, then, I have come to the conclusion that it's not a matter of inconsideration. It's simply that there are humans that are born without the Toilet Paper Roll Gene. These people just don't know how to replace the roll. So, for those people, here's the Toilet Paper Course 101:

1. Push in one side of the paper bar. It springs loose.

2. Put the paper bar through the new roll of toilet paper.

3. Put the paper bar in one side of the holder. Push in. Put the other side in. It snaps in to place.

And there you go.

Sounds Gruesome, But We All Need A Bucket List

2009-01-30T17:14:00.000-08:00

Yes, the movie's on again, and I'm watching it for the fourth time. Not because I have a particular fascination for either Morgan Freeman or Jack Nicholson, but because I'm thoroughly convinced that when people reach the age of oh, half a century, they need to have their own personal Bucket Lists.

Life is way too short when you're on the downside of four decades and alarmingly short when you start sledding down the rocky cliff of fifty. I know now that there are some things I will never experience, some for the first time, and some never again. That's just plain sad. I mean, I know that I've been to London twice, but damn, I want to go back. Chances are pretty slim of that. I want to go to Morocco, but I can guarantee that is one place I will probably never get to see.

I've never been to Montana. I've heard the sunsets are purple there, and that is just too tempting. I want to actually fly overseas with one bag and buy everything I need as I go along – from second-hand stores. It's the thrill of the hunt.

I want to see Peru. Mainly because I've already been to Ecuador, and that was eye-opening. But now, I want to see more of the rain forest and because Peru is almost always in my crosswords every single week.

It's not that I've been sheltered. Heavens, I've been blessed enough to have been across the Pond a few times. I've accomplished many of the things that as a child, I wished for myself. For instance, I had always wanted a Land Cruiser, one of the old ones, like in the movie, "Emerald Fire," with Stewart Granger. There was a guy that I met when I was in college that owned one, and it was the absolute coolest thing. He had it painted like a zebra. His name was Chris Christensen, and he built large aquariums for places like Sea World. Well, he was cute enough, with his blue eyes and prematurely gray hair, but it was the vehicle I lusted after. I finally found one, in that wonderful yellow that screams Toyota Land Cruiser, and bought it. Loved it for years, and would still have it – except that the man I was married to didn't, so I left it at the Isuzu dealer and rode away in a new Rodeo. Broke my heart. Didn't take me long to realize I should have kept the vehicle after all, because we were divorced less than eight months later. Now, there's a life lesson.

I always wanted Scottish terriers, too, and rescued my first one over two decades ago. I've had a few over the years now, and still do. I had one in my life that will never be replaced in my heart. I think all dog people have that one dog at one point in their lives, the one that will never be replaced. But, I have some wonderful companions, and wouldn't trade them for the world.

I've been blessed to have had the job of my dreams - working with a newspaper as an artist. I held that position for 18 years, before I had the opportunity to work as a full-time artist. Lord, I sure miss the income and the health benefits, but the time has been invaluable. And, as it is painfully true, you can't buy time at the local department store, so you better wise up and use it to it's fullest extent.

And, I suppose, in closing, that's what we all need to do. We all need to list things that we haven't done, and make plans to do them. Write these things down and dream about them and talk about them and then make them happen. Even if it takes you to the end of your days.

What I Won't Do For Fresh Cilantro

2009-01-29T17:17:00.000-08:00

Okay, there's a lot I won't do for fresh cilantro.

But, what I would do is walk through knee-high snow for several blocks just to get it. And, by golly, I did.

It all started with this recipe I downloaded off the Betty Crocker Web site. It was for Moroccan Chicken with Olives. It just sounded so darned tasty, and I wanted a reason to cook couscous, which is all part of my "eat healthier" obsession. No, obsession is way too negative a term. How about "determined decision." Much better.

Anyway, the recipe called for a couple of things that even a rabid spice collector such as myself doesn't have on hand at any given moment, which happened to be cumin and fresh cilantro. Well, if I couldn't get fresh from the local grocery, I could certainly get dried, and that was better than nothing. Who cares if the whole county is in the middle of a severe winter storm watch, that there's two-foot snowbanks and three inches of ice on every sidewalk (if you can see the sidewalks) and this place has hills that rival San Francisco. And, who cares if I'm just about the most accident-prone female in the state? Danger be damned, I had to get fresh cilantro!

Both the Jeep and truck are pretty well tucked in with ice and snow, so walking was the best mode of transportation in my estimation. Besides, me driving in the snow is like a duck walking on an oil slick.

Now, I'm wearing long underwear, jeans, two pair of socks, snow boots, two shirts and a jacket. Oh yeah, and two pair of gloves. I couldn't feel a rifle bullet if it hit me. I wobble out the door, drop the keys (several times) and finally head down the road along the safest route (the least hills). It's longer, but it's got less chances for me to tumble down something slick and into the road, where someone would invariably hit me and dent their car.

The walk was a lot simpler than I thought it would be. It was actually pretty nice out, and although most of the sidewalks were totally buried. The city snowplows had really piled up huge banks of snow along the road curb, so it was almost impossible to walk on the roadside safely. So, I stomped through the sidewalk snow, and made it back home with my fresh cilantro in hand.

The recipe, in case you're wondering, turned out pretty good. I, of course, forgot the cumin, and my supply of kalamata olives was in short supply so I used a jar of black olive tampanade I had for those emergency olive cravings. But, everything else went like clockwork.

As much as I complain about not having a really good grocery nearby, I'm lucky that they carry my organic 2% milk and...of all things, fresh cilantro. A small miracle in this tiny town.

Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps

2009-01-24T16:55:00.000-08:00

For those of you post-hippie hippies, yippies, yuppies or, as the new generation calls it, "greenies," let this half-a-century old baby boomer let you in on a trade secret: Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap, specifically, the 18-in-1 Hemp Peppermint Pure Castile Soap Liquid Soap.

This stuff is the mystical, magical tour-de-force of the soap world. I've had a bottle of it sitting somewhere in my bathrooms for over 30 years. Didn't matter what apartment or house I lived in, or what state I found myself learning new roads in – Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Soap was there, right beside the ever-present Oil of Olay and the deep blue kohl eye makeup I've used ever since I was 17. Some things just don't change.

The labels are enough to make me smile, let alone the almost overpowering scent of peppermint. I'm not sure I've ever actually been able to read one entire label in a sitting (or standing, or washing). They've changed over the years, so there's always something new. It's like having a preacher serve you up a fire-and-brimstone sermon while you're scrubbing your feet. There are quotes from Abe Lincoln and Noah Webster and soapmaker Bronner preaching his ALL-ONE philosophy. You have to read it to believe it. You can almost hear Hari-Krishnas chanting and see George Harrison's image in the steam created by standing in the shower for the extra ten minutes it takes to get through one passage.

That's just the outside of the bottle. What's inside is a whole 'nother story.

I've used this stuff to wash generations of Scottie-dogs, and it cleans them like no dog shampoo ever has. I've used it to wash my hair and my skin, and especially like to use it as a foot soak (peppermint being a natural deodorant – and we could all use a nice, invigorating foot soak). I've used it as a dish soap in a pinch, though I wouldn't use it on a daily basis, cause it's pretty powerful. And, for the sake of your sanity, don't use it on anything faintly resembling a rash or any of your various private parts. I always take it when I travel, and I remember my step-son-in-law coming out of the bathroom smelling like peppermint, remarking about just how much it stings on certain parts of the male anatomy. Hey, I warned him. He won't mess with ol' Dr. Bronner's again.

Coupons For Fun and Profit

2009-01-14T05:31:00.000-08:00

I admit it. I love coupons. Always have.

Some people have to keep a bag of beans in their pantry, a safeguard against starvation should mass looting and rioting occur. Some even have boxes of leftover Y2K staples, just in case someone miscalculated the real date for the apocolypse. Well, I have a cigar box full of coupons.

Maybe they'll become the new currency someday, who knows. With the US three-trillion dollars into debt, something has to give. I seriously doubt we have three-trillion dollars in gold bars lying around in Ft.Knox, KY. Or wherever The Powers That Be keep all the collateral for their bank notes and foreign aid promises.

All I know is that when I take off for the grocery store with a fistful of bar-coded coupons, I feel empowered and ridiculously wealthy. I might spend $200 on store items, but by God, I get $13.56 off in coupons!

I'm signed up for the Coupon Cabin online. I scour the Sunday edition of the Lexington Herald for coupons. I'm even so anal that I tally up all my used and usable coupons at the end of the month to make sure that I've garnered enough cash from the weekly coupons to pay for the subscription. I mean, I know I'm addicted to doing the crossword six days a week now (and that's only because they don't publish my crossword on Sunday, the rats) and I'd most likely keep the subscription just for that, but the coupons are the ice cream on the cake.

I saw a new site for couponing on TV a couple of nights ago and of course, since I keep the laptop by the bedside, I immediately fired up the old' G4 and went to the site to sign up. A new coupon site for me is like a new Tom Robbins book – something I have to have the minute it hits the shelves or, in this case, the Web. Of course, the other four million coupon addicts were grabbing their laptops and trying to sign up at the same time, so I'll have to access it later, when the mass frenzy to obtain a 30-cent off coupon for Marie Callender's Turkey Pot Pies has calmed down. But I'll get there. You can be assured of that.

Kroger's, the local grocery store, sends out coupons via snail mail to me based on my previous purchases. They're exceptional coupons, and they make the drive in to Maysville, 20 miles away, more than worth the effort. I mean, really. A dollar off butter? I'm so there. Not to mention they double manufacturer's coupons up to 50-cents, which is an added incentive to go the extra mile(s).

I know, in the back of my frugal brain, that couponing can be a sickness of the mind. You can start buying things you wouldn't have in your house normally, and thus spend money on stuff you won't eat or use, negating the whole purpose of couponing. But those rebate coupons, you know, the ones that say, "Try this FOR FREE!" – well, I snap them up every time. And I dutifully send them in, and in six or seven weeks, get my $3.99 back and I feel vindicated. I like to look at those coupon rebates as an investment. In the end, I get a free product (that I may or may not like) and still get my money back. Last time I bought a rebate product, it was the new Arm & Hammer Multi-Surface Degreaser, that you fill with water, their attached vial of lemon oil and magic, and you have a full container of cleaner. I got my money back on that one already, bought two refills (with the accompanying $1.00 off coupon) and still have over half of the product left (and two refills) for less that $1.50. How do these companies stay in business? And, the darned stuff works like a grateful employee with two kids to feed, plus it's a non-chemical alternative to other cleansers, which I'm trying hard to stay away from.

There are some folks that deem coupons to be a waste of time and effort, not worth the trouble of cutting out with scissors and throwing in a box. Some are embarassed to present their coupons, for fear that someone in back of them in the check-out line will think they (insert gasp here) NEED to use coupons. I say, balderdash. Too bad for them (she says, as she clutches her check-out receipt which shows a combined savings of $32.90 from store specials and beloved coupons).

Introspection Ain't All It's Cracked Up To Be

2009-01-04T03:15:00.000-08:00

Blogging is cathartic, and everyone knows that. Anyone who can put a sentence together (and some who can't) who starts (and continues – aye, there's the rub!) a blog usually has something to say that they just can't seem to say during the course of normal conversation (i.e. verbal communication). It's funny, but to a writer of any merit, it becomes increasingly difficult to verbalize what is so easy to type on a keyboard (or write out longhand, as some writing purists claim is the only way to effectively create true philosophy). As my writing skills are certainly subject to occasional raised eyebrows by those people whose sole joy in life is to find misplaced commas, I don't claim to be the best at any attempt to write, whether it be poetry, novels or, in this case, blogging. But, I have noticed that blogging takes a certain amount of mental stair climbing to the top of the cranial cavity to find inspiration to write. Which, of course, means that sometimes those carefully sealed boxes marked Do Not Open While Drinking A Glass Of Wine have to be dragged to the forefront and dealt with. Normally, you'd never talk to anyone about some of the things you'd happily jot down in a diary (or, as the new generations call it, "journal"). You can pour out all your emotions on paper, twist the words into mysteries and romance novels and heart-wrenching prose, but never in a million years would you say the things you write out loud.

Blogging requires a certain amount of introspection, and there are times when that's good and times when that can be quite disconcerting. My blogging time is usually reserved for early dawn, before the brain has time to shake off the raw innocence of sleep, before the suit of emotional armor has been laboriously donned for the day ahead. And, because of this, the thoughts that ensue from the mind to the keyboard can be eye-opening. You can learn a lot about yourself from the subject matter that you find compelled to blog about. You start to see developing patterns of thought pour out. You learn your pet peeves, your egotistical needs and your fears as you read your previous posts. Psychologists must have a field day reading some posts.

Blogging can strengthen your natural ability to write, but weakens your natural ability to be social. Having said that, what I mean is that you relieve yourself of the need to run with the pack. Blogging can update friends and family on what's going on in your world, but it dilutes your need to see them or to call them or even to send them individualized e-mails or letters. Blogging has become the Xeroxed Christmas Letter that some people still send at the end of the year, which is paper-shredder fodder for me.

In defense of blogging, it does publish to anyone who wants to read it, your ideas and concerns, your rants and raves, your place in the world. It opens the possibility of conversation and discussion. Blogging is recommended for mental acuity and as an exercise in discipline. Blogging allows you to share photographs, comments and experiences. Blogging is green, saves paper and time. Blogging is free. Blogging is universal, international and insightful. Blogging is the short story of a life, the new novel of the 21st Century.

Collecting Stuff

2008-12-26T07:46:00.000-08:00

For those people who know me, they already have me pegged as a certified pack rat. Just throwing away one egg carton or that bit of twine a package was wrapped with causes me to stare at it for a full minute. I think about A) what could I do with this and B) where could I store it where I could find it again.

I've gotten better over the years, but I still have random postcards and calendars from five years ago that I just can't seem to throw in the trash. Believe me, in some areas of my life, I may need intervention someday.

I love paper. All kinds of paper. I collect stamps off envelopes, rifle through postcards at flea markets and antique stores and simply cannot resist an old photo album in a thrift store. I have cards of old buttons, milk caps from dairies and advertising cards from the 1800s. I have street maps from early 1900s St. Louis and Chicago and steamship sailing notices from 1910. I have a lovely English-to-Spanish dictionary from 1943 ("Where is the commode, por favor?) and almost a full 52-state "Welcome To" collection of postcards. It's a sickness.

I think of myself as a small curator of times gone by. Collecting little mementoes of past eras. Everybody's got a junk drawer. Mine just happens to be 7,200 square feet.

I Said Goodbye To Paris Today

2008-12-20T16:59:00.000-08:00

It may sound overly dramatic to some, but it's no less than a double dose of dramatic for me to say a fond farewell to a city I've only seen once, and for a short time at that.

We stopped in long enough to see most of the Louvre (well, the parts that mattered to us at the time), walk by the infamous Shakespeare Book Store and spy the Notre Dame Cathedral from the other side of the Seine. Everything that Paris is became clear to me, and I wanted to stay for weeks, just to shoot photos and eat and walk around where damn near every artist I admire walked, too.

I think about Paris a lot. I know it's a dirty city, and it has some rude residents. But there's just something gilded about it, a dark rubbed antique gold patina. I have a habit of visiting local grocery stories to get food rather than always depend on a restaurant to produce culinary delights, and I bought the most extraordinary pasta salad, fresh-squeezed orange juice and a really yummy sugared croissant, for less than four Euro. But, my most happy memory was ducking into one of those pharmacies (you know, they have the green crosses?) and buying a lovely bottle of lavender bath oil, so I could soak in the little pink bathtub in the hotel LeFleur, in Montmartre. It was made by Weleda, and it was magnificent.

Well, two years later, I've finally used the last of it. I savored it, only using it on my days of depression or when I felt a special night coming up.

So, as I shook the last drop out of the purple bottle, I bid farewell to the last of my tangible reminders of the day I ventured out into the streets of a very busy city alone and exhilarated by the sheer enormity of the Parisian world.

I'm sure I can find the same oil somewhere else – the Internet even. But, that was a special bottle of the smelly stuff, and it'll never be the same.

Adieu, little purple bottle.

Oh, heck, let's talk about the weather...

2008-12-19T16:07:00.000-08:00

Today the weather here in Kentucky was 72 degrees and sunny, although pretty windy. It's Friday. Now, Tuesday morning, I woke up to four inches of snow.

I thought living my whole life in Florida, the weather there was a little odd from time to time. You know, rain (torrential) and then ten minutes later, the sun was out, hotter than a cast iron skillet in Auntie Pearl's kitchen. But, the weather here really does take the cake.

I've discovered long underwear, something that isn't even sold, to my knowledge, in the state of Florida. In fact, I wear three shirts, long underwear and jeans. Two - count them, two - pairs of socks and what I adoringly refer to as my "snow-shoes," which are really sort of short Wellingtons with laces. We keep the building at 62 degrees, because of the high heating bills. So, between the Blessed Electric Blanket and my long underwear, I'm doing good.

I haven't landed yet, so I may yet live somewhere else. Chances are, I'll be back in Florida anyway. Somewhere coastal, so I have that beloved wind.

So, I'm A Grouch This Christmas.

2008-12-15T15:43:00.000-08:00

It's a scant few days away from one of the biggest holidays in the whole year, and I have yet to get that elusive Christmas spirit. I had a couple of hours or two during the last week that I actually started humming a catchy tune, but it disappeared pretty quickly.

Maybe it's my age, and the fact that the nearest small children in my family are five states away. Maybe it's because I'm unemployed and broke, and it's getting tougher and tougher not to call in my cards as a self-employed artist and start working as a Wal-Mart greeter (at least that company isn't filing for bankruptcy).

Maybe it's because I'm just totally and increasingly unhappy in my personal life. I mean, I can't stay positive 24/7 anymore.

I'd like to enjoy the lights on the houses, and the trees I spy in the windows of strangers' houses as I walk my dogs every night. I smile at these people who wear red and green and lots of cute Christmas pins on their winter jackets.

I'm not a grinch. I've bought stocking stuffers for everyone on my gift list, and enjoyed doing it. I just feel like I'm missing something.

Something intrinsic. Something vitally important.

Something that's missing from my heart or my soul or my brain.

And I'm tired of watching Lifetime on TV trying to understand what in the hell it is that I'm not g-e-t-t-i-n-g.

And I'm tired of hearing people preach to me that it's "not about the gifts," and it's "not about the commercialism," and it's "not about this and that."

We all try to get together with our families (and extended families) any time we can, both financially and distance-wise, so why is this time of the year so important? Because Christmas is all about family? Hell, Easter is about family. Thanksgiving is about family. Birthdays are about family. What is it about Christmas that makes it so grieviously devastating if you cannot be "with the ones you love." Because, Christmas is about families.

Well, I personally agree with those families that find places to get away from other families by taking a cruise for that particular week. Or, if you're from a tropical climate, you go where the snow makes you have some sort of wintery feeling, while you're snuggled in a nice, cozy lodge, surrounded by aspens and cups of warm Irish cream. Lots of Irish cream. What trees?

I'm so ready to be somewhere else at Christmas. Maybe that can cure me of this holiday mildew, this Christmas cancer. I've been in Ireland on Halloween and it really opened my eyes to the true meaning of the holiday (although there are some who think that Halloween is evil and satanic, it most certainly is not). I saw the darned cutest little kids with homemade costumes (not a Hannah Montana or a Superman in the bunch - rather, begger-mans, scarecrows and one little angel dressed as a "scullery-maid.") They plowed in to the pub my husband and I were eating a hearty Shephard's Pie in, and asked us very politely for a coin or two. Now, this was a pretty remote area of Ireland, a coastal village, and truly these kids must have either been carted in from one of the rural farms, or walked a great long distance in the dark to get there, so I felt they certainly deserved a Euro or two. Everyone who had a home had lit pumpkins (no carved faces, just holes - a real candles). Very mystical.

Perhaps I should try to get to London one year, where they still decorate all the windows with snow scenes, and have carrolling in the streets. Or perhaps visit colonial Williamsburg. Somewhere other than couches of relatives, with predictable "remember when" stories in which I wasn't present or celebrating traditions established by some other previous spouse.

I used to love Christmas. Just not so much anymore.

2008-12-07T10:18:00.000-08:00

I'm laboring under the assumption that most bloggers have some sort of dedicated brain cell that allows them to remember to blog at least once a day, or at the very least, once a week.

I'm flawed. I have no blogger brain cells. But, I've been fascinated by blogs for, like, ever. I read them and wonder how they do that, these marvels of the technological temperance. I mean, do they actually look at a clock and say,"Oh, time to post!" or "Oh, must write down a word or two of remarkably well-placed wisdom!"?

Dunno. There's a girl I know that has an exceptional blog. It's always up-to-date and has lots of photos and everything. Me? I've started at least three that I know of, and they're probably still out there in cyberspace, floating around and mucking up the breathing room for everyone else who has a legitimate blog. Hell, I'm on Flixster and FaceBook and MySpace, too, but do I ever check those sites. Rarely, as in "uh...no."

But, I've made that ever-present resolution in my brain to do a much better job on this one. I'm determined to blog, come Hell or high water. What I might have to say is dubious. Every now and then I might have something to say that would evoke thought from someone else, or I might post a photo or two, and maybe a recipe for something cool, like bath fizzies or an incredibly tasty pork roast. We'll see.