feast or famine

Sorry for the days without posts. For some it may be nothing at all, not even noticed. For others, it may bring up abandonment issues. Truth be told, I just had to go back to work in the coal mines.

I am still on a Downton Abbey binge fest. Only now I have hooked my husband. We watch on my iPad at night before bed. He is not a glutton so two episodes are the most we watch at a time. I called the Principal at work “milord” yesterday, partly in fun, and partly because I do identify with the kitchen staff. Admin generally see faculty as dispensable as servants.

There was something I was wondering about and finding rather confounding. I cannot remember now; maybe it will come to me as I write.

How about the incredibly gross commercials on TV aired at dinnertime? People across the continent, young and old, have to hear about vaginal atrophy, erectile dysfunction, and the like. I don’t know what is worse, the condition, or the often life-threatening side effects for the medications. I cannot imagine growing up eating supper with such explicit references to uncontrollable bodily fluids. If we were lucky enough some nights to not have to eat at the table, it was time for a Swanson TV dinner, always the fried chicken. If my mother overcooked it, and that was not unusual at all, the browned chicken crust would stick to the aluminum tray. I can still taste it. Now my grandchildren are subjected to overactive bladders and Depends.

They are discovering that there are some additives to fast food that create addiction. No duh. I used to shake like a alkie with DTs when my mom was late with our cheeseburgers from McDonalds. The fries cause serious dependency.

I will post a little jpeg once in a while of pictures I am working on for a book. The photos are of my dogs and their magical ability to enter the paintings they love. I am looking forward to writing the stories they tell when they exit the artwork.

If I think of that thing I was going to tell you, I will need to make a note. I am fearful of the day when I forget where I have parked my car.


Happy Birthday to me. At 8:52am I turn 65. I am a senior citizen. I can get Medicare. I am retirement age. All of those facts could depress the bejeezus out of me, were I not so happy.

I have nothing but gratitude to the Graces for my life and good fortune. Not material fortune, mind you; my credit score bites. My family, friends, students, and photography bring me vast joy.

My husband and I have the honor of caring for our two doggos, Mango and Blue. They are siblings but oh, so different. Mango, the female, is alpha, and reacts more aggressively to everything. Blue is a slow poke, physically as malleable as putty, double jointed, and has a jealous streak. They are Jack Russell mixes and are rescues.

They have become my furry muses when neither my camera nor I can bear to brave the bitter winter winds.

I photograph them and invent stories about them. I will share one of a series I am working on. They possess a magical ability to enter works of art and return, telling wondrous tales. Here is the most recent image, called Blue and Mr Rothko Get on Famously and Discuss Friedrich Nietzsche and Things.

I will work on these images with the intention of writing and publishing a small book. I have gone so far as to purchase the ISBN and rights to an eBook. Such is the plan.

BlueupsidedownMoving2 copy

For those of you who may think I hate digital photos, you are wrong, wrong, wrong. I even like taking pictures with my iPad Air. Any and all ways of making pictures are swell.

Eve Day

I am compelled to address the Humbug Factor that has grown in me. On examination I don’t think I buy Jesus as God. My husband and I talked about this in the car on the way to my Dad’s house the other day and we both agreed it’s pushing it to expect us to believe what appears just plain loco. I am part Jewish, I have discovered, so the Catholic brainwashing I endured has retreated into the cultural-learned-behavior region of my consciousness. (Blood is blood, after all.) There are other reasons, though.

One: I just can’t go for the Immaculate Conception (what? even a pregnant teen is smarter than to use that or the toilet seat as an excuse).  Two: there’s the Son of God made Man. Would the God I DO believe in, the Prime Mover, the Source of all Energy and Life, really do that to his kid? And, three: I think that all the lights, presents, and Santa constitute an ancient, really twisted, albeit extremely attractive, Ponzi scheme.

I do not intend to insult anyone who does believe in Xmas (that X is NOT a cross, btw; it is an X, a sign to me that there are others out there with me who might be hesitant to alienate the righteous and oft-reactive majority). In here, you don’t have to feel shunned just because you don’t buy the party line. As I wrote a friend in my hyperbolic fashion, my neighbors are lucky I don’t etch a pentacle into the vinyl siding and light that fucker up.

Anyway, I believe that we should all try to be as nice as our pets. That is the goal, not just for this season, but for every day. Under these guidelines, the worst you will do is eat a shoe.

With that, I will go the couch, give Mango and Blue a couple of treaties for being so wonderful, and wish you all a nice week.