This is my wonderful neighbor Ruth, and her beautiful Thoroughbred horse, 'Bea', short for Beatrice, which was also my mothers' name. A comical coincidence because I was actually home the Thanksgiving when my Mother and her friend Rose were bending over the hot oven side by side, when Roses' husband Ben mumbled philosophically, staring at their bottoms, "Kinda reminds me of the horses that pulled the big seltzer wagons in NY when I was a kid".

Well pandamonium broke out in the tiny little kitchen, and he headed for the hills, with Rose in hot pursuit. They did have sizeable back ends but for some reason they were ignored. I don't think until that moment did I know my mother was 'fat'. Or that Rose was either. It was an awful awakening.

An Artists' Life

Peas aren't vegetables. I just read that on Maggies' Chronicle, a wonderful blog that her mama Miriam is keeping to record her life and days as she grows. She is 6 months old, and a very engaging, adorable, and happy baby. She has the most awesome smile, and is very easy to entertain. You know, she has told you, you know Maggie, or I have mentioned this. Well back to peas.

When I read that peas aren't vegetable, something started to set me off into a giggling fit. What are they? Tiny little apples? Balls of green pudding? Cute goo, meant only to be spread around babys' face, and not eaten at all... I know that our very smart and perfectly correct Leah Miriam was referring to the fact - I think - that green peas are legumes. Like garbanzo beans. Which probably aren't even beans. Aren't they all healthy anyway?

My favorite photographs of babies are the ones where they are covered with food from their first meals. There is an old photo of my nephew Todd looking like he was baked inside of his first birthday cake, and then popped out of it! The cake was presented to him - while he was sitting in his high chair. And he just tipped his head over and went face first right into it and started eating. I was horrified, because I wanted to eat some cake too - but not covered with essence of baby DNA, etc. Babies have a few things to learn that are quite difficult to teach. Tying shoes come to your mind? Well blowing noses comes to my mind. And a drippy nosed baby smiling up from a frosted cake is adorable. But not appetizing. Oh I wish we could have all stayed in the same town, and raised Todd, Amy, and Rebecca as first cousins.

They will always be first cousins and first in July and then in August, my nephew Todd will become a daddy and my niece
Amy a mom. Todd is having a son named 'Jack', I like that name, and Amy is having a daughter, whose name is unknown to me. I am thinking of making each of them little blankets for their strollers... that shouldn't be too hard, because I haven't sewn in so very long. I wish they could bring these little babies to RI to meet their 2nd cousins, because it is lots easier to travel with infants than to travel with toddler twins. I just intuit this to be true. What could we possibly do to entice them to come and visit?

An Artists' Life

A rattling self off-turning laptop is what I have today. I called the Mac hopsital, and they said, no big deal, last night I just over-heated it but I don't know, it is making very weak and wierd sounds. Like a buzzing bee that doesn't know enough to stop buzzing... If the display goes black again, it will be time to chop off my head.

I have made a mistake here, and just will apologize to all - backward, and unfortunately, if I do it ever again - forwards - in time. I shouldn't ask for comments and then make comments on the comments. My intention was to learn from the comments, but I can do that quietly too.

I've also been told that my blog seems so 'honest'. Well, this is a blog, a wb-log, which I look upon as one of creating a 21st century diary. I see no reason to be a dishonest diarist, as I am writing to myself. There are certain general matters of taste, punctuation, etc, that I can accept guidance on, but the rest, well, perhaps is not truly ready for prime time publication. If it happens that more than a few of you - there are 8 of you who've been invited to read this - find it bothersome, please stop reading. I don't mind, and don't like that thought of upsetting anyone. That wasn't ever my intention. I also don't want to sit down to write and feel self - conscious because that is why I write. So I do express myself and stumble upon hidden turds of knoledge which are/have been impeding my growth as a human being.

Stevie got me a new battery for my watch today and I feel so happy to be able to just look down to see the time again. It was broken for months, because I was afraid it couldn't be anything as simple as a battery. He also copied my newly made-up exercise chart, four times, so I can see how it works for a month. The page is set up to cover my five basice exercise groups, the repetitions or time I spent doing them, and any other comments I have.

I loved working with my Physical Therapist (PT). She encouraged me in ways no one else has in years. She told when she was leaving that I had a very young body for my age! and I needed to keep exercising to keep my body fit. Well roll me over. I feel so great about myself for a change, after all these months of not hearing one positive word from her about my progress. She is a tough cookie. She spent some time showing me some car tips, and we are done. Now it is into the pool, and learn some more exercises there. I feel like a cross between Charles Atlas and Ethel Merman.

An Artists' Life

Last time Rebecca, Nathaniel, Esme and Baya were here, they were almost gone before I realized that we hadn't taken any pictures. So when Bayas' eyelashes caught my attention, I quickly passed the camera to Poobah to take the shot; I was too close and kept getting the red 'shaky hand' warning.

An Artists' Life

OK, the laptop isn't doing anything. It is making bad noises, but has a black screen and is sort of growling and I find it very scary. So scary I can't explain it. When did I last back up my files? It wasn't yesterday. And what about the 1,240 + photos stored in iPhoto along with about 30 movies. I am just learning to use that function and now that Baya and Esme are walking, it is so much fun to follow them and film them doing nearly anything.

But is my laptop dead? I can't even think it might be, it makes me too sick to even imagine such a thing. Way too sick. It is two years old, barely, and has been handled with care. What can be wrong, and what is that noise? And why won't it let me turn it off? What is that about? So many questions, and absolutely no answers. Poor tiny little 12" laptop.

I thought it would be perfect, in every way possible. Naturally, it is way too small, and I have to scroll things in every which way to read them. So annoying. But other than that, very wonderful, and I even bought some fun games to play on it. Well excuse me, I am the giant toddler, if you recall...

Oh, I was reading comments, and I also started laughing and thinking, aha! A good time to decide, do I allow my readers' tastes to guide me, or do I just continue to spill my guts? It's an interesting issue, isn't it? I wouldn't want to offend anyone, and so tried to write in an inoffensive manner. But apparently still managed to offend.

Well here's the compromise as I see it. Maxx has stopped 'making' in the house. Yippee! We talked it over, and he agreed to not get senile before I get strong enough to carry him. Next, seeing as how I only get pap smears about every ten years, my audience won't have many of those adventures to endure. How's that? And although I do chaff at the 'taste police' having ticketed me so soon, that particular taste police-person I trust with my life, would, could, have, and do. So therefore, the angst. The original premise with which I began my first sentence was an honest sharing of a boring life. In such a way as to bring humor and insight into my life and times to those who read it. Who might find it interesting. Dog doo, Pap smears, the daily grind and all.

Well here is the thing. I unplugged Pickles - the name of my hard drive. Nathaniel started me out on this personal friendly naming of hard drives. The iMac is named Febe, and pronounce Fee-bee. That was very sweet, since the iMac also was a very sweet gift. Well back to the laptop. I unplugged that growling little bug, with the black monitor. I came back a few hours later, and guess what? Well, I am writing this post on it, for instance.

In order not to push my luck, I will just add on the really funny picture of Poobah and Esme; she is eating 'Puffs', a mysterious toddler food which she adores. She was caught by nanas' camera with her eyes closed, savoring the yummy puff flavor, and there is simply no explanation for Poobah. I did suggest he not come forward towards the camera in future shots though! It is our funniest picture of the year.

OK once again I was going to quit messing around here and get to doing something useful. Well, more useful, and then Lori sent me this wonderful photograph that she created in Photoshop, of her and Jared, and I thought, well I am posting that, and then I am done for now, for good and for sure. But it is wonderful, isn't it? And won't she be surprised to find it her? No, I don't think so, since I did mention something about putting up some photos on the blog... So enough words; I am going off in search of food, and dogs to play with. Maybe even see if Stevie left me part of the NY Times Crossword puzzle to mess with. Now that's useful, no?

Here is a blurry photograph of the first beaded safety pin bracelet I made for Rebecca. If she likes it. There is a lot of pink in it, although I notice since the twins have been born that very dark pink has shown up in her wardrobe here and there. Or was that another of my hallucinations? I prefer that to brain farts or other references to my advancing age. I do admit it is coming on, but believe me, I know when I am 77, I will look back upon being 57 and thinking myself old at all will be a joke. It has worked this way before...

Back to the age thing for a bit, Nathaniel told me I dressed like a giant toddler, to which I could only respond, guilty as charged. If you look in my wardrobe, you will find either overalls or blue jeans for the bottom coverage, and any colors from pink, lavender, lilac, orange, yellows, greens, blues, to turquoise, all glowing away in rainbow order, for the tops. All 100% cotton and machine washable, please. My clothes are arranged by color - and almost all are free of any decoration. Or maybe too by how long they are, in terms of hitting the floor. So all the jeans are folded over those fat plastic hangers so as not to give them creases 1/2 down the legs, and ditto the overalls. Stevie figured out how to hang those up - I used to try to hang them from their straps which was difficult, to say the least. And at the very end is my little black dress.

There, I live in a forest, but I do have one little black dress, and one pair of shoes to wear with it, and even stockings and a slip. I can get decked out in about an hour and a half or so, right down to the pink stretch rhinestone bracelet that I wear with it. I have only worn it once, and Nathaniel and Rebecca happened to be here, and there were lots of whistles and 'woohoos' and other sounds of approval from my dear family. They hadn't seen me dressed up Since Miriam & Matts' wedding, but never dressed to go out to a cocktail party with Stevie at night. What a thrill for all of us! Even Maxx barked at me, didn't know what to make of me looking or smelling like that.

Staying on one subject is a huge challenge for me. It is part of the bipolar brain. Try as I will, sometimes I divert, and off I go in a newe direction, so I expect only the most devoted of readers to bother with these thoughts and observations. I write for myself, my family, my friends... I write mostly to learn. It is the process that helps me learn to keep focused, such as it is and also, a log of snippets of my life for those of you I've invited to read it. I find life to be hilarious and tragic, a situation not uncommon to many.

So Rebecca, can you see enough of the blurry safety pin bracelet to tell if you like it? It is nice and small, for your delicate frame, I know, I measured it on my delicate frame. Logical, you see. And I learned the number of pins to use for a generic size small. I know the number for a size medium, and that allows me to calculate the number for a size large. If you're interested, and want to make one for yourself, let me know and I'll put up directions. Harder to explain than make.

Big news of the morning? 6:30AM the huge English Setter around the corner was off leash as usual, and his person was running with her baby in the jogging carriage, when the dog lunged for Maxx! Thank the good Lord that Stevie was fast and scooped poor terrified Maxx up just as the setter was at him... if the setter had pinned Maxx, we can't imagine what would have happened, because he was wearing an Elizabethan collar to keep him from getting at some problem of his own; so it would have helped pin Maxx out of sight, nearly, and the consequences aren't worth considering.

She was terribly apologetic and Stevie, quite forgiving as always. Me, I am infuriated. Poor Maxie boy is, as I have said, 10 1/2 years old, far too old to be terrorized by a crazy off leash enormous - to Maxx - setter. it is against the law to allow your dogs off leash in our town. A man on this very road was mauled by a dog. 'Nuf said, I am all shook up, but really, I wish people would at least be good enough neighbors to leash up their hounds!!!

'Gas Is High' deserves a better explanation. Cousin Sherry has written so many songs in the last nine years or so that I have lost count. If I went and counted the jewel boxes of both homemade and then semi-professional, and at last one professionally mastered CD, I would have something like two dozen. Each saved and guarded for posterity, and because each is a gift from my dear cousin.

A little more about the CD cover. John Askins - who is a friend like an adopted family member - actually created the artwork of the gas pump. My beloved son-in-law Nathaniel Ginsburg created the rest of the CD presentation - the lettering, and format. I call myself the art director for taking Sherrys' concept and pawning the work off on John and Nathaniel, knowing both have skills to do this really professional job. I don't, by the way. Not putting myself down, don't worry, I go by 'artist', I just have different kinds of skills. So after reading what I had written rather late at night - ignore the 'post times' given, they are all incorrect. I usually write around ten or eleven PM - I realized it made little sense. But if I were to attempt to delete any part of the story, I would lose the picture, which took me all too long to upload. (Operator problems, and a HUGE file).

My thought is to upload the same image - of the CD cover - in case this post covers the other one. I have so many duplicate images by mistake, here is an intentional one...

In way of an insert of history here, Sherrys' mother and my mother were sisters. They were even more than sisters, they were best friends by the time we knew them, and had some very -to us- precious oddities. We respected those or were known to run for our lives, in a manner of speaking, all in great good humor. Because these were silly things, based on the fact that my Aunt Marion and Uncle Jerry, along with Sherry and her older sister Lynn - another entry or two of her very own if we are discussing special - spent close to every weekend with us during our early childhood. And in the summers, we added in our Aunt Mollies' & her kids, not as 'regulars', and rented a falling down cottage at the CT shoreline, where we had the time of our lives. My long in the future hubby turned out to be at a camp down the road, by way of 'it's a small world'...

Not all of our activities met with parental approval. My yearly snail collection generally was discovered by the 'snail police' after I had forgotten to 'water it'. P.U. Made the whole cottage stink for days. Better, we all were fine with the fathers, who only showed up on the weekends. We walked down the dirt road, as close to the main road as allowed, and waited and watched for them. OH OH OH - they are here. They stop and pick us up. Do they take us back to the cottage filled with mothers? No, they take us for fried clams, oh we adore the daddies/fathers so much. Our mothers wouldn't dream of filling us up with such trash.

But here again, I have wandered. You have to know this, it is so funny. We had tired mommies who wanted to sleep in. They were on their sort of vacation and we were on ours, which began at about five in the morning. The few hours until, say about eight AM when they came to their senses was eternity. And there were strict rules. Which were broken all the time, and not exactly on purpose, but if they happened to be awake anyway... Rule 1. Don't wake us up. Rule 2. Don't talk to us until we've had a cup of coffee, and a cigarette, which sent us gagging and running anyway. Rule 3. No nagging about getting to the beach, or no going to the beach.

Best thing is, I can still smell the ocean, and remember my mother telling me where to sprinkle her with my little watering can to cool her off. I'd run back and forth to the water, and fill the can up, taking forever, because I was afraid to go out in the 'deep' water where I could just submerge the can to fill it. Nope, I just waited for each wave to fill it a bit more. By the time I got back to my poor mother, she would need two more watering cans - hey, I just realized this very moment that she was keeping me busy so she could chat it up with my Aunt(s) in private!!! That isn't fair. And if I was in earshot, they would just change to another language, Yiddish. Oh, they had so many ways of keeping secrets from me. And I for some reason was always so curious about their conversations. Are all kids? I shall ask my granddaughters when they are older.

My mother also let me bury parts of her in the sand, is another thing that I just remembered, and what I remember most is this: it took me forever to bury her. She lay right down with a towel under her head and I used a little trowel and pail and dumped and patted and patted and dumped until she was a nice mound of sand with a face sticking out. She smiled at me, and said: OK, I have to go in now, and she got right up, as soon as I finished, with mountains and buckets of sand everywhere. She was nice, she loved those summers. We had a little pull chain shower outside, so no one had to track sand into the cottage, which was highly frowned upon. But thinking back, even harder, this is thinking back 50 years - I don't know, I also remember sitting on the front steps trying to get all the sand off of my feet. Esme and I both have that issue with sand. Yucky.

Well hey, there were no mothers' helpers. I don't even think they existed for people like us. I know we - as in my brother and I - had a babysitter one time - and we were so naughty, that was it. I remember, we jumped on my brothers' bed until it fell to pieces, as far as we could tell. We couldn't fix it at all, and that babysitter sang like a stuck pig when our parents came home. Oh boy, the tongue lashing alone was enough to set us back emotionally several stages. But we survived, we always do. And we only did the bed jumping thing one more time. The second time the punishment was nothing other than a look of disgust. As in, maybe we should sleep outside in the barn, but there was no barn.

An Artists' Life

OK Here it is: Cousin Sherry has written a great and funny new song, and well, yes, it does state the obvious, but doesn't all music? Love, loss, comings, goings. No matter what, John is waiting to see the upload, so here we go. And Nathaniel, I think what you did with the gas pump is wonderful and amazing. And to back up further, thanks from the bottom of my heart to John for doing that great old depression era gas pump in the first place. Oh friends and family are the best...

This is the longest day ever. I am trying to keep awake by drinking a Dr. Pepper, and I am too tired to pick the glass up. Way too heavy. I think i will look around for a photograph of the last light left on when I head off for bed every evening. It look like a fish tank, but is nothing more than a tacky old lamp which I treasure, a gift which has kept on giving. Now Baya and Esme are fascinated by it, and think they are real fish. I think that is so sad, I have bought a real, albeit quite small fish bowl, to buy a genuine fish. Rebecca assures me it must be kept out of their reach, though. Or might become a land lubber. Hm...

So how did I come to grow so tired? For one thing, I finished all the beaded safety pins for my next bracelet. Now that was a lot of work to do in one day, and I want to assemble it too, but won't allow myself the craziness of giving in to such urges. Tomorrow is another day. And my back is tired too. This means Stop, in capital letters. For me, who never did know when to stop, this is a whole new way to operate in the studio. With the ability to stop. As I must, and will. I want to get up early tomorrow and see what is up with David down at Autex; maybe we can do something about the 350Z soon and get out from under it.

OK, probably time for a new paragraph, Rebecca invited me down for the weekend, and I do want to go desperately. But can't leave Stevie here in the middle of everything, with so much hanging on his head. I am so afraid of just how much stress us old folks can tolerate... so I will wait until the Z is sold and the house is closed on, and we are back right side up again financially, where we belong. Poor S has worked as hard as anyone I know, most of his entire career, and now that he isn't able to, the government figures that out in an instant and comes snarling after him like a wolf pack. Let me say 'us' as we both sign the same taxes.

What I am saying is this: if possible, never run out of money, or you could be just hours from living on the streets. It happened to me once, and it amazed me that first night. Too painful to dwell upon, and why bother?

Another day of lost posts and pictures and so forth. And oh boy I won't tell the rest if you tortured me with anything at all. Not even death by chocolate could force my reality out of me. And so I am an artist. Bye-bye world. Now a lot of artists are realistic in their work, and I used to be, but I can see realism all around me, and it is hard to deal with, often.

My goal in art is to entertain myself. While I am working something takes me from the world of worries and mundane cares, and I just flow into the making of art. Or whatever I am making. It's a really good thing for me, and I like making things that people enjoy. So here is a worktray in progress, and a close-up of safety pins with beads on them. I am making those into bracelets, an 1980's revival which I am hoping to start double handedly with the interest of Miriam. She works fast, I must say, and is interested too.

The missing bead tray? Deterimined, the crazy nana tries and tries. The mystery among other? why does she bother?

An Artists' Life


This is a work tray; sometimes when I can't begin to get started working, I stare at the beads for a while with my eyes sort of squinted, and move the little cups of color around. It helps me a lot. Many people think my work tray is nicer than my work.

I left a dangling paragraph way back, but before I return to continue my wish list of places I miss going: the ocean, Monhegan Island especially - now stop that - but before I continue this list, I wanted to comment on two photos. Scroll down past the encased vignette and you'll find me. I want that photo over on the right, permanently sitting where the template showed me I could put it. However, I don't yet have the skills to do it. I have come oh so close, but not close enough.

Next thing is about the encased vignette. Or that is what I call them. I have made about five of them, and then during an unfortunate bout of illness, destroyed all but one. This is the remaining one, and needs a replacement lamp. I was told that the lamp would last forever, so forever turns out to be judicious use over about 3 years. Kind of annoying, as I really sealed that baby up, and haven't quite decided how to reach the fixture. Oh boy, I backed myself into the corner with this thing. Or should say, built myself into the corner.

My friend Stanley appeared for a visit while I was hand-cutting window holes in the front facade of the piece and was very concerned. I was tired and messy, and he asked when I planned on stopping. I told him that was a big problem for me, stopping before such things were done. I try to control the work and not let it control me, but I get so absorbed in it, well, I forget all about time...

There is an entire story inside this box, which you can't really see. There is a very tiny two story farm house, which I made, as well as a corner cupboard, which holds a few knick-knacks. There is a Queen Anne armed chair, with the legs removed, and an Alice in Wonderland, not like the teeny one outside the box. She is a different Alice, with loads of curls and a beguiling look on her sweet face. Her costume lets us know right away who she is. But no matter who she is, she isn't allowed to sit on the lovely chair, and must sit forever on the floor.

Meanwhile, there is Pinocchio in a tiny bird cage, which I also made, and he looks cramped and unhappy. Made of jointed lead, and imported from the UK, he is so well detailed, I am fascinated by him. But his lying has trapped him in his jail forever. It is beautiful, but still, it is jail.

The cupboard is filled with pretty 'things' but nothing good to eat, or dinner plates to put food on. No hospitality here. It feels harsh and forbidden, even though it's colors are so warm. The lace curtains in the beveled crystal windows are handmade, and just charming, inviting, bringing to mind thoughts of Tollhouse cookies and cups of cocoa with extra marshmallows. Certainly no thoughts of raising children here who dragged their childhood forth like a duffle bag of angst, into their adulthood, marriages, all they did and said and thought.

So I didn't know anything about this box at all until I decided to bring it to show my therapist. Now if I had given this thought more than a passing touchdown, and examined it for motivations, I might have seen myself raising the red flag, or hoisting the flag upside down, indicating some kind of deep problem, but I can't remember what, naturally, motivated me at all. Oh yes, I was looking for her approval, just as I had looked for my mother's approval.

The thing is, it is filled with symbolism, but I myself don't know what it is all about... my therapist of that time was into one's inner child. She dumped me for mysteries all her own, and announced in group she was marrying one of the other women in our group. Here is how I felt about that: Like she had chosen a favorite out of the whole school and would probably never care about any of the rest of us quite the same again. She wasn't too ethical a therapist, 'ey?

So I wanted John to be able to see the encased vignette, as I am calling these boxes, which I also just call 'boxes'. I have the urge to start making them again, and this leads directly back to where I want to go. To a store call Earth & Tree, where I buy amazing miniature 'lumber' and fret work and tiny doors, pre-made, for my little boxes. Also kits to make the other stuff inside the box. It is very difficult to find a place with a handful of quality miniatures, and good building supplies, let alone the magical world you walk into when you open their door. It is so much fun to shop in there, I always have to set my budget before shopping. I have sold a tiny house - just like the one inside the vignette - stained natural, kind of a very dk. oak. The people came from far away to see it, and asked me to call them when I had more things to show them. My usual palette is way too over the top for them, but I did appreciate that sale.

I want to go to all the museums in Boston, to watch a Redsox Game, and see my own work hanging in the Copley Society, then stay over in some cool hotel in Boston. Neat. I want to go to Cape Cod again, and just go everywhere. This list always starts with going to see Esme, Baya, Rebecca & Nathaniel in Rhode Island. That is #1 for sure. I have a fantasy of going on a vacation with them. I love those twins, and want to see more reactions of people to them in public... I am so proud of them, I must admit. Bad bad bad. I want to go more places, but for now, bed will do.

There are so many rotten things that happened today that I don't even know where to begin. It began with Maxie Boy, once again, very early in the morning, needing to go poopers. Again, it was humid and warm, felt all wrong outside. Coming back in was nearly purifying. Poor Maxx, he doesn't know when or where to go these days. And where is all this poopy coming from?

Three days ago, at five AM, when this all started, his little Highness awakened me by the sound of his clicked-ty clacked-ty, nails slowly sneaking out of our bedroom and down the hallway, towards the frontdoor. Normally, to get Maxx out of bed, Stevie has to pick him up and carry him to the front door. When he is put down, he very slowly bows down, leaving his butt up, and stretches way out. Then he is ready for his halter and walk.

So when I saw Maxie sneaking out on his own, I was worried, and got right up and followed him. It was a war zone of doggy doo. The hallway was a mess of mounds, which where fresh scat, imagine that, and therefore, a big mess to clean up. 'Nuff said there, w/o making anyone puke. Then I hear Stevie call out from the front hallway, by the door: There's more over here. I am seeing now as I write that my bad day began a few days ago. Well I wrote to Rebecca, in an attempt to not got crazier than I presently am, a hint from Hell-oise, a columnist who's been telling people things like how to get tar off your hair for decades now. Maybe it is like Dear Abby, and Heloise has retired and someone else is writing. I would love to take over her column. And make up my own tips. Most would use peanut butter...

OK, back to work. My really bad artists' life. The dog poop. Here is how to best get it off a throw rug. Gently grasp a corner of the rug with one hand, while the other awaits delivery of the 'gift' in a gloved hand which is holding a piece of toilet paper. You then tip back the carpet, and bingo, the poop rolls out into your waiting hand. You gag, race to the bathroom, and flush. Repeat as many times as necessary. Another tip is to let the stuff air dry for awhile if possible. That way it doesn't stick during this procedure.

I have been cleaning doggie doo for 50 years. I am proud to say those words. I like George Carlins' little sketch about how aliens coming to Earth would be certain dogs were the leaders because humans follow behind them, picking up their feces! Their royal honored feces at that. What a notion, it still makes me laugh.

Onwards through my rotten miserable day. The IRS is hot on our trail. Makes me laugh. And cry too. I mean, there is no money period. Apparently. I don't know how this happens but it has and rather than linger, I would like to move on, and think up some extremely clever idea. Immediately. My first idea shows how lame I am: start buying lottery tickets.

Next and hopefully, the bitter end of miserable was my visit to the doctor. Happens every month, should be no surprises there. First one occurred at the weight/measure station. I have shrunk 1/4". I am no long a member of those who can say I am 5'3". I am not longer so lofty as to reach the 3" line. Stretched twice, and could only make it to 2 3/4". So now I am
5" 2 3/4" tall. I feel chopped off, as though I was quite a bit taller before. Perhaps since I ruptered a disk in my back this past Christmas day, picking up tiny ZZ, that I shrank, because the disc is gone, or mostly. Maybe that whole mess with my back sliced off 1/4 inch, but it has an emotional impact for sure.

Also got some asthma medication, which I haven't needed in years, along with a spacer, so you don't blast yourself off the planet with the thing. As a retired respiratory therapy tech, I taught a lot of people how to use these contraptions, and they are quite useful. Expecially so as not to have the albuterol hit your uvula with max g-force. But also helpful in getting more medicine per spray inhaled. We are so broke, I wonder what that will cost. I wish I had stolen one when I worked in the hospital, and I hate myself for having such creepy thoughts.

Last new medicine I got was new hormones. So as I can hopefully end the night sweats. Oh yes, I wake up several times a night to change my 'night wear'. It is very annoying also, and I shiver and shake while changing, but am sweating like a pig when I wake up. Being a woman has never struck me as one bit of fun, except for being a mother. That is the most cool thing I have ever done.

Now this final part of my visit to the doctors office will amaze my lady friends, and the heck with men. I haven't had a Pap smear in too long. It just got by me, and well, it's not my favorite thing, and OK, the nurse and I were talking, and it came out, and she was like Bingo! Gothcha! next month, we do it. So next month was this month, and I had taken off all my clothes except my socks, which I never take off for Pap smears. Makes me feel safer with them on. I was wearing my enormous 'johnny' and sitting on a flat platic diaper. Drapped over my lap, a paper sheet. To my left, a bunch of stuff that was going to be used in me, or to hold specimens of me. Yuck, yuck and yuck. I hated looking at all that stuff, but I figured, who cares, my doc will be back in a second. Only 15" went by, and then 20", the 25" and finally 30".

I put my clothes back on, after unsticking my butt from that plastic diaper. No wonder babies are always crying, and Maggie is almost always laughing. Her little tiny bottom isn't stuck to plastic, as her mama & papa, Matt and Miriam are using clothe diapers for her. I know R wanted to do that also, but with the twins, that wasn't possible. Not even in her dreams, as far as I could see. Those two took as much care as four babies. Or eight. Or maybe more when they started crying and just couldn't calm down. Oh I love them so. I could sprinkle a little sugar on them...Well I wander and I have a story to tell.

How can I be angry at my doctor? I am not. She kept saying she was sorry sorry sorry, but I said: I have held you up and kept you from other patients before. You need not apologize. I just had to go, and put my clothes on. I wasn't comfortable dressed that way anymore, not even in the 1st place, and Stevie was waiting for me, and I was developing increasing anxiety about the exam itself, and on & on. So no one was angry but I wasn't happy either. I wonder what all those Rx's will cost...

An Artists' Life

While trying to upload one picture, I start think of taking a lorazapam. Why should this picture be different from any other pictures? Because this one picture has driven me to consider chemical relief. A ridiculous thought but i am actually shaking, overwhelmed by a technical problem. Calling Nathaniel is not always a non-guilty excuse anymore, as he is not only the beloved 'dada' of Esme and Baya, Rebeccas' hubby, Susan & Jay's son, our son-in-law, a good brother, grandson, and friend, but also a consciencious person in all he does. In other words, very like Rebecca, and I hope takes it easy enough to decombust. After all, these guys were carefree, nearly, for a long time, and now there are twins. Two year old challenging twins. Because they are so smart, they challenge everything.

Well back to work, just writing about my lovely family makes me feel warm & fuzzy...

An Artists' Life

Finally, Esme on the left and Baya on the right at their second birthday party. What you can't see in the picture is how delightful they smell, how wonderful their hugs are, how Baya kisses like a kissing guryami fish, exactly. Normally I hate wet soup kisses, but Bayas' are just heavenly. A new version of 'slurpy' has changed this nanas' opinion totally.

Next mission is a bit more complex. I won't descibe it but when done, there should be a picture of me on this blog. Why I care so much about doing this, I can't say, or won't. After all, my 7th grade English teacher drilled this little ditty into our heads: Fools names and fools faces are often seen in public places. Well the heck with her. She was ancient when I was 12, and mean too. Sent me to the principals' office more often than any other teachers combined. So the heck with her twice.

An Artists' Life

Lots of the same picture are maybe better than no picture. And getting rid of the same three posts wasn't impossible. If you want to read the real first post, go to http://faye-merill.blogspot.com. What happened is that I chose this URL that takes you to the template with the gaudy orange star in the corner first- and then Blogger decided I had not done so, and should go about and create a new blog. Frustrating, yes, but patience is one quality I accept possessing, so I did all that.

Now came the acid test. And nothing worked. When I tried to post to the "one-R-URL", Blogger told me it didn't exist and to create yet another Blog. Crying seemed a good option, but I wanted my granddaughters up there on my lap, with Poobah by my side. After all, it would be very easy to figure out who I was. Plus the picture is almost two years old, and I had some plump left, so I like this picture for it's healthy look at joyous blown-away grandparents, so in love with these little creatures we could have pooped in our own pants. That I am sure willl come much later, when hopefully we could care as little as they did.

So I won't write anything else on that URL because this one seems more cooperative, as strange as that seems. Also, my first name is spelled right, which I think is fun. It is already linked up to 'youtube.com', anouther discovery of Leah Miriams' where I can upload movies. I haven't moved any movies into the 'launch pad' area yet, but will. Plans to do so and wondering how it all fits together, if it does, will it work. If I didn't invite anyone to read this, no one would ever find out, and I could go on for a long time, trying. Such as will words and pictures work together to create the kind of blog I want. A picture of parts of my little old life, who I love, and why. How I got going, and where if anywhere, my path is leading now. Harder still, staying in today.

Names come up again and again because I am an isolated woman, who loves her family, friends, and special neighbors. I go almost noplace except to visit my son-in-law and daughter in Rhode Island, about 2 1/2 hours from here, or go to see one of the various physicians who keep me ticking. Also, about every two months I feel well enough to drag myself to see Jacque, my hairdresser for more years than I can count. She is fabulous and a friend, so I also love her and her partner, Lorraine. Solid friends both, it seems I have known them through the ups and downs of the last twenty years. The hairdresser is a confessional, no
doubt. So these are the places I go.

Here is a short list in no special order of where I would like to go: to see Diana and her children in Swanzey. She sold me my car, and is wonderful beyond description. She went on to sell a car to my daughter Rebecca, who I don't know was ever as happy with her car, but did enjoy Diana. The thing I notice about a lot of people, not R, is that they think the salesperson is responsible for the car. i don't think so, there are often a hundred cars on the lot. I am touchy because my father sold cars and supported his family - us - just fine, and w/o 'ripping anyone off'.

An Artists' Life: June 2006

There is a story that I would like to write but yesterday blogger was blogging and today it isn't. Yikes. If it weren't for either being stupid or having bad luck my life would run so much more smoothly. so here is another attempt to do two things which should be quite easy and aren't. Load publish this post and upload a photo. Oh boy, I am going to be wasting a lot of time tonight.

An Artists' Life

Blogger and I had better make friends soon, or I am in trouble. This is the third attempt to create an entry today. The first was finished when Blogger ate it up like a tiny hor-d'oeuvre. The second when I tried to delete a word. Deleted the entire thing. Now what is going on? Is this so primitive, or am I inept? Bad question, makes me feel inept, which is as bad as being inept.

How can I stay with my point if I am so distracted by losing my poor writings every hour or so that I am a nervous wreck? I started having problems with my last blog, and abandoned it totally. That was my fault in that I gave it an alias, and proceeded to lose the URL and the password. Brightest bulb in the chandelier I am not, apparently, because I also went on to lose the book with my passwords in it. All of them. Good thing they are either Schnibble, spelled one of several ways, or maddmaxx, or lulumax. A very few are Esmebaya, but that was one password too many for this old lady. Plus I have variations on spellings, since I never spell the same word twice, unless Stevie is by my side and spelling for me. As I mentioned, broken spell check. What a pity.

The day started with an urge to write about my wonderful family. I feel they are so special, our children, and grandchildren, and the people our children have brought home to become part of our lives as well. And our friends. And my special neighbors, R & R. I rely so heavily on the few people I know and love so dearly. Mostly, I survive on the phone and e-mail, as I don't get out much. This is a good thing. Otherwise well, the 'otherwise' is a whole other days' writing.

This year - this is so great, I finally decided to stop smoking after doing so for way too long. I was so blessed to stop on my first try, with a lot of help from "Commit Lozenges" and moral support from everyone. No one said a word if I was snappish, but mostly, I felt just fine, and I had hoped to gain some weight, but unfortunately, just lost some more. Losing weight this year is my specialty. I eat cheese cake, muffins, whatever, and I lose weight. I think I sprang a leak someplace, and no one has found it yet...