Painting and Life are Created …One layer at a time

I am not writing, today. I am giving you a break. You need it. I am a prodigious writer.

So, today, i am writing entirely for myself. You will be privy, if you so choose. Or, feel free to go do something meaningful.

Deep sigh. I need to wash my hair. It is flat. I look like Andy Warhol. It is really cold outside. Wish I didn’t get up at 3 because I couldn’t sleep. Glad that I went back to bed at 4, and slept. Why did I have such awful dreams, last night? Several icky ones. Knee-tumblers. Maybe it was drinking a half of the free half gallon of Bojangles’ iced tea. It was delicious. Glad we have an ice maker.

Man, I am thankful that my genetic test came back all negative. 43 different genes screened. Normal. Well, as normal as I get. I have never seen the benefit of being normal because it is boring.

Shit, damn, hell, or as I am saying this week, nutmeg, allspice and cloves. I keep eating too much. I just said that I don’t want to be normal. Contradiction. I wish I knew how to maintain my weight, not go off the deep-end and eat too much. It is the bane of my existence. My biggest failure. It is so easy to eat healthy when I am in the zone. But nutmeg, allspice and cloves, the trigger goes off and my brain says, let her eat cake and live with abandon and what the nutmeg, we are all going to die anyway.

I don’t hate myself, this time, because of it. I have, sometimes. I feel like stupid, Oprah, who wheeled a wagon of fat or something that showed how much weight she lost. Me and my pictures, posing, preening, peacock, style.

Only to stumble and fall from the grace of the fit and thin and forever, a better version of myself.

I can’t cry about it. The Titanic went down and people who ate desserts died and so did the ones who didn’t eat desserts. Or maybe not. Perhaps the ones who didn’t eat dessert, lived, made it tot he lifeboats, and the others who ate the Creme caramel and tarts and pies, sunk the ship and went down with it. Nutmeg, allspice, cloves.

Ok, world. Ok, society in America. You are a mess. I don’t trust my government. I can’t stand Republicans, Democrats, Liberals, Conservatives, Hollywood, the media, shows for prepubescent kids that make adults look like idiots and the kids look like they rule the world, which, in this day an society, they do. Bull-allspice, I say to that. It isn’t all about the kids, or it shouldn’t be. That is not a roadmap to raising successful adults.

I do wish there were a Santa Claus. For old people.

If I would have worked in the kitchen of a restaurant, and I was treated like, how I have read, some women were treated, there would be something on the menu called, “Deep-fried balls.”


Oh, self, wasn’t it nice your son called while in Houston? It was fun to hear who he saw being wheeled into the restaurant. Yep, your guess of George H Bush, was close, but no cigars. (Those are reserved for Bill Clinton. And no I will not forget that_.

Wasn’t it funn when he said the Secret Service wheeled in Barbara Bush and when you asked what she looked like, your son said, old and little and with oxygen.

Is that how I will eventually be described? No color of hair, description of my eyes or smile or frown, or presence? Just old, not so little and stopped?


I am trying to avoid thinking of the upcoming golf ball size hunk of me, my tissue, that will be removed from my right breast, soon. This bit of cancer thing is surreal. I feel fine. The good Lord knows I have my appetite and allspice, they weigh you every time someone farts. What a greatingin. I think I will get one of those monster scales they now use, and put it by my front door and weigh people when they come and visit.

That is one way to be left alone.

I don’t like texting. I miss talking on the phone, a real phone that has a cord that won’t stretch to the refrigerator, yet gives you great sound quality.

Mario Batali? Seriously? Pickle his orange pig’s feet.

Hey, I think I could make some money. Dartboards with the faces of all of the sexual nutmegs/ The offerings would be many.

And nutmeg, why do men think women want to get photos of their Mr. Winkies? Whatever happened to saying it with flowers?

Ok, I am finished. Had my morning writing exercise. Going to go paint before I have to go get a shot in the old eyeball, today. Love my new gasses. Love seeing to drive. Love my mornings. Love my writing. Love my brain. Love the people that I love. And I do love many. Many, I don’t even know.

So, Susan, behave today, or not. spread confettis of kindness and get at least five people to laugh.

Adios, Susan … you nutmeg, you.


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