I bought Yolanda one of those new (rather expensive) self- wringing mops at Costco. It is microfiber and the strings were looped at the end with a twist handle so you could just circulate the handle and the mop would wring itself without having to put your hands on the wet part. The other day I asked how she liked it and she said it was fine, but she had cut the ends off so it was like her old mop. Oy vey!!! At any rate, it is just as good a toy for the cats either way. Here Frannie does a little dance with Yolanda. Usually, she puts them out when she mops, but thought you’d like to see the fun.
I absolutely love this photo. Whatever Dee is relating to Colleen has turned her cross-eyed. Lynda, bored, couldn’t care less and has taken solace in her iPhone. Whoever is lurking to the side could probably fill us in on what is being talked about here.
I just completed a mixed media assemblage titled “Chaos Theory,” but living up to its name, I forgot to photograph it before I took it to the gallery. In lieu of it, please click on the first photo to enlarge and read the story of all of these other examples of chaos!
The King of Chaos. I was on my way to a local hotel/restaurant to read my Trump poem from a few days ago when I saw a woman selling this pinata beside the road. I braked, turned around and went to buy it. A man, seeing me buying it, stopped to buy one as well. “Does it have anything inside?” He asked. “No, you have to cut it open in back and fill it,” I answered. “What should we fill it with?” asked his female companion. “I’d suggest filling it with baloney,” I answered. Both the poem and the pinata were a great hit at the reading and the editor of the local paper asked for a copy.
The chaos of trying to get work ready for a group show.
The chaos of repairing pieces and labeling.
The chaos of things left over to put away after my last trip to the states.
Every time I leave home, I swear that I organize this desk drawer, and every time I come home, it looks like this. Is it elves, earthquakes or a faulty memory?
If you’d like to read the poem that goes with the Donald Trump pinata, go HERE.
This photo would not be oddball except for the story that goes with it. I was in the same store that had the life-sized horse lamp with the lampshade on its head. Remember that? (A party horse, I surmise.) I could get through a year of oddballs on just photos from that store, but this particular photo is more about the subjects than the photo itself. I saw a woman who had been carrying her somewhat heavy and fussy child around the store for some time. Finally, as I waited in line to make a rather large purchase, (not the horse) she walked up and held the sleeping child out to this man, who had been helping me to buy the table and chairs and who did not look any too pleased to be taking charge of his son. His stance was awkward and his arms extended in a manner that showed very little connection to the child.
“Is this your son?” I asked, smiling fondly at the child who was cherubic in his sleeping state.
“No,” he answered.
“Do you know the mother at all?”
“No,” he answered, “I just work here.”
The mother, hearing our interchange, broke into the conversation. “I have been holding my son for a long time and my arms are tired, so I gave him to this man to hold for me.”
This may not be as funny in the telling as it was in the viewing, but this man in no way volunteered for babysitting duty and neither did he look at all adept at it or interested in continuing to serve as “baby-check” boy. It struck me as funny, and still does. How much of this story can you see in the photo?
These folks were the epitomes of every her and him.
The men were all smooth-shaven with haircuts short and trim.
The ladies of the fifties had their pearls and curly hair,
and fancy little house dresses were what they chose to wear.
Their kids were the epitomes of reproductive joy
who could serve as patterns for the perfect girl or boy.
They came out cute and perfect, created just to please.
They never fought or cheated or brought home F’s or D’s.
How do I know that what I say is not stretching the truth?
How do I know these folks were all red-blooded, honest, couth;
and that every one of them maintained the stauts quo?
I know for I’m that perfect child in the very front row
who somehow by the sixties got somewhat out of step
and later by the seventies had misplaced all her “hep,”
did not become a hippie until nineteen eighty seven,
and will join the moral majority much too late to get to heaven.
I am not the epitome of any group you know.
I do not wear the clothes you wear or go where you may go.
Epitome’s a talent that I forgot to hone,
and ever since I’ve chosen a pattern all my own.
(These nice people were my parents and neighbors in the little town where I grew up and this poem is in no way meant to denigrate them. I’m sure they were all unique individuals, as well. It is the tendency of eras to turn into cliches that I am satirizing, not them.)