Summer 2012

Summer 2012
BibeauArt of Santa Rosa

Thursday, May 27, 2010

The Mongolian "Take No Prisoners" Editor and His Girl Friday

When I first met my husband, it was in a junior college literary course that we both accidentally enrolled in.  Thanks to fate, who I credit for most of my life’s more interesting happenings, we both signed up for this journalism/lit class on a whim, last minute in order to fill our schedule up to the required full time 9 units.

He was the grungy, long haired, cranky yet sharp mess of a guy in the back of the room and I was the acid washed jean wearing, hair sprayed fluffy hair, fake frosty nail girl working at the local newspaper and Victoria’s Secret in the mall with the engagement ring in the front of the room.  Not your typical love story couple, mind you.  As I remember the story, he declared himself the Editor of the creative writing publication we were to work on for the semester and I became his assistant.  I don’t think I ever stopped being ‘His Girl Friday’ now that I think about it.  He was tricky that way.

The class became terrified of him as soon as we got to the critiquing part of the course.  Each member of the class had to turn in five or more pieces of literature, short story, poem or piece of art that would be shared, discussed and then voted on.  At first it was fun, seeing everyone’s ‘un-named’ submissions of all their good stuff that they were sitting on just for this type of occasion.  Then we started mixing in the outside submissions from other students on campus.  The pile got to be too much for us to deal with at one point and so we had to stop being so nice and polite and really start cutting the fat if we were going to make it to our deadline that was quickly approaching.

I was fine with editing a submission with a red pen and gingerly giving my advice or thumbs up or down for fear that the author was sitting next to me.  Not so with our fearless editor.  He’d slice and burn anything that was the least bit sappy, chick lit-like or anything that belonged in a cheesy Hallmark Card.  It wasn’t unusual for fellow students to sulk or get moody after one of our editing sessions with him at the helm.  On one occasion he actually made a student burst into tears and run out of the classroom.  We believe she’s still traumatized to this day.

He just took his literature and the English language seriously, I thought.  Then, I took out the rest of my feathery submissions from the pile and re-wrote them to make them more serious, more intelligent, less fluffy and more 'writer-like.'  All my stuff was cut by our fearless editor within seconds.  Now that I think about it, he didn't even read most of it, he just knew it was hopeless.  The casualties that ended up in the circular file were all scribbled on, ripped up or just tossed aside as junk along with our little bruised egos and occasional tears.

Fast forward to today.  I’m still “His Girl Friday” and he’s still the confident Mr. Cary Grant in that film.  We went out for pizza and some beer one night and I start to tell him about a story idea that I have and the desire to write my first real novel.  He looks at me and says “You know, I’ve never read any writing of yours.”

I burst out laughing and replied "Oh yes you did." He laughs along with me. “Well, not that I blame you back then, but we’re married – and have been for fifteen years.  You have to trust me by now.”

The laughing stops.  He’s right.  He’s never read anything of mine, really.  Why is that?  He’s the go-to guy for everyone when it comes to writing, talking about philosophy, editing anything, talking over ideas late into the night about the Economy or the public school system or theology.  I value his opinion and have always read his essays from all the projects he’s had all these years and have even helped him with some of his writings from time to time.  Did I not consider myself a writer too?

“Fine.  I will write something up – maybe a chapter for my novel and I’ll have you read it.  You can be my editor, my assistant!”  His eyes lit up as he happily accepted.  It’s always great to share something in a marriage that you can enjoy, talk about or do together, but this was epic!  The brutal “Mongolian Take No Prisoners Editor” from my junior college years is not only my sweet, loving husband but he’s going to be MY Editor for my novel! 

Now, I ask myself, do I start drinking as a hobby now or do I roll with it and see how much fun this can be?  I’m laughing at myself as I talk to him about my ideas for the book, why I came to this conclusion and coming up with plans as to HOW to write a first novel.  It’s a daunting task for anyone, especially a beginner.

He magically transforms into the boy I met in that classroom all those years ago with the long rebel hair, the holes in his jeans and those god-awful worn out flannel shirts and reaches across the table towards me.  “It’s not about planning, ideas and all that.  You can write and I can help you.  Write about what you know and write well.  You can do this.”

My heart melts as I fall in love with him all over again, for the millionth time.  He may be cranky, too smart for most of us at times and a bit of a critic, but I’m so happy he’s “My Guy Friday” and such a great and trusted assistant!  If he keeps this up, maybe I’ll give him a promotion – to edit my next book and manage my fan base – if he doesn’t make them cry.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

How, exactly, is one to write a book?

Besides painting and art, writing has always been a fun thing that I do.  When I was young, I would keep journals pouring my little pre-teen feelings out - much to my parents and younger siblings wicked enjoyment - and would love writing little creative stories in English classes.  I have always loved words and letters and will admit to reading the dictionary when I was in 7th grade and tried to use the biggest words in some sort of communication of the day. 

Words always seemed to speak to me, comfort me and give me great power when I married them up.  I enjoyed writing a story or an essay and waiting for my audience, my teachers or my peers, to tell me what they thought of it.  Being a journalist later on in high school (and beyond) gave me such freedom and joy that I swore I had found my 'thing' in life. 

Of course, life has a way of happening while you're still planning it out!  I enjoy my life and who I am very much and don't ever regret not being the prize winning journalist for the New York Times or being a reporter on some Washington DC station.  Just the little piece of that life that I did have was pretty lonely - just me and my Macintosh at 4:30am belting out a story that took me most of the evening at some mind-numbing event with the mayor.  Between that, my two other jobs to actually pay the rent and bills and going to school, I had almost NO social life in my twenties. 

I learned something else - writing you must do for the love of it for it doesn't pay very well.  Forget starving artist, try starved writer.  We made nothing and still don't make a whole hell of a lot.

Sure, you hear and see the big writers with novels on the best selling lists or read your favorite Pulitzer Prize winner in an esteemed magazine from time to time, but they are kinda rare.  The shmucks who write about the cities, people, politics and the like are the writers that don't make really anything.  But they all love the written word.

It's been a long while since I've actually written anything of note.  Yes, I had a blog (this one) years and years ago that I wrote funny and weird things that happen to me for the entertainment of my audience - which consisted of some of my other writer friends at the time.  Or, I've written college essays for classes and helped co-workers with theirs.  I've even helped my brilliant husband write and re-write one essay for his private college course and did very well!  I know I have a gift with writing, but I just don't know what type of gift it is and if it should or could be shared.

A soon to be smashing author on my blog, Jo, always writes something about writing her novel on her facebook status.  "Editing today" or one of my favorites: "My lead character is trying to kill me!".  After seeing her updates for months on end like this, I turned on the computer and began to write a story.  Anything.  Just something.  I know I can do this.

Nothing came out.  I tried writing for the sake of writing - anything.  Nothing wanted to play ball.  I hit the backspace key so many times that I thought "Oh, I can't really do this - maybe it's too late for me."

So, I tried my hand at blogging again.  I only have ten followers so far and I hope they actually READ what I write so it's not just me, me and me checking it out so I can get some human feedback.  Most of the feedback from my recent writing spillage has been positive.  Private posts and public posts back to me were encouraging.  I'm even getting people that are computer illiterate (who can't seem to post anywhere) tell me they do read my stuff and think I should write something for a whole bunch of women to see.

That helped me narrow it down.  Women.  I'm a woman, right - and don't they say to write about what you know?  Wasn't that what I used to DO?  Where was my power with the words all that time?  Why did I love to write so much?  Because I wrote about what I knew!

Voila!  Now I'm writing my first little book.  Not sure if will ever be published or not, but right now, it doesn't matter.  What matters is getting this book out of my head and onto the page.  My hubby, who's a born editor, poet and amazing critical thinker and writer himself, has offered to help me edit and keep it on track.  I have a friend from years ago who is a published writer - although it's Sci-Fi and not Chick Lit like what I'm headed towards, she is an accomplished writer who I've always admired.  Maybe she can peek at my book and tell me what she thinks from an 'accomplished woman writer' standpoint!

Everyone who writes wants to write the Great American Novel, or something like that, but I just want to write a book called 'love & baseball' - yes, I didn't capitalize on purpose (think e.e. cummings!).  This book is kind of about me, and a blend of other baseball moms and women and families that I know, have heard of or are legend in this area all rolled into a funny romp through the interesting world of little league baseball.

Chick lit, probably.  But from my heart and mind through my hands onto my little laptop screen for another mom like me to read and see herself in - priceless.

So, how does one, exactly, go about writing a book? 

Just write what you know.  Be you, open up and let the story speak for itself.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Fire! Smoke! Science! In the backyard!

Yesterday we actually had normal, warm, beautiful, bright and lovely SUNSHINE.  Normally, this time of year in Sonoma County, we're already complaining about the heat and the sun, sunburns, pool time, etc.  We are also planning and going to countless BBQ's and having birthday parties at the local pools.

Well, folks, this is an El Nino year (no relation to me, I'm just 'Nino') and it's horribly rainy, gray, heavy and bleak out there.  I feel as if I'm in SF or Bodega Bay, which I love, but not this freaking long.  Normally, this time of year, I'm fleeing to SF or Bodega Bay to take a breaky poo from the heat and sun and bathe in the coolness of the fog and colder climates.  Now, I'm living in it 2-4-7 and it's pretty bleak.  I'm going to have to start comparing it to London if it gets any worse and pull out my Dickens novels (those are my Winter books, by the way).

However, Sunday was different.  Glorious.  Pretty, balmy and just what I needed.  Feeling chilly and a bit allergy infested all week, it was nice to sit outside in the sun on our second patio with the garden area and taken in the sun at it's peak (noonish) and do nothing.

Nothing was wonderful until I smelled the smoke.

Alarmed, I opened my eyes and scanned that little patio.  Nothing.  I knew there was nothing ON in the house, so I looked towards the sky for smoke.  The sky smiled back at me, pure and blue, not a cloud in the sky. 

I tried to close my eyes and take in more sun but I really truly was disturbed by that smoke smell.  It smelled, plastic-y almost.

Sitting up at attention, I was determined to find the source of this smell.  Looking over at my garden, I smelled mixer, which is a nice word for wormshell and manure dirt.  I looked at my bike in the corner.  Nothing.  I asked my son inside on the couch if he smelled it.  Nope.

Then I saw it.  On the little green plastic table in front of me that I've had forever, I had placed a very nice oversized martini glass (for decoration only) that a good friend of ours gave us a few weeks ago.  It was then filled a little ways with really pretty silver rocks, some water and a floating candle.  It looked cute and I liked the candle glowing from the back porch when it wasn't in the midst of a monsoon, as it has been this year.

Today there was sun.  Strong, bright sun.  This sun was pointed directly through the glass and water and made a lovely magnifying glass that was burning into the green plastic table top.  There was the smoke - toxic plastic smoke arose from where the beam of light was hitting.  Then I noticed that this wasn't the first time this happened.  A curved burn pattern had set itself along the table for a few days now - even through the rain!

Upon moving the glass to a less, um, hazardous location away from anything it could burn, I thought this would be a good learning opportunity for my son.  I called him outside to see this wonderful burn pattern and to ask him how it got there, etc.  I was going to show my son some science!  Wow, what a great mother I am!

He comes out to the porch, a bit blinded by the sunlight we've been missing around here and I explain my discovery to him, show him how cool the sun is and ask him what he thinks.  He crosses his arms in front of me and says "You just figured that out, Mom?  That thing's been smoking for days."

"But, JP, this is really cool, look, it shows you the actual curvature of the earth by the..."

"Uh, Mom, are you done?  I had to pause my Wii game for this."

"Sure, I'm done, I just thought it was kinda cool."

"Yes, it is but we already did this at school.  Just don't burn anything else."  And with that he turned away, back to his Wii game.

I decided not to tell my husband of my discovery and science and fire in the backyard for fear that he's be this interested AND freak out that I left all of that stuff out in the sun for that long.

So, note to self - no glass objects of any type with or without water in them shall ever be in the backyard.  I'd better Google see through plastic to ensure that's not a problem too.  I don't want to fry any innocent birds coming to feed at our see through plastic bird feeder in the same yard, although those damn birds have been pretty LOUD as of late out there...

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Clogged Drain, Clean Kitchen

Tonight I noticed that our kitchen sink is horribly, horribly backed up.  It's like a pasta eggshell soup that smells like death.  We have a garbage disposal system but it's hardly worth the effort of turning it and the water on.  It's the smallest one I've ever seen and it's way too small for a sink of this size with this much food going down it.

Normally, when this happens, my hubby is literally walking out the door for the evening and I get this idea that I'm going to fix it as soon as he's gone.  Well, the hubby did leave, and I took apart the whole sink pretty much.

My father was a general contractor and for 'day care' back in the '70's and '80's as well as for teenage torture and punishment, I was banished to my father's office a lot.  Especially in the summertime, you know, when everyone ELSE is at Disneyland or having fun with their grandparents or at the pool.  Yeah, I'm with my father helping with the important stuff like crawling under buildings, running electrical lines, remodeling old beautiful wood floors to their former natural beauty.  Oh yes, I did it all.

Child labor laws be damned, I was the assistant.  If I whined enough about going on a job (that smelled) or that included crawling into dark little spaces where things go bump in the night (rats), then I was relegated to the office duties and phones, which I became rather good at.

I recall many backed up toilets and kitchen sinks and watched time and time again how my father unplugged everything like it was so easy to do.  He just made everyone look so stupid as they watched and ooohed and ahhed at his magic.  Sometimes, he'd have to cut something or tear apart the sink pieces and replace something that was moldy or breaking apart.

Well, up til tonight, a sink has never been that much of a challenge for me.  I mean, I don't have that much upper body power, but I can eventually push through something.  Tonight, the damn sink won a round.  So, I'm sitting here, looking at my kitchen sink with the pieces cleaned and on the counter smelling it's victory.  And boy, does it reek.

This is the amazing thing - after I fought and fought this damn thing and finally realized it was a lost cause (it's probably the roots of the redwood trees in the system again) I realized the plumber guy needs to show up tomorrow.  Then I started to clean.  I mean, I've been 'the plumber guy's daughter' and have SEEN the houses that we had to show up and unplug things in.

Houses with so much junk and crap all over the carpet that there were trails where people walked in order to get around the house and mess.  No joke.  Smells that made you wonder if there was a body in the next room that was decomposing.  Cat litter collections.  Foods that never were taken out to the trash.  Ever.  These folks lived in filth most of the time.  I rather liked the houses we visited where the maid just left the premises and I was the one who felt like I might dirty up the place.  But it wasn't always so.

So what did I do tonight after securing a time to fix the drain?


Freaking cleaned.

My kitchen and sink and drains and underneath the sink is SO CLEAN you could eat dinner off of it.  No joke.  It's gleaming, sparkling, so white, so pristine, so...yes, I do know that the plumber is going to make a hideous mess of it, but that's not the point.

Then I thought that when fixing a sink, sometimes you need another sink or toilet in the house to dump stuff into or check out.  So, I fixed up the bathroom.  Immaculate.   Then, I noticed my hubby's crap all over the stairway - clean stuff, folded, but it had to go too.  By this time I'm so tired that I close my bedroom door.  No need to get into that mess - and why would this guy be in my room to begin with???

Had to clean my son's room, of course.  I mean, that door never stays shut - it belongs to a child.  In and out.  Out and in.  Kids in and out, etc.

As I write this, I'm tired.  I'm drinking a beer and I'm tired with the stench of God only knows what coming from my pristine kitchen sink.  I laugh at myself tonight.  Truly, I do.  However, when the sink dude shows up in the morning, my house will be perfect and I can watch someone else's father fix my damn sink and think "really, that's all it was?"  Damn.

Friday, May 21, 2010

French Toast Friday is HERE!

Yes, today is French Toast Friday.  Yes, my son got his French Toast this morning - sometimes it's the ONLY thing that gets him outta bed.  Like father, like son only for daddy, it's freshly brewed coffee that drives him.

Just yesterday I set up all my art items/projects and the like in my 'outdoor studio' (aka backyard) and this morning on the way to workie poo I hear it's gonna rain.  Time to invest in more tarps I guess.  I'm a bit stubborn and once I'm in the midst of doing something and rain comes into interrupt me, I'll just tarp the hell out of it and work around it.

Last night we had a baseball game for our son in beautiful weather at night.  I enjoyed the sun and it warmed me up nicely.  I could have taken a nap on the bleachers, actually.  It was that relaxing.  What wasn't relaxing was my damn cell phone.  Beep beep!  It cries to me.  I think to myself, "Since when did I have another child?" as it persists in my pocket.

I dread the future where the phone is imbedded in our ears and we really, truly cannot get away from it.  Just the other day, my 9 year old son says to me, "Hey, mom, when am I getting a cell phone - I mean, everyone ELSE has one!"  I want to sit him down and say, "Hey son, it's a ball and chain that will become part of your life sooner than later - RUN while you can!"

He's 9 and very stubborn.  Like his mommy.  He wants a phone for 4th grade come hell or high water.  Which, as the forecast this weekend shows, may happen here in Sonoma County.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

New plants, new paints, new attitude!

Some girls like new Coach purses to make them happy.  Some chicks like bling bling from Tiffany's. Yet, still other ladies prefer a day or two at a posh spa in order to recharge their batteries.  Don't get me wrong, I do like all of that stuff, but NOTHING gets me going more than buying new plants for the garden, some new paint/colors and some clean studio canvases.  NOTHING.

I love putting my hands into the dirt, I love mixing dirt.  I love cleaning up the garden bed area.  I love giving these little healthy plants new homes for the Summer.  I love watering them, nurturing them.  Watching them grow and thrive.  I also love eating their bounty in the hot months ahead in my salads with a BBQ!

I also love figuring out what paintings I need to do in order to hit certain deadlines, making a list (OOOH!) and figuring out what paints need replenishing and what bases I need.  I'm truly picky about my brushes, and they last forever, so I hang on to the oldies but goodies til they die off.  Coming home with a stack of fresh, thick, white, new canvases all mounted and ready to go makes my heart sing.  Placing the new paints into the bin with the other older paints also makes me feel good.  I choose the photos that I have taken or stolen from others on facebook (you know who you are!) and tape them to the new canvases.  I line them up in order of how I will paint them and feel a joy in my heart of being on the cusp of creating something from nothing.

Maybe that's it.  Being a creator of something from nothing.  Chaos into order.  Emotions and feelings into something more real, something you can touch.  Whatever it is, these two activities are my most prized and most loved things to do besides being with family, going to my son's baseball games and reading to my son at night - all snuggled up with warm blankets.

From the planting of the little sprouts come fruits of the vine that others can enjoy and from my brushes and paints come images that my friends and strangers alike can feast on with their eyes.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Feeling fine in one's own skin...and nothing else.

A strange thing happened to me on the way to the photography studio on Sunday - I actually got comfy being in my own skin.  Finally.  Only took me 39 years.

As a child I was told that coming out of the bath totally nude wasn't proper and that the Virgin Mary herself was blushing in shame.  Then, there's this American Culture that is so Victorian in principle that unless you are totally covered all the time, there's a problem with YOU.

Going to the pool each Summer left me a bit confused.  During the Summer months, why, it was fine to wear two-pieces with straps everywhere when if my skirt at private school was too short I got yelled at?  I never enjoyed Summer that much due to this weird skin showing that I had always been told was totally wrong. 

I'm not talking about the girls who walk around like looking like hookers or who are deliberately wearing outfits that are inappropriate for where they are at, I'm simply talking about normal girls who got so freaked out about showing any skin that when the hot weather rolls around, we get a bit confused and uncomfortable.

Strapless?  Skinny straps?  Off the shoulder?  Mini anything?  Low back?  Plunging front?  Um, not for me.  Turtlenecks, large sweaters, dark tights, thick/toe hiding shoes, long sleeves - that was me!

Of course being primarily raised within the confines of the Roman Catholic realm with nuns who dressed all buttoned up didn't help, either.  It just left me more confused.

So, fast forward to this year.  I'm 39.  I've just signed up - like some of my more daring friends - to do a professional photo shoot with a professional female photographer.  Some of the pics she does are pretty much 100% nude.  It's up to you, but they are the most artistic and most stunning photos I've ever seen of the female form.

She's amazing, her work is more amazing and what she did to those women to make their photos so full of beauty and a celebration of the human form just made me want to sign up.  I saw more photos one day and decided that I needed to do this before I turn 40 next year.  Just for fun!

The second I turned in  my deposit I got scared.  I'm too old to be doing photos like this!  I'm not skinny enough.  I have scars! I'm not pretty enough.  I cannot bare this much skin!  No nudity!  What would the nuns think???  The other gals I know who did this are much younger than me...and primp more than I do, keep themselves up better.

I kept up this 'negative tape' in my  head and even in speaking to my friends who knew about it for months.  Before I knew it, my appointment was here.  I was in the chair getting my makeup done by two, younger, very beautiful ladies who were making my face photo ready and fluffing my hair. 

When they were done I looked really cleaned up - polished - and ready to be 'shot'. 

My photographer met me in the salon and we moved into the studio where the props were set up.  I had seen a lot of her pictures and could see the backdrops she used, extra stuff around the room and of course, I had brought some of my own 'props' just in case we needed to hide my backside or something!

She casually looks over at me as I survey the room and says "So, do we want to do the nude photos first?"

I couldn't believe what I did next - I totally disrobed - and waited.  Waited for the negative thoughts in my head to start - waited for some type of guilt or something to happen.


Feeling this comfortable in my own skin - with another human being in the room or not - was something I had never experienced before.  Of course, I am married, and my husband has seen me, oh - a few times - in the past 15 years (LOL!) but that's a bit different.  But even then, I find that sometimes I hold back for these weird reasons that I grew up with.

That day in the studio, I felt empowered.  Graceful.  Amazing, and yes, even pretty.

We did all the photos we could - and boy, it was tiring.  I have a lot more respect for models now.  That's hard work - thank goodness I stretch and do Yoga or else I'd be in some serious pain this morning.

The cool part was that although I did get to see some of the hundreds of pictures she took after the fact, I really didn't need to SEE them.  I felt like a million bucks anyways - and still feel that way today - and will for a while, I'm sure.

What do they say - "Do what you fear and watch it disappear?" - wow, is that ever true.

Friday, May 14, 2010

the white roses from today

Of French Toast and Flowers

This Friday was eagerly awaited by my sanity due to the rupture of a week I had. The simple rupture has become a full blown lifequake on the workie poo side of life with a little overflow to my personal life. Today was sooo eagerly awaited that I jumped out of bed this morning in my beloved Luluemons and am still wearing them at work.

We have a tradition in our household that states Friday is French Toast day. No matter what's going on or how sick I may be sometimes, we've gotta have French Toast on the table. It gets my 9 year old son going on 16 out of bed pretty quick, gets him fed and he thinks it's truly special - just for him. He brags to his friends about it so much that they say 'when I go over to your house, can you make that French Toast?'

I whipped up the most faboo French Toast a mother at 730am can do, piled it on a fresh plate (fresh from the dishwasher!) and VOILA! Wait, where's the KID? Normally, he's already here chanting for his breaky-poo.

"Justin!? Where are you?" I call out, trying not to wake up my hubby.

"Putting on my shoes!" I hear from the back room. That explains a lot. What is it with boys and shoes? He's got like, two shoes plus his baseball cleats. How HARD is this? If it were ME, then putting on shoes would take like a half an hour. I'm a girl, you know.

Five more minutes go by. I decide to investigate.

My son is on the floor of his room, fully dressed, with clothes all around him, trying to tie his shoes on one foot while the other shoe has been unsuccessfully crammed onto his other foot. I fix the disaster with him because he's got 34 seconds to get to the bus and eat his breakfast.

I get him to the table as his backpack, papers, toys and only God knows what else is living in his backpack spills all over the floor.

Sitting on the chair next to him as he cuts up his Friday French Toast he says "Well, I guess you're driving me to school today, mom." I have to laugh at my child. Instead of the French Toast being the motivation anymore, it's become getting me to drive him to school on Fridays.

There's only two more weeks of school, so I don't press it. I smile at him and say '15 minutes, that's what you've got, then I'm outta here with or without you'.

After getting JP to his school with his stomach full of French Toastie Goodness, it's off to workie poo I go. Given superpowers by my newly purchased Starbucks soy latte, half-caf, I enter the realm of chaos empowered by the thought that I have, in fact, reached Friday almost totally intact with a stomach full of Friday French Toast and a son on time to school.

At work someone brings in some homegrown antique roses for the staff. All at once, everything melts away and these simple, delicate cream colored roses - tinged in pink and peach tones on their tips - fill the offices with their fragrance of springtime. I feel like I'm outside or in a fine garden that is very well kept up.

Sometimes it's the little things that really count - like these flowers on the edge of a frantic and unwelcome busy week. They help put things into perspective a bit, and give us the feeling that we are outdoors, even for a second. The flowers make us stop and breathe in, appreciating life itself and thanking God for everything, the beautiful, the chaotic and even for French Toast/Driving JP to school Fridays like this.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

I'm back...

Thanks to Jo starting her blog up again and doing all of her writing novels and such, here I am, writing when I can between work, kids, hubby, the military and my paintings.

I think I need MORE to do.