I'm a lot like Pinocchio. No... I'm NOT a liar, but I often find myself doing the same sort of balancing act.
I'm a real boy!
Don't get me wrong, I don't waver on gender identification, it's more like this: I've done hundreds, possibly thousands of drawings and paintings, many of them commissioned. I know it sounds like I’m boasting, but hear me out. I majored in art on a scholarship, worked as a commercial artist, been Artist in Residence for many schools. I’ve sold hundreds of paintings and prints. I have my own Studio.
I'm a real artist! Right? Actually, it's quite possible I'm a fraud. A pretend-artist whose work is not unlike the Emperor’s New Clothes, where everyone pretends to see beauty but in reality...
I've written stories, poetry and books since the fifth grade. I'm a published author and blogger. I'm a real writer! Or maybe I’m a really good fake. A carbon copy o...
As a political junkie I’ve been overdosing on the impeachment hearings. It’s turned out to be a fantastic way to detox. Watching Adam Schiff drone on and on, repeating himself for hours on end is as good a rehab program as it gets. I think my craving to keep up on current affairs is definitely waning. Sure, there are theatric attempts to keep me riveted but its tedious to hear the actors read the same script 1,276 times a day in a loop. It’s bad enough to be lectured on how the American people are too stoopid to choose a President on their own at the ballot box, and certainly not qualified to put 2 and 2 together. I may not be a genius but I’m pretty sure the answer is 22, like my Smith and Wesson.
As a writer I relish a good story line. I hungrily devour movies featuring actors who skillfully portray their characters. Although politicians and actors have a lot in common—they both live in a world of make-believe and crave fame and recog...
I'm so excited to be one of the artists featured in the Arts to Zion Home Studio Tour! Lighthouse Studio (so named because of the windows and breathtaking views on all sides) is #40 on the Studio Tour. In addition to the tour I will have many paintings for sale at the studio and gallery. Most of my pieces are large but I have many sizes. My work is colorful and contemporary abstract. The event is January 16-20. Tickets are $10 and are sold online, at various venues and at the door.
My Granddaughter looked up from her video game. “Dad, how many lives do we get?” she asked innocently.
“Just one.” He replied.
“Awww-www!” Disappointed, she turned back to her device.
With the dawn of a new decade I find myself realizing that my one life is headed in the wrong direction—down—like 6 feet under. That one life seems to be picking up speed and I don’t know how to slow it down.
My husband likes to drive the speed limit, while I tend to go at least 5 over.
“Why are you always in a hurry?” he often barks.
“Because life is too short to poke along!” is my standard reply.
Now that it’s 2020 I’m realizing how true those words are. I’m not going to slow down unless I absolutely have to. I don’t think I’m going through a late-life crisis, it’s more like this: With the turn of another landmark year, I am seeing the curve of the road ahead and that I’m actually not in control of my speed....
I was on the freeway when the truck in front of me began to swerve. I slowed and drew to the left to avoid a collision. The truck spun, fishtailing first right, then left and back to the right where it slid sideways, missing the guardrail. In slow motion it rolled, tumbling off the steep cliff, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
I pulled over and stopped. Looking at my daughter-in-law in shock, I hopped out, hollering, “Hit the hazards and call 911!” I waited to cross the street as several cars whizzed by, oblivious to the horrifying scene below. The dust was already settling as I gazed over the spot where the truck had disappeared. To my surprise there was nothing unusual—no evidence of what I knew had just happened. Perplexed, I climbed down a little further, searching the distance. Then I saw it. Scattered over a large boulder field was a ladder, multiple power tools, cords, nails and papers. A wheel, a tire, water bottles, a backpack. Abo...
Halloween is super scary what with all those zombies, vampires, witches and goblins. Even scarier are the sexy Bob Ross and Mr. Rogers costumes that are said to be all the rage this year. But beware! Dressing up as someone from a different culture is the most frightening of all—the mother-of-all-spookiness. (I assure you there was no racist pun intended.)
There are a lot of choices for Halloween costumes. You can dress up as Queen Elizabeth, Donald Trump, Stormy Daniels, Bill Clinton, Monica Lewinski, JFK, Marilyn Monroe, James Comey, Adolf Hitler or Papa Smurf and nobody will bat an eye. For that matter you can be a bat or an eye and nobody will, well… bat an eye. But impersonate Moana, Mulan or Aladdin (who are, by the way, ficticious figures) and you’re basically a horrible, hideous racist. Ask Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. And heaven forbid you mimic your favorite black sports hero or rock star—I’m not sure if that incl...
I’ve watched with interest the debate on reparations for the descendants of slaves, and it’s got me to thinking… even though I’m white (GASP!) I think I might be entitled to some compensation myself. Here’s my case:
Some of my descendants were (GASP AGAIN!) Mormon. History shows quite clearly that these people were seriously alphabetized! Assaulted, Banished, Cursed, Detested, Expelled, Fabricated against, Gagged, Hated, Intimidated, Jeered at, Killed, Loathed, Molested, Negated, Ostracized, Persecuted, Quashed, Raped, Slaughtered, Taunted, and to top it off they were Unpopular, Victimized, Wronged, X-ed, Yelled at and Zapped Ouch!
Now, you might argue that I, myself haven’t experienced any of that—though I barely got through Jr. High School alive—nor have my parents, grandparents, uncles or aunts. Still… I might have had many more opportunities had my ancestors been Catholic or Protestant. Who can say? On the other hand, if I were Jewish...
“Everybody looks like somebody to you,” my husband often comments. It’s true. After doing hundreds of portraits over the course of my artistic career, my eye just sorta picks up on certain peculiarities. Because I’m a news junkie many of my comparisons are with political figures.
That guy looks like Mr. Potato Head. Hey look, his mouth works like a puppet. She totally looks like a manicured poodle! Don’t you think President Trump looks like an eagle?
Once I make a comparison in my head, I have a difficult time separating the two. For example, every time I see or hear “AOC” I see and hear “Miranda Sings.” Tell me you don’t see the similarity! It’s not just their looks and voices. They’re both self-made and self-absorbed. The characters they’ve created are sheer genius. They’re popular and intriguing. They’re narcissistic and egotistic. They love to post videos of themselves and are extremely trend-savy....
I’m all about Girl Power. After all I am one, or rather used to be. I’ve changed. Not my sex mind you… but keeping your girlish figure is easier than maintaining your girlish intellect. Let me be clear. Unlike coveting my girlish figure, my girlish brain wasn’t something I’d want to hold onto. That’s not to say I’ve lost my mind. Well, maybe. If I have, I don’t remember my girlish thinker being all that cognizant. More on the immature side. But as usual, I digress. Got my big girlish panties in a wad!
As proud as I am of the US Women’s Soccer Team—doesn’t get any bigger than winning the World Cup—I can’t help but be disappointed in some of the girls on the team and especially the Team Captain, Megan Rapinoe. In my opinion, this ultra-talented powerhouse with a gargantuan platform is missing the mark for what I consider to be true Girl Power. Why? I’ll tell you why....
As we celebrate Independence Day I feel the need to reveal something exceptionally personal—my blood type. I bleed Red White and Blue Positive. It’s no secret that I am politically red, racially white and blue positively brings out the color of my eyes. But those things aside, I truly love my country and am honored to be an American. The Stars and Stripes always fly proudly on the flagpole at our home.
On Sunday the congregation of my church sang America the Beautiful. I’ve sung the words to that song a hundred times before and know the words to all four verses by heart. The older (and hopefully wiser) I get, the more in awe I am of the wisdom of our Founding Fathers. I had to choke back the tears and swallow the lump in my throat to get through the first few verses and the remaining lines moved me so much that it was virtually impossible to sing after that.