MINUTIAE

I have been robbed. This is winter. Have I seen the snowfall that winter is supposed to bring? Nope. Sure, there has been a dusting or two here and there, but I have been subjected to ::gasp:: RAIN way too often. I despise the rain when temperatures are cool or cold. It is annoying, and it sends unpleasant chills through me that cannot be relieved until I soak in a hot bubble bath. It rained on Christmas Day. It rained on New Year's Eve. Where is my snow? I want blizzards (sans deaths related to said blizzards). I want my world to come to a screeching halt because of the snow. No cars on the roads. Schools and businesses closed. I want to be the first one to leave footprints in my yard. I want to pelt my hubby and kids with snowballs. I want to look outside and see white covering everything for days on end. Now, is that too much to ask? Methinks not, and what I think is what counts. ::smile::

I just completed a portrait unlike any I have previously done. This one is of a child. A young child. I had painted older kids, but never one who still had baby teeth. It was quite a challenge to capture the innocence present in the face of such a beautiful little boy. I do not think I have done a stellar job expressing that quality of his, but my hubby likes the portrait, thinks it looks like the child, and has told me he thinks I should go ahead and give it to the couple who requested that I paint the little boy. (I told them I absolutely was not going to do it. No way. I knew I would attempt it, but I did not want THEM to know it. That way, there was no pressure on me except what I put on myself.) What I discovered is that the very young have no defining aspects to their faces. There is a genuine softness...almost a blur to their features. The lines and sharper characteristics will come with time. Probably around the time they lose some of their pure innocence.

My poochie was cremated. I wanted her ashes. I could not bear to think of her being discarded or buried in the ground. Not my baby. I went to the funeral home to pick up her remains. She was in a small wood box with a latch. It was a nice box, I suppose. Yet, it was too plain and common for my liking. Like most people who have had a pet for many years, I felt she was special. I asked the gentleman who assisted me if they had any other containers I could buy to replace the wood box. They did. A curio cabinet full of them. And I found the one I wanted in the blink of an eye. It is a cloisonne urn. I have long thought cloisonne to be an amazing art technique. This urn is absolutely beautiful. It is unique. Then and there I bought it. He transferred her ashes to it (out of my sight, of course), and I asked him to please glue on the lid. Now she rests on my bookcase. I look at her often. But not as often as I feel her absence. I miss her. And I cry.

 

Ah, but I laugh, too. My son (age 23) and some of his buddies played in a flag football league for fun. The name of their team was The Nads. Their team cheer? GO NADS! Geez, I cracked up hearing that. His sense of humor is brilliant at times.

 

We are in the process of redecorating our daughter's bedroom (age 20). After the Bobcat cleared out the piles of junk that had made walking through it an impossibility, the painting of the walls began. She is delighted in many ways about the transformation. I had her choose the bedspread, curtains, pillows, and wall color. She is also getting a new mattress. Queen-sized to boot. Hell, she is not a very big girl...weight or height, so she will be able to do somersaults across it. I have warned her that if she trashes her room in ANY way that she will be forced to sleep in the basement. ::grin:: She is petrified of the basement. It is a miracle to get her to go down there to retrieve something from the freezer. And when she does venture down those steps, she has to have on the light and leave the door open. That is when my sadistic streak surfaces. I quickly flick off the light, shriek, and shut the door. She cries and literally flies up the steps. And she tells me what a sicko I am. She is correct. But it IS funny.

 

That just reminded me of something I am still laughing about. No one ever helps me decorate the Christmas trees except for my daughter. Well, this year she was not here the nite I decided to do it. I asked the hubby if he would at least come into the living room to talk to me while I hung the lights and ornaments. He did. Ultimately, he actually got up and helped me string the lights. When the first set of 100 lights had been placed on the tree, he grabbed the next strand. Just as he was plugging it into the first strand, I screamed. The man jumped like a little girl. I went into quite a laughing fit that went on for the next few hours. Big tough guy was scared to death. He SAID he was not expecting it. Then he said he thought I had been shocked. Let's get real. I know and he knows that I scared him. Haha.

 

And a giant bravo to Coach Bob Knight for becoming the winningest men's college basketball coach in NCAA history. 880 wins. 80% of his players also received their college degrees. That is TWICE the national average for men's basketball players. You rock, Coach, and I love you...even though you call me Noisy. ::grin::

 

Today is a day I am thinking about my father. January 6. A date I will never look at in quite the same way again. You are in my thoughts, Daddy. I am making sure I recall the funny tales and escapades of yours along with the heartwarming ones. A beautiful mix of what comprised so much of who you were and are. Missing and loving you. ~Your ornery #3 daughter   

 

"The beauty of the world...has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder." ~Virginia Woolf