TOO MUCH

How much is too much?

My mother. Her heart literally broke when Daddy passed away. It is sadly touching that his passing caused her healthy heart to suddenly become a diseased one. When you have had a grand love for almost your entire life, the shock of the loss can do wicked things to that vital organ.

 

Some people never do understand the power of that kind of love.

 

Example. My father was in Neuro ICU following surgery to stop the bleeding from his ruptured brain aneurysm. He was connected to every kind of machine imaginable. It was too soon to know whether or not he would be able to speak, move, or understand anything. His condition was listed as critical.

 

The heart monitor was perched above his head. While holding his hand, it was all too easy to find yourself staring at that monitor. Constantly making sure his heart was staying in a comforting rhythm. Of course, it was usually irregular and a source of worry for us. We took turns holding his hand (his right hand was curled up as a result of the bleed, so we usually held his left). The monitor showed the erratic beats of his heart. How hard it was working to function. We all exchanged worried glances during those times. Yet...

 

Whenever my mother took hold of his hand, we watched the monitor in sheer amazement and wonder as his heart started to slow down and find a steady beat. This happened time and time again.

 

There was one male nurse who dismissed our belief that Mom had the ability to stabilize his heart. He was a "by the book" kind of person. If it was not a fact in a book, it did not exist. He said it was just a coincidence. I recall taking hold of his arm as he started to walk away, and I basically got in his face and told him that not all that is real is recorded in any damn book. That sometimes things happen because of love. Through love. He said nothing. But, you know? His demeanor changed after that. He became more open, friendlier, and he shared some of his personal life stories...ones that caused him to want to become a nurse. And he ended up being one of our favorite nurses.

 

Now, Mom is the one with the faltering heart. The heart that is not just hurting because she lost her beloved husband. It is hurting because it is damaged. A valve is and has been leaking since Daddy's death. She has had several hospital trips to have cardioversions (heart shocking) performed. She had a pacemaker implanted. She is taking heart medicine. Yet nothing is working.

 

She was scheduled to go into the hospital this past Monday to be monitored while being put on a "big gun" heart medicine and to have another cardioversion. A three- or four-day stay it was to be. The arrangements were made.

 

I canceled them.

 

My mother, sisters, doctor brother-in-law, and I all discussed this insanity. It is a quagmire. Are we merely putting a Band-Aid on a gaping wound? Is a second opinion warranted, even though it puts Mom through the stress of starting anew with tests and such? At her age, could she physically handle surgery to actually REPAIR the broken part of her heart? How many cardioversions and medications will she have to go through before she gets relief? Tentative plans are to meet with a new cardiologist. She is grateful we are all so involved in being sure she receives the best of care. 

 

But why doesn't holding her hand in mine fix her heart?

 

"Sometimes I wish I were a little kid again, skinned knees are easier to fix than broken hearts." ~Author Unknown

BECAUSE SMOOSHY HAPPENS

This is my "smooshy mood" entry. Yes, smooshy is my word for this particular mood. It is a time when I could easily laugh or cry, but always due to something or someone I perceive as loving.

 

Monday nite, my hubby was still out of town on a fishing trip. My son was working and then with friends to watch the NCAA Championship basketball game. It was girls' nite in the house. The daughter and I. For reasons that I will not go into here, my mind was fraught with memories. Some tender. Some sad.

 

The daughter and I camped out in the family room to watch THE game on the big television. It was nice being with her. Listening to her remarks. Answering her questions. The outcome of the game was never in doubt. Florida was clearly the better team. Hell, they define what teamwork is all about and what unselfish play is. There is a tremendously sexy player on their team...Joakim Noah. During this season, Joakim has experienced much negativity from various sources. He is an exuberant and vibrant force on the team. His father is the famous tennis player Yannick Noah; his mother is a former Miss Sweden, Cecilia Rodhe. I think he is gorgeous. 6' 11" of yumminess. And I love how he displays his emotions. Florida won the game. I watched as Joakim  worked his way up into the stands to reach his mother. The loving embrace they shared (as well as Joakim's obvious tears during the long hug) touched me.

 

And I cried. Wait. I sobbed. My daughter looked over at me, her mouth ajar. I could not stop crying. It had moved me so much. She asked why I was crying. And my voice was unexpectedly loud as I choked out a response, "Because that's what mothers are for. To give support and love and be there for their kids." She had a smile on her face and came over to me to give ME a hug. Yeah, I am sure she thought I had gone around the bend. I probably had during those minutes. 

 

My son's birthday was today. My one-time infant who is now a young man. That transformation happened when I turned my back for only an instant. I could go on and on about what an incredible kid he is. How his kindness, healthy self-confidence, work ethic, determination, and drive should be bottled and sold. The world could use more people like him.

 

As has been my tradition with both of my kids since their first birthdays, I wrote his annual birthday letter to tuck inside of his card. It is a journey backward for one year. A recording of the significant and maybe not-so-important events that took place since his previous birthday. The jottings about him as an individual. His qualities and characteristics. It takes me a long time to write. I tend to stop and reflect on each paragraph I write, making sure I have captured on paper what I want and need to say. He has come to look forward to these letters (which are saved). He genuinely absorbs my words and takes them to heart. That makes me feel wonderful...and smooshy.

 

I will be writing another one for my daughter in about two weeks when her birthday arrives. I suspect I will again experience the smooshiness I felt while writing her brother's letter.

 

Wedged in between their birthdays is my wedding anniversary. So many years together, but our wedding day is forever etched in my mind down to the finest of details. Another smooshy mood on the way.

 

I think maybe we all have occasions when this type of feeling prevails. We probably do not all express it in the same ways, but inside it is identical.

 

And it does us a world of good.

 

"I believe the greatest gift I can conceive of having from anyone is to be seen by them, heard by them, to be understood and touched by them." ~Virginia Satir

 

Run your fingers through my soul~

THE MAGICAL ARTIST

I do love to sing the praises of people who I find to be extraordinary in some way or another. And I have just the perfect person to sing about today!

 

His name is Samarel. Artist. Magic Man. Wizard.

 

While I was already familiar with his erotic artwork (I LOVE erotica), I "met" him after I discovered that he did personal sensual portraits for people. Wanting to surprise my husband with a canvas portrait of the two of us for our upcoming anniversary, I contacted Samarel. I had questions to ask him. He was quick to respond, and I sent him a photograph for him to work from. Soon I was in possession of an impossibly gorgeous canvas print of the hubby and me. The colors he utilized and his technique were captivating.

 

I was enchanted.

 

I went back to him for more.

 

The above image is one he did for me from this photograph of myself taken in October:

 

 

He was able to slip inside of my mind and see what resides there. The rare and quiet times when I can immerse myself in my thoughts and feelings. His natural instincts led him to apply the colors and designs to give depth to the image and a meaning that the photograph was unable to express. This will be carved into my headstone...the only addition is that wings will be added. You see, he unknowingly chose designs that resonate with who I am. That golden orb in the upper right corner TO ME is the moon. And I am a child of the nite. I also see an angel in the upper left corner. I do have angels watching over me. Of that I am sure. The colors are precisely right to match the solitude of the moment.

 

This portrait is on canvas. A 24" x 36" canvas. And it will proudly hang on my wall.

 

Aside from his obvious wizardry with digital imagery, the man is a good one. Kind. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Sexy. Extremely funny, too! I enjoy and appreciate him a tremendous amount.

 

If you are looking for a clever and unique gift to give someone, or even to give to yourself, do consider having a portrait done by this delightful and talented artist. I guarantee that you will be pleased.

 

You can view his portrait site here: Samarel's Custom Portraits

 

"And my aim in life is to make pictures and drawings, as many and as well as I can; then, at the end of my life, I hope to pass away, looking back with love and tender regret, and thinking, 'Oh, the pictures I might have made.' " ~Vincent Van Gogh

Tags: Samarel, custom art, artist, art, digital imagery

WHERE ARE MY EYEBROWS?

I really did used to have eyebrows. Two of them. No unibrow on me! They were not dainty little arched eyebrows. They were wide and thick. They were black...just like my eyelashes. Their shape was nice. Curved just right, I felt. I never really paid much attention to them. After all, I had had them for as long as I could remember. I took them for granted. I wish I hadn't.

I was sent to charm school. Yes, you heard me. CHARM SCHOOL. My parents sent me to it. Gee, wonder why? ::grin:: They never sent my three sisters there. I was the "lucky" one who got (needed) to go. My God, I think it ruined me for life.

 

The first day in walked our main teacher. She wore a very pleasant smile on her face. She introduced herself and scanned the room. While she was scanning all of us giggly females, she was talking about how pretty (liar) we were. She commented on the entire group as a whole. She did not single out any one person for specific praise. We all had lovely hair. We all had fine figures. We all had nice posture. We all had outstanding cheekbones. We all had well-tended and well-tweezed eyebrows......

 

And it was right then that she parked her eyes on my thick eyebrows and said, "Well, all of us except one." I was horrified. I felt my face heat up, and I am quite certain my coloring was scarlet. She might as well have dragged me out of my seat and taken me to the front of the class to show the other girls how NOT to ever allow their eyebrows to look. I really did want to cry. I was so humiliated.

 

After I got home, I did not tell my parents what had happened. I was too embarrassed. Besides, parents always think their kids are attractive. They just would have tried to bolster my deflated self-image. No, it was best that I keep the snide remark to myself. It was also best if I could find Mom's tweezers and fix my apparently atrocious eyebrow situation.

 

I rooted through Mom's makeup and face and body creams and hairspray until I came upon the needed tweezers. Then I leaned very close to the mirror. I grabbed hold of one of the hairs with her trusty tweezers and pulled. Oh my God. The pain. It was wicked nasty. I was shocked. And I had about a bazillion more hairs that would need yanked out if I was going to have the "proper" eyebrows for a young lady. I remember pausing and wondering if I really and truly cared what that teacher thought of my damn eyebrows.

 

And I did care. If she thought they were unpleasant, then surely every other person on the planet must think they were awful, too. Right?

 

So I plucked and plucked and plucked. Tears filled my eyes with every rip of the tweezers. The entire area beneath the freshly tweezed eyebrows was a harsh red and swollen. Ah, but I had nice and thin eyebrows. Mission accomplished.

 

At the next session of charm school, the teacher once again complimented all of us. She even made mention of how ALL of us had lovely eyebrows and smiled directly at me. That time there was no exception. I was in the cool club. The Beautiful Brows Club.

 

My eyebrows never grew back. Sure, I would get the strays here and there. But never many. And never enough to even come close to being the way they were prior to that initial tweezing. Fine by me. I had great eyebrows. Poor schmucks who had to maintain their eyebrows. I was so lucky I did not have to, wasn't I?

 

Then Brooke Shields came on the scene with her thick ones. And everyone had to have ones just like hers. I would have had to use a paint roller to get my skinny little brows to look like that. I did try an eyebrow pencil to add some bulk, but that was a disaster. I tend to knead that portion of my face when I am perplexed. Smeared eyebrows is not a hot look.

 

That trend passed, but the stars never seemed to return to the very thin eyebrows. They found a happy median between the two. One I can never reach.

 

I sit here with my barely there eyebrows and curse that teacher. Had it not been for her, I would have never thinned my brows to this extent.

 

I want my eyebrows back.

 

"The eyebrows form but a small part of the face, and yet they can darken the whole of life by the scorn they express." ~Demetrius (Phalereus)

 

Oh mannnnn, now I find out I cannot even express scorn without eyebrows. ::sigh of disgust::

Tags: eyebrows, charm school

DANCE OF THE DEMONS

Tags: poetry

EYE ROLL EARNERS

There are those occasions and those people who earn my patented, exaggerated eye roll. I am annoyed by the situations or the people, and my eye roll just happens. Involuntarily. Sometimes, though, when an annoyance becomes habitual, I have this "thing" I do and say to the person. I reach up and tug down my lower eyelid and say, "Note the concern in my eye?" Ever hear me say that, and you will know I want nothing to do with you anymore. You are done. Gone. Tell it to someone else.

 

I became aware of the fact that I eye roll probably more often than I had realized. We all probably do. What drivers have not rolled their eyes when an idiot cuts in front of them? Okay, there could be a few colorful words muttered and a hand gesture to accompany the eye roll. But, the eye roll is there.

 

Stores are a terrific place to count the number of eye roll times. Topping the count would be those people who ram right into me in their hurry to get to the toilet paper on sale. ::snicker:: They practically knock off my shoulder and say absolutely nothing. No "excuse me." No "I'm sorry." Geez. I am not going to bark anything at them when they do it, because they probably bite. And usually look like rabies shots were not a part of their health care. Oddly enough, the "store cart ankle clippers" almost always apologize for destroying my Achilles' tendons. I like courtesy. Even if I am left temporarily crippled.

 

Sporting events are a real treat. It is a small wonder my eyes have not permanently taken up residence under my upper eyelids. Adults acting like spoiled, undisciplined children. Shouting out the most obnoxious insults to youngsters (ack, don't really old people use the word "youngster"?). Even at the college level, fans need to remember that the players are still teenagers or have only just barely turned 20 or 21. That is young. They also need to remember that most arenas and stadiums adhere to the one-seat-per-person rule. That's right. You have your seat number, and I have mine. Stay OFF my seat. No sprawling your arms and legs into my personal space, either. I have practically raced to sit down on stadium benches after some super athletic or scoring play brought everyone to their feet in order to avoid being shoved six rows down when the stranger to my left decides to park his usually wide load onto MY seat. Even when there are individual, separated seats, it amazes me how people plant their elbows into your ribs or steal your cup holder.

 

Moving on to another eye roller. Ah, I refer to them as the "don't confuse me with facts" folks. Good grief. If it is raining and the evidence is in their drenched clothing and rivulets of raindrops cascading down their faces, do not insist it is NOT raining if I say it is. We are not talking opinion. It is fact. If the facts happen to get in the way of your beliefs, suck it up like a big boy or girl. Just do not do battle with me.

 

Snobs. They are better than everyone else, aren't they? Just ask them. ::grin:: If I do not laugh at them, I eye roll instead. I am never quite sure if their snobbery is masking extreme insecurities or if they truly believe they are superior. Either way, they do need to grasp the concept that there will always be people who are prettier, wealthier, nicer, smarter, funnier, etc., than they are. It does not negate their worth. It simply establishes that they are not perfection personified and had best not expect me to drop to my knees and kiss their feet.

 

There, that is a smattering of eye roll earners. I am certain I could go on and on, but I do not want to dwell on it. I do not even know what exactly prompted me to write about this. I had one of those grand weekends that just felt soooo right. You know what kind I mean. The kind that finds you singing up a storm, feeling all content, walking with an extra bounce in your step...yet there is no one thing you could identify as the reason why you feel that way. You just do.

 

And you love the feeling...

 

Far more than the feeling of eye rolls.

 

"What annoyances are more painful than those of which we cannot complain?" ~Marquis De Custine

MY COMFORT AND JOY

This painting o' mine is completed. I think. Okay, I am sure I will still pick at it and add little highlights here and there before I call it done.

 

Somewhere, somehow, and from someone, I had a photo of this scene. I have no idea who sent it to me with the suggestion that I attempt to paint it. It immediately grabbed me, and I knew I would try to do just that. I could not decide if it would be suited best for acrylics, watercolors, or pastels. The pastels won out. I like the freedom they give me when I use them. 

 

I worked on it far longer than I typically do any of my paintings. It sat on my drafting table while I hovered over it working the pastels into the mix. I had to keep getting up and walking away from it at times. I was not getting the depth right. It was maddening. I finally put it on the easel. There, I was able to work more easily. I could see where details were necessary to give it a three-dimensional quality.

 

It was a nightmare and a pleasant dream. A source of frustration and delight. An exercise in futility and small success. And through it all, it still brought me contentment. I am certain that is why I play with my paints. They do take me to a place inside of me where tranquility exists. I need to visit it often.

 

The husband wants this painting for his office. My daughter wants it for her room. My son simply says he likes when I use pastels. And I? I want it for myself.

 

"If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced." ~Vincent Van Gogh

Run your fingers through my soul~

Tags: pastels, painting