I’m glad you can’t see my kitchen right now. It looks as though a bomb went off.
Yesterday, my mom and I went out for lunch at one of our favorite places in Spokane, the Onion. We also love Tomato Street, but, hey, we had to make a choice. So it was the Onion–partly because the food is so good and partly because it’s across the parking lot from Michael’s. You know if you read this blog that I’m into folk art, and mixed-media is my passion–color, texture, sparkle! I love it all. (Life would be so much simpler if I had one of those hobbies that involve a single set of supplies, like needlepoint or even painting in oils. But NO, I’ve gotta be into mixed media, which means I am forever finding and trying a wide variety of supplies, new and old.)
Anyone who had ever seen my art-room/studio (never mind my kitchen on the weekend when Mary Ann isn’t here to whip the place into shape), would quite understandably ask themselves, “What else could this woman POSSIBLY need?”
Well, here’s a for-instance. That darned Martha Stewart is at it again–her company sells the best glitter, and now those stinkers have added tiny little beads in about a million-jillion colors and something called ‘tinsel glitter’, which is like teeny tiny itsy bitsy sparkly confetti. Then there are the iridescent sprinkles that will look so nice in angels’ wings…
You get the idea. Between the Michael’s bags and the grocery store bags and the rest of it, I have some surface-clearing to do. I also have a manuscript to read through, a lunch date with my sister-in-law, Karen, and her delightful grandchildren, Karmen and Jeff, and an outline to flesh out for my angelic editor, Joan Marlow Golan. (I say ‘angelic’ because she’s never tried to kill me, even with extreme provocation. :))
Oh, yes. And I probably should pack for tomorrow’s flight to sunny California!!!!
This time last year, we were buried under five feet of snow and I was seriously bummed out because that meant my daughter and someday-son-in-law couldn’t get here for Christmas. What a difference a year–and the proper medication–can make.
Told you it was misellaneous chatter. If you read this far, you have no one to blame but yourself.