The story of them

Whiles searching through a bin of odds and ends at the local thrift, I came across a number of wonderful animals all waiting for their next adventure. With their fresh faces and bright colors, I knew it would be only a matter of time before some child would take them home. In the midst of “the pretties” I found some odd-looking, unlikely to be leaving, misfits. I’m a bit of a oddity myself so after debating my inability to leave them…I grabbed these unloved creatures and took them with me. At home, I sat pondering them while they watched me eat my lunch. I began to wonder about their stories…and that’s when they began to whisper…

Dwight Threetoe was born to Livingston and Maudette on the Island of Amphibianina, a lost sister to the Galapagos. Dwight showed an amazing afinity for style at an early age and, while his siblings could change color to match their surroundings, Dwight could also sparkle like sequens. His parents found this wonderfully entertaining on dark nights while preparing the evening meal. But at 15, Dwight felt his calling and left to follow his dream of becoming a Fashionista. Sadly his toenails kept snagging the fabrics and he had to leave the dream behind. His search for new interests brought him to the big Apple where, after competing on a food show called “Chopped”, executives realized his true potential and offered him his own pilot. Viewers at home became mesmerized by Dwight’s unusually flamboyant clothing (which in reality was his skin) and his ability to chop, dice and mince with a single toenail. The show “Slice and Dice” became an instant favorite and now Dwight’s three toe impressions can be found on the Walk of Fame.

Memphis, future King of Bongo, fell into a tourist’s suitcase while imitating a James Bond low evading tuck and roll manuver. Once the case was reopened, he found himself on the West Coast, making friends easily with his natural good looks and charm. He was offered many choice roles in Hollywood but the bright lights soon bored him and he found himself drawn to Monster Trucks. His career was cut short when Dumai, his loyal bodyguard, found him chattering away with a group of grease monkeys and took him back the Motherland after a thorough cleansing and trip to D-Land.

Dumai (loyal friend and bodyguard to Memphis) was born into a family of tactical warfare extremists. He trained early in marshal arts, bull riding and missile deployment… though his mother felt ballet would give him a “extra little something”. Through his skills, he came under the notice of Kong, King of Bongo, and was chosen to shadow his son. At Dumai’s appointment ceremony, King Kong made note of his combat knowledge, sheer bulk and lethal piercing eyes but admitted it was Dumai’s natural grace that finally won him the opportunity to serve. Dumai’s Mother beamed. Memphis and he were inseparably until the suitcase incident. They were both relieved to be reunited, then took the trip to Disneyland before returning back home.

Lola is the love child of a famous actress/dancer and a mystery man she met in the jungle trees on a long gone vacation. Born with the natural grace of a dancer, Lola trained for years as a ballerina, only to slip on a banana peel in the middle of a perfect pirouette. Once recovered, she made her way to the city of lights where she was invited to join the cast of Jungle Book. She can be heard singing on Tuesdays and Saturdays at the Fried Plantain Theatre and Review.

Hamburgler was born into a family of vegans who noticed early on his habit of nose twitching when neighbors would barbeque. Afraid for his future, his Mother would hide his allowance which, unknowingly ignited his life of crime. Dressed in his bedtime pajamas, he would sneak out at odd hours of the night in search of a local butcher shop. With fresh ground chuck in hand, he would then locate the nearest barbeque grill and fire up. After receiving several complaints of pickle chip litter, the authorities followed a trail of mustard and found Hamburgler consuming mass quantities of stolen red meat. He was released to the custody of Ronald MacDonald, where he spends his days in “grilling-but-not-eating restitution”, forced to wear red neckties.

Silver City

A recent road trip, originally planned for San Fransisco, made a quick detour east to Silver City, New Mexico. Rain was in the forecast…and rain…well… my camera (and my hair) have issues with it. Once you enter the California dessert and go on into Arizona, the music changes along with the food and the people. Lucerno is on the radio, sleeping hound dogs are found in convenience stores and snake-skin boots make their entrance. At one stop, a Motel 8, Mike inquired if there were flat screen TV’s in the rooms. The gentleman, not in on the joke, stared first…then got it with a guffaw. He and his bride were recent transplants from Minnesota and, not missing the snow, were settling into the heat nicely. The next morning, we realized we were staying at “truck stop heaven” and I found the most amazing flag-draped truck in the back lot. I wasn’t alone.

We set out again, going through old towns, in search of places of interest.  We turned off at Bowie to see the old mining fort. The town itself was desolate, except on the outskirts, where it seems pecans and pistachios are grown in abundance. I saw horses walking freely between farms without fences…although they took one look at my ready camera and turned their big arses towards me. I didn’t take it personal… I don’t like having my own photo taken.

Once we stopped at the end of a long and winding dirt road, we encountered the sign that said “a gentle 1-1/2 mile walked with good trail”... People, if you EVER see a sign with those words, get the hell back in your car and drive away…fast. We started down the “gentle” trail, and about a mile into it, I had an asthma attack. I think God (or my Father in his angel form) sent the deer in just to check on me.

We made it as far as the old cemetary where a soldier had received the Medal of Honor and a small child (Geronimo’s son) had been laid to rest. From there, you could see the fort with the flag blowing gently…taunting… straight up the side of a rather large hill. I gave Mike the nod and we went back before I myself was laid to rest. To add insult, while driving out, we noticed a sign previously missed coming in. It was the handicapped entrance and apparently you could drive straight there…

When we reached Silver City, my first impression was “Haight Asbury meets Wyoming”. I had never seen so many old hippies together in one place…except maybe in that old Woodstock movie. Later (inside an antique store) my observation was confirmed on a tee-shirt…“Where all hippies go”. Beyond the hippies, I saw cowboys going about their business, even a few kids standing up on hay and one gentleman having a conversation with a cinder-block fence. In my estimation, he appeared to winning, but that block wall was holding pretty firm.

We stayed at the oldest hotel in the town…a place called The Palace. You had to park wherever you could and the curbs (I swear) were 24 inches high. Once parked, if you were too close to the curb, you couldn’t get your car door open for love or money. I made sure I didn’t need to get back in before I made the big step up. I went inside to inquire about a room and was followed in by an older, sprightly couple from Derbyshire, England. I’d been there in my travels (Pride and Prejudice ya know) and we made an instant connection. We waited, while hearing strange sounds coming from what appeared to be the adjacent bar, trying to keep up a normal conversation. The hotel lady finally came in and gave us several keys to check out the available rooms on our own, explaining she was very busy trying to get a pigeon out of the bar. I wanted to ask her if the bird needed help with his tab, but stopped myself, aware that this might be these folks first visit to the states. At least we now knew what all the yelling was and it seemed a somewhat reasonable explanation.

Her Majesty’s loyal subjects and I mounted the stairs and explored (and of course commented on) each of the room selections. The place was built in the mid 1800’s, all moldings and narrow hallways, and it certainly had its charm. Being the polite American I am, I let them have first pick of the three available and naturally… they picked my only choice. When we went  downstairs, apparently the bird had been liberated and the lady had recruited the balance of her faculties, saying “Oh, there’s another room”! “Thank God” I whispered, not wanting to be next to the breakfast area, I leaped up the stairs with the key. It was perfect with beautiful natural light, a window view up the street and at the very end of the hall and cheap!

Room reserved, camera in hand, we marched out onto the unsuspecting streets. We met up with a hippie Santa trying to give out candy canes but I feel certain his normal day  job is growing medicinal marijuana. There were interesting folks all up and down the streets…even a cowboy selling his prize farm beef from cooler chests…and thankfully none were camera-shy. We passed up a young girl with a sign that said she was giving out “good advise”. She looked about 20 so I was fairly certain about the decision to pass. I have a cat about that age so I thought I’d save money and just have a chat with Avree when I got home. We visited one new gallery that was hard to miss because the sidewalk was painted with colorful big round dots that said “Follow me”. Naturally I wanted to.  After walking a bit more, tummies were growling, so we stopped at a restaurant that said “cafe”on a neon sign. I love Mexican food but I’d had it 4 meals in a row and decided I just wanted an ordinary sandwich. I ordered an egg salad sandwich and that my friends…is exactly what I got…A fried egg on 2 slices of bead with a piece of lettuce on top. Literal took on a whole new meaning. Back outside, we noticed a sign hanging from a bridge. I shot it and it appears in an earlier story. I put it here again for those who missed it. I had to read it a few times before I understood it, but if you take the town tour, it all starts making sense.

Back at The Palace, I took my book down to the cozy lobby to read. Our room was a bit small…and what with the flat screen blaring…

Down in the lobby, I found a nice big burgundy velveteen chair with a matching footstool, and made myself at home with my book and a box of good n’ plenty. Just as things were getting good, some lady opened the door and went outside, leaving the door cracked open and all the freaking cold air coming in on me. I got up, shut it and resettled. She then came back in, placed a phone on a lamp table, put the door kickstand down and went back out. This went on a few times for the sake of her nicotine habit. Just before I strangled her to death (I’m pretty sure they still hang people there for crimes) I went back upstairs. I grabbed my coat and went to the coffee-house owned by the Palace… but not before giving her the stink eye.

I got settled in with a nice hot chai latte and big chocolate chip cookie. I had to tell the guy behind the counter what I would pay because there were no prices and he was new. Then the Harley guys started filing in. I wrote about them  previously and it’s somewhere below here. I found them entertaining and friendly with their contagious holiday cheer as they dressed for the local childrens Christmas party. It was fun to watch them take off toward the school complete with a police escort.

After coffee, another trip down the streets, and some interesting window shopping. I’m not sure the connection between Elvis and Christmas, but he’d be proud to know he’s remembered in Silver City.

Guess who’s coming to Halloween…

The Unfortunate Groom

Photography by Photo444

Gathering at the Tombstones

Photography by Photo444

Haunting Mariachi

Photography by Photo444

The offering

Photography by Photo444

Paying it forward

I am in need of a painter. The gallery has very high pitched walls with a beautiful wooden ceiling. I don’t have a ladder that even remotely will get me to the top…and given 2 Halloween events ago and my “ladder incident”, I wouldn’t even think of it for my poor right ankle’s sake.

So…last evening I got out the “Yellow Book” which covers my entire area. I opened it to the painter section and flipped through. Me being “picky”, I chose the ad with the best looking design. It was simplistic, angled and had good graphic elements applied. Now I realize that most of you out there (who don’t know me) are trying to figure out what the heck an ad has to do with the quality of a paint service. Not a whole lot.

But, as I’ve said before, there are powers working here that are much greater than me. I’m just the one who is putting them into action. So I called John’s Quality Painting and as it happens, John lives about 1.5 miles from me. He came over within 20 minutes to have a look at the area. John is about 22-25 (I’m guessing) and as I spoke to him, I knew a kindred spirit and shared the many details of this gallery adventure. In return John shared his love of Interior Design and Architecture with me and I got to know a bit about him. When John left I felt confident I had found the right person.

I spoke to John today, so I could get his pricing and let him know the color choices I’ve made. John told me over the phone he would accept no money from me for the gallery painting. He wanted to do it as a gift to the cause. I was stunned…still am to be truthful. He just wants to be a part in helping. He said he believes in “paying it forward’ (my own motto)…at that I had to hold back some tears…

I hope to see alot of John hanging out at the gallery in the future. He has a great heart and is definitely my kind of people.

Cookin…good

Anyone that knows me…knows I am domestically challenged. I can make a pair of butterfly wings out of 4 straws and a roll of toilet paper…but ask me to cook…and whew…! We went shopping for fruit and salad making stuff today, nothing that requires a pan, a platter or an oven …. taking a day away from the gallery madness. I saw my Husband looking longingly at some form of pasta. There were about 18 different kinds sitting on the shelf…which all taste exactly the same to me… I guess it comes down to which one is less challenging to eat. I told him, in a moment of recklessness, go ahead…get one! Well, as luck would have it, he took me up on it.

Then of course, you have to pick out some of that dreaded red pasta sauce. I just grabbed the Trader Joe’s store brand. What’s the difference. I knew perfectly well I could burn them all the same! Then of course he had to have some form of meat by product in it so, heck, I grabbed some turkey-chicken sausage looking thing out of the refrigerated section. Man, I was really on a roll. Heck, why not get some bread and some of that fake cheese in the green can. Nothing like shaking your cheese from a hole pierced can…so off we went.

Arriving home…First off, I had to look for some pans. My pans are somewhere in a drawer with paper towels in between to keep them from scratching! I don’t know why I should care if they get scratched because I actually haven’t looked at them for at least 6 years, but apparently I did care at one time. I also found some of those big spoons, both pierced and not pierced, in the same drawer. Hell, I didn’t even know I owned any of them. I was reaching gourmet status! They had to be from someone else’s house, left over from someone else using my kitchen to cook in…for me!

Well, anyway, I studied the pans trying to determine which one was supposed to hold the separate items. I decided on the biggest pot for the noodles. I got the package and here came my first stumbling block. “Add 4 quarts of water to a pan”. I had no idea how much water 4 quarts was so started to look at my cell phone thinking of panic messaging . I stopped and pondered. I found a measuring cup…God knows where it came from…but nothing about quarts. I actually found another one that was larger…but still nothing. I got out my blender…yes, I do have one for smoothies! No, nothing about quarts!. So I had to go to Google. Heck, they know everything! 16 cups of water to 4 quarts! I went back to the kitchen and studied the pan trying to determine how much water it would hold. Then I thought, “I’m not going to use up all my damn bottled water on these stupid noodles” so I went to the tap. I figured it was going to boil anyway, so whatever was floating would be incinerated! I added 16 cups of water with a one cup measuring thing…it took time…but heck, I was cookin! I put it on the stove and tried to decide if I needed a lid. “Yep, I might as well!”

Then I took the fake sausage out of the fridge and started cutting it up into pieces. Now I have lots of knives but only one will actually cut. I think I bought the rest with my friend Kathy at Pic-n-Save when we were teens. The one that does cut is only about 2 inches long…so yep, it took a while. I studied the pans left and made a choice for the fake sausage. I had no idea if I was supposed to put something in the pan with the sausage…but I didn’t have anything anyway, so in it went… solo. It did take me a while to realize I didn’t turn that portion of the stove on…but finally I mastered it. I then went confidently on to salad. Now salad I know. I eat the stuff everyday so a-washing I went.

In the meantime everything started bubbling and boiling, spitting and hissing at once… so I yelled at my Husband to come help me. He knows just as much as I do but it was his bright idea so I told him to “Stir something”. It was about this time that I looked at the fake sausage package and realized it was already cooked! I like food burnt anyway, just like my Mom always made, so I didn’t feel it was going to be a real problem… as I watched my Husband running in and out of the room , trying to keep tabs on a basketball game at the same time. The pasta water at some point looked like the term “rolling boil” so I added the noodles and then I looked at the clock on the microwave. 8 minutes! Mike added the sauce out of the jar to the sausage and wow, we were actually cooking real food!

I completed my salad and went to work on a fruit plate. Yep, I know fruit too. Then I dragged out some bread and remembered we didn’t get any butter, suspiciously found some in the fridge…no idea how old it was or where it came from…but it looked like butter to me…so I spread it on the bread! The pasta was done so I left Mike to drain it somehow. I was to afraid to watch. I knew he wouldn’t sit at the table, being the sports fan he is, so I tried to find some trays to carry it all on. I came up with 2 things that looked slightly like cookie baking sheets, flat, silver but only one edge bent up? Feel free to claim them if you read this and they’re yours!

Well, it actually turned out pretty good. At least we both ate it and retained it in our bellies! He settled in for his game and I carried all the stuff back to the kitchen. Now I will say that even though I don’t cook, I never mind washing dishes…unless of course it’s Thanksgiving and it’s involves my Grandmother’s first edition, first year…Dessert Rose dishes that I’m actually terrified to handle. So I started to run some water in the sink when the dish soap came to my mind…and the fact that I didn’t have any and hadn’t for some time. I searched around the house and decided on the “Pure and Natural” hand soap in the bathroom… because it has a nice rosemary mint smell and is hypo allergenic too! That had to be good for something! Then I realized I would need dish towels and couldn’t find any because I probably used them years ago to shine some shoes or dry a cat. I went to the linen closets and got out the bath towels. I draped them all over the counters and rolled up my sleeves and went to work. I just finished and they are sitting in a huge pile…drying. Eventually I will put them away…but as for cooking, I feel I’m good for at least another 6 years. I’m definitely open to any offers to cook for me though. I promise to wash all the non-Dessert Rose dishes ya got! 🙂

Taking Notice

I have been wracking my brain (well, what there is left of it) to find a way to make Anuvue Studio’s new Gallery more noticible from the street. The tenants below me (although gracious and lovely people) have a “less that wonderful” sign (which I would gladly torch, steal, hide or shoot bullet holes into) (just kidding) (not really kidding) attached to my balcony…yes, it’s the only place he/she can actually hang a sign. It has been so since 1972…and who am I to re-invent the world.

So, I thought above this “Less than wonderful” sign, on the equally less than lovely wrought iron in “Baby Blue” (the first color I think of for wrought iron) …I would hang my nice new sign…with lighting…to blast both the blue iron and ug-sign to OZ. Sorry Toto. BTW, I hated those flying monkeys too.

Above my sign, I have 10 windows…and although these windows would be partially blocked (by my sign), if I picked just the right combo of photos that have most of the image on top…I could even enhance the sign with photographics, drawing the eye up…and maybe everything else would disappear…like my money. Hey, it could happen…

Some photos courtesy (stolen rather) from Photo444 😉