In 2002 we ran away from Illinois where we were born and raised, and started a new life in SW Florida. This blog is about me (an eccentric old artist), ROM (my Real Old Man), Isabella (our neurotic Standard Poodle) and Emmy (our crazy snake killing Jack Russell Terrier). Oh- and the neighborhood old people. Life is good in Florida!

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Tuesday, June 23, 2015

So My Titties Aren't Good Enough For You?

Is there anything more boring than shopping for groceries? Well, there actually might be things that are more boring, but it has to be in the top 10. I hate it. As we wait in line I always read the tabloid headlines to ROM to catch him up on all the celebrity gossip. Not that he really cares- he is so not into pop culture and celebrity dirt. But it amuses me and kills time while we wait. So whether he cares about the latest Real Housewives scandal or why the world hates Kanye this week, I'm going to inform him. 

Last weekend as we waited in line to spend a small fortune on two bags of groceries, I scanned the tabloid headlines to find something interesting to share with him. (You know, they say communication is the key to a healthy and happy relationship. Perhaps David wouldn't have cheated if Shannon had read tabloid headlines to him.) The headline that caught my attention was about Kriss Kardashian being jealous of Caitlyn's popularity and money. I explained to ROM that Caitlyn reached one million followers on Twitter quicker than anyone ever! And she was making bucket loads of money for photos, interviews and TV shows. And then it occurred to me....

Me: You should consider transgendering. Evidently there's big money to be made. We could get that cottage on the beach.

ROM: I don't think Medicare covers that kind of surgery.

Me: To save money I could give you my old titties.

ROM: But then you wouldn't have any titties. 

Me: Well, I could get new ones with the money you'd make from your story.

ROM: So I'm stuck with your old titties and you get new ones? 

Me: Oh, so my titties aren't good enough for you? I'll remember that next time you want to touch them! 

And I didn't speak to him all the way home. Or let him touch my titties. 

Saturday, June 13, 2015

I Was Born A Poor Black Child...

I was born a poor black child... I was born in a teepee in Montana ... On a dark stormy Montana night, I was born a poor black child in a van down by the river... It was never easy for me. In the middle of a dark starless night, as the worst blizzard in Montana history raged outside, I was born a poor black child in a teepee. In the middle of a dark starless night, as the worst blizzard in Montana history raged outside our teepee, I was born a poor black child to an abusive white mother and father step father . The abuse started even before I took my first breath. With each contraction, my mother's cruel uterus muscles forced me from her womb. I remember the pain I suffered as the walls of her vagina pushed me out into the heartless world. Weak, cold and crying I sought the comfort of my mother's breast but she denied me even that small act of kindness. Instead of putting me at her breast to suckle, she wrapped me in a old dirty rag and shoved me to the side of the teepee. When I continued to cry, my father my step father placed me outside the teepee where the blizzard continued to rage. 

I was sure I would die alone in the frigid cold and be buried by the heavy snow. Soon I was so weak all I could do was faintly whimper. I was barely conscious when I felt warm breath on my face as something grabbed my swaddled rag in its teeth and carried me away. I drifted off into a an exhausted sleep. The next thing I remember was awakening in a cave in an underground den as I was gently licked by a warm tongue and nudged toward a milk filled teat. And that is how I began my life as the youngest member of a pack of wolves. 

I was raised by wolves for the first four years of my life. By the age of one I was running and hunting with the pack. At the age of two I invented the bow and arrow and the ability to make fire. By the age of four I had learned everything my beloved wolf pack could teach me. It was then that they first suggested I go to Africa and connect with my roots. The only problem was how would I get there? One of my wolf aunts suggested we set up a Go Fund Me account and soon there was enough money to buy a plane ticket to South Africa. 

I arrived in Africa alone and unsure where to start in search for my roots.  As I wandered alone in the jungle I was adopted by a troop of baboons the streets alone I was taken in by an African family. I learned how to braid black hair and to create sculptures from elephant dung. But like I said, it was never easy for me. Though my darker skinned siblings were treated the worst, we were all beaten with baboon whips for the smallest transgressions. Many a night I cried myself to sleep, longing to be back with my beloved wolf pack. 

In my teen years, my amazing elephant dung sculptures won many prestigious awards. I was making quite an impression in the art world and this exposure brought me to the attention of Howard University. When they offered me a full scholarship for my graduate degree I was on the first flight out of Africa. I was as surprised as the the dean of Howard U when after I showered and washed all the elephant dung off that I was a fair skinned freckled blonde.  In spite of my fair skin and blond hair I was allowed to stay, though some of my black professors were unduly harsh with me. But I persevered, completed my master's degree and married a black man. 

Married life wasn't easy, because just like my mother and father step father, my husband was mean. After just a couple of years, I divorced my abusive spouse. The judge awarded me my husband's race in our divorce settlement and my transformation into a black woman began. My skin started to magically darken and my blond locks took on the texture and appearance of a true black woman. When my metamorphosis from a pale washed out white girl into a beautiful black woman was complete I decided to devote my life to fighting for my ex-husband's people my people's rights. 

I'm not sure exactly where or when, but I found my black father. I knew that mean white man who threw me out of the teepee into a horrific blizzard wasn't my real father! I had journeyed to Africa and back looking for my roots only to discover that Dad was right here in America.

I've been the target of eight documented unfounded hate crimes as I've fought for racial equality. Have I mentioned it's never been easy for me? But no threatening letters or nooses can deter me, for I am a proud black woman. By god, this is my story and I'm sticking to it no matter what my cruel white mother and step father say. Or what my adopted brother says. Or what my black father says. Or what my birth certificate says... 


I am proud black woman Rachel Dolezal- hear me roar! 

...an award-winning Mixed Media Artist with over 20 exhibitions in 13 states, internationally, and at the United Nations Headquarters. Dolezal completed her Master of Fine Arts at Howard University, where she majored in experimental studio and minored in sculpture. She has over 10 years experience in community development, human rights education, and intercultural negotiations. She is currently an Art Instructor at North Idaho College, Adjunct Professor of African American Culture at Eastern Washington University, Advisor for the NIC Black Student Association, speaker, education consultant, and exhibiting artist.


(This is a tongue in cheek spoof based on the recent news stories about Rachel Dolezal. Material for this spoof was found at Easterner OnlineCoeur d' Alene Press, Ms. Dolezal's blog and the movie "The Jerk".)

Update 6/15/15: Over the weekend I found another interview with Rachel where she weaves more of her bizarre tale. 

Update- Now even the authenticity of one of Rachel's art works is being challenged. A Huffington Post article compares her painting "The Shape of Our Kind" to J.M.W. Turner's "1840 The Slave Ship".

Saturday, June 6, 2015

You Copulate and Then You Die...

It was a rainy gloomy Saturday for those of us living on the Suncoast of the Sunshine State -oh, the irony. After it stopped raining I walked around the yard taking pictures, then parked my ass at my desk looking out on the front yard. I don't know if it was because of the earlier rain or what, but there was a lot of nature drama going on outside my window. 

After the rain... 







I was strolling through my Twitter timeline and happened to glance up to see several catbirds swarming and bombarding a hawk.  I'm guessing the catbirds must have a nest close by and were protecting their territory. Have to say I enjoyed watching the smaller birds hold their own with a predator, kind of like watching a Twitter troll get handed their ass when they pick on the wrong person. 


The next thing I noticed when I looked out the window were two flirting geckos on my yard light pole. The females have a white strip down their backs so it's easy to tell which gender they are.  The female was acting quite brazen- stretching out her full length with her ass in his face. He seemed to be in no hurry, occasionally inflating his bright orange double chin (I dunno what that orange sac thingie they inflate is called or if it has any correlation to the size of their penis, but he sure seemed proud of it ) as she waited patiently for him to get his freak on.  After a couple false starts he finally engaged and just as he finished...  a crow swooped down and flew away with the poor little gecko dude hanging limply in it's beak. Damn, talk about the circle of life.  It was a bit disturbing watching the gecko dude go from experiencing one of the greatest pleasures of life to experiencing life's final and most dreaded event. 


I was relieved the female got away until I noticed she was back on the light pole and had attracted yet another mate. Good lord, what a heartless slut! I'd be damned if I'd watch another gecko forfeit his life fertilizing the eggs of this insatiable floozy. So I went outside and yelled at the birds hanging around and chased the geckos deep into the bouganvillia. As soon as I got back to my desk, the geckos reappeared on the light post. So back out I went, only for them to reappear on the light pole as soon as I returned to my desk. This went on several times and the last time Emmy followed me out. When we came back in she jumped up on the ottoman and spit out a mangled little tree frog. Jezzuz, I was living in my own up close and personal horror show! Sex, violence and death all around me! 


After ROM cleaned up the frog corpse, he suggested we go shopping as a distraction from the copulating geckos, killer crows and Emmy the Barbarian. I'll tell you the shopping story in a couple days... but when we got home the gecko prostitution whore was on the light pole with yet another little dude. We're going to need Maury Povish to run some DNA tests to determine who fertilized this slut's eggs. 

Taken thru my window- note the slutty gecko circled
in yellow.


Wednesday, June 3, 2015

It All Started With A Jeep, Okay?

Why is it that some people can not pick up on body language? I was at a neighbor's the other day when an old guy pulled up in a gorgeous bright yellow Jeep. I made the mistake of telling him I loved his Jeep...

He launched into a monologue about every Jeep he ever owned, what kind of suspensions they had and where he drove them. He was also one of those annoying people who ends every single frigging sentence with "okay".  After the first few minutes I lost all interest in what he was saying. I tried to change the subject but he was on roll and wasn't about to be distracted from his recitation of his vehicle history. His monologue about jeeps continued to flow like diarrhea from a cruise ship tourist with norovirus. I wanted to scream "Shut the hell up, okay!" But I didn't because I'm a nice person, ain't I, Joe? (Yous non-watchers of Real Housewives of New Jersey won't understand that last sentence.)

I tried to be patient while he regurgitated all his knowledge of Jeeps- "okay"? My eyes glazed over, I fidgeted, kept glancing at my neighbor in hopes she'd save me, but she'd checked out of the conversation and was busy pulling weeds. Finally I couldn't take it anymore, "okay"?

I spoke up and told him I knew nothing about Jeep models, suspensions, or engines, but that I did know a thing about colors and I loved his Jeep's shade of yellow. Then I proceeded to start a lecture on the color yellow and explained there are cool yellows and warm yellows. When he started to speak again I talked louder and over him as I rattled off examples of cool yellows and warm yellows. Then I gave him a big smile, told him it was nice chatting but I had to get back home, "okay"? 

And now I hate Jeeps. Okay?