Little Sumpin’ and Good Friday

My hot oil treatment is making my vision blurry. The morning Jasmine on the secret walk this morning with Jack has my face red and eyes on high alert. I took my medicine this morning, but I can feel the irritation of everything on my eyes, face, and nose right now.  Jack and Fiona will be home soon. My precious time before four is coming to an end. I saw the scotch broom this morning in full bloom on the hillside. Yes, I can feel the thick spring pollen all over myself. I can feel spring all over me, on my skin, seeping out. I’ve re-claimed my spring goddess. Bead a necklace, paint a picture, smoke a j, drink a Little Sumpin’ I can’t remember if real product names are supposed to be in upper case, bold, or italics, or apostrophes? Which is it? Anyhow, Little Sumpin is an Ale from The Lagunitas Brewing Company in Petaluma, California. I love this ale, it’s like the Lagunitas IPA, which is another of my favorites.

I can hear the ocean roaring now, I can imagine the smell of the sea air and the saltiness of my face the day I sat in Dick’s Bar in Mendocino drinking Lagunitas IPA. I was an emotional wreck, I’ll save that story for later, but I got a full Lagunitas IPA experience up there on the coast. It was me. It was before kids. When I could sit on bluffs and cry looking out onto the sea or down the cliffs into beds of Kelp.

I sent copies of Naptime Paintings, Thoughts on Motherhood Through the Eyes of an Artist, to the Gallery Bookstore in Mendocino today, I’m celebrating. Even though, there was no way to make this transaction profitable, I felt strong about doing it. I am selling the books at a discounted price, compared to Amazon or the publisher’s website. It felt good. I love my book, I think it’s beautiful and a steal at $25, signed. I hope I can get some circulated.

I had the opportunity to sit outside in the back yard today. In the pollen, but my allergy pill was keeping me dry. I listened to several streams of UPS and Fed X trucks roar by. I get obsessive listening for my car coming up the hill, Jack, Fiona, and the babysitter. When the engines quiet I hear birds tweet and chimes sound like meditation bells. Drinking a Little Sumpin’, sitting on a lounge chair. I could easily languish here for the rest of the day. My legs are beat up, I can’t ride or do yoga today. I won’t make my goal of twenty rides because my legs are so tired from the insane hill run and hour heart rate threshold ride this past week. I could skip my studio, not paint, not type my story. I had to take today off, but not from working in my studio, or sending copies of my book to an actual bookstore, or walking Billy, exchanging a dress for Fiona and buying a new dress, some belts, my wardrobe in looking updated. A girl with a wardrobe, style, is a spring goddess.

I can’t believe I’ve drunk two Little sumpin’s and am considering drinking another one. I haven’t drunk more than two beers in so long.  And that happens sometimes.

This morning on Jack and my special walk a guy rode by on an electric mobile, no handle bars, with his, maybe son.  We had just crossed fourth street.

“Hey, how much them things cost ya?” a guy shouted.

He was wearing something army green with a mustache and a kind face. It was early morning, so the light diffused things.

The guy and son did not respond.

The guy in army green started to talk to the man and boy on the electric people mover in Spanish and other languages and concluded the man and son did not speak.

“That’s a wolf.” He says to me.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I can tell, with those long legs, I lived in Montana” He said.

“Cool” I say.

He howls. I howl. I try to get Billy to howl.

“She’s shy” I say.

Jack and I continue walking towards his school on our secret walk. We can hear the guy howling from Fourth Street. It sounds cool on this Good Friday.

Howling in the morning light. Mailing media. Drinking Beer. Paint and collage runs through my veins, the morning Jasmine.

Sit my body in a hot bath, let the kids watch T.V., maybe, even, drink another Little Sumpin’.

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About Dirty Laundry Blog

Thoughts on Motherhood Through the Eyes of an Artist