No animals were hurt in this experiment. . .. .

I am learning to paint with a palette knife.  What was I thinking when I signed up for this? I have trouble cutting my meat, much less figuring out how to get paint on a canvas with a knife edge.

My Thursday morning painting class is taught by Mai Yap who wields a mean knife and is a wonderful artist.  I am totally intimidated and yearn for one of my trusty brushes.  My friend Sheila and I share the class with five confirmed palette knife painters who turn out incredible paintings while we struggle valiently on our side of the room.

Sheila painted a giant green pear this morning. When she was finished it looked good enough to eat.  In case you didn't know, fruit is very big when you're working with knives. I've already gone the apple and the pineapple route, so today I'm working on a kind of abstract horse.

What I really need to do is figure out what to do with the few thousand canvases that are piling up behind my desk and layered in the drawers where once upon a time I kept my fine china, long since transported up to Andrea.  OK, maybe not a thousand, but close to 50 at last count, and a dozen or more given away to family and friends. Prolific I am, that's for sure.

How you paint and what you choose to paint, I find, is very indicative of the painter's personality.  I'll bet Rembrandt had a dark side. One look at Van Gogh's "Starry Starry Night" and you can tell he had some heavy mental problems going on. Me, I live life in a hurry and paint in a hurry.  Every class I take I turn out three paintings to every one else's one.  If I could get paid by the piece I'd really be in the chips these days.

Here's today's adventure, on a 16x20 canvas. . .all done with knives.  OMG, I hope I didn't hurt the poor horse.
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Not my best day. . .

I am one of those people who hop on and off planes without a second thought.  Fear of flying just isn't in my vocabulary, although I am quick to admit that plane travel is not the easy, luxurious ride it used to be.

That said, my flight to Jacksonville last Thursday left me more than slightly unnerved. 

The Today Show was droning away on my bedroom TV as I completed packing my carry-on suitcase when I was stopped in my tracks with a news flash: "American Airlines just announced that Concourse D at Miami International Airport is being evacuated and ordered closed due to a suspicious package.  Security is investigating a possible bomb threat. All traffic into the airport is being diverted. "

This bit of charming information was accompanied on the screen by a picture of bumper to bumper traffic and a warning to expect major delays. Coming three days after the Boston Marathon bombing, I would be lying if I didn't admit to a stab of fear followed by the realization that there was a good chance I wasn't making it to Jacksonville in the near future.

My negativity was with good reason because American Eagle flies out of Concourse D and my freshly printed boarding pass that Thursday morning read Gate D-27, boarding at 10:40am.  The clock on my dressing table read 7:45am.

What to do.  What to do.  Leave for the airport immediately and at least be in line when something opens up, or stay safely at home and wait to hear the next announcement on the TV.  Calls to American Airlines were of no avail. When I finally got a human being on the line, she was located somewhere in the mid-West and had no idea what I was talking about. " Bomb threat?  What bomb threat?  Let me put you on hold for a few minutes while I transfer you to my manager."  I hung up.

After a few frantic calls to Benard, I made an executive decision.  I was too nervous by this time to sit around the house. Despite the fact that I was 3 hours and 20 minutes early for my 11:20 flight, we would leave for the airport at 8:00 and hope for the best.  Not a great way to leave on a much anticipated, long planned trip to help celebrate my great-grandson's second birthday.

Our luck held.  The suspicious bag turned out to be a false alarm and the airport's  Departure ramp  re-opened at the exact moment we arrived on the scene.  Benard stopped the car, I jumped out, grabbed my bag, and walked the rest of the way to the entrance.  The security line was horrendous due to all the people who had been standing around waiting for Concourse D to reopen, but reopen it did, and no one was complaining.

 Once at the gate, it took an Extra Tall Latte from Starbucks to bring my nerves back to near normal. The plane actually left on time, with me on it, breathing a deep sigh of relief.  Phew! That was a close one.
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Photo caption:  My rumpled Boarding Pass, clutched in my nervious hand..

Some things never change. . .

I was cleaning out a little used drawer in my den today when I found a plastic bag stuffed with memorabilia from a different time and different place.  1989 to be exact. Oddly enough, my sentiments haven't changed, even though I' m 24 years older.

Just this morning I read in the Miami Herald that North Dakota signed the nation's strictest abortion limits into law.  Roe v. Wade was decided in the Supreme Court in 1973, but they never give up on efforts to take away a women's right to choose, do they.

In the foreground of the photo below you can see a small square pin outlined in red that reads "March for Women's Equality And Women's Lives" - April 9, 1989 - Washington, D.C.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  The bus ride to the airport. The plane trip to Dulles Airport. Assembling, literally hundreds of thousands of women from all around the nation, in front of the Washington Monument, wearing pins that read "In My Heart I'm Marching For Choice", "Never Again! (with a wire hanger in the background), "Keep Abortion Legal", and in my group, "South Florida For Choice"..

We marched to the White House where we chanted "Free Barbara Bush! Free Barbara Bush!"  It was well known that she was not in agreement with her husband, President George Walker Bush's stand on women's rights.  We swept up Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol.  It was an amazing moment in history and I was very proud to be there.

How sad that we are fighting that same battle in our country again today.  Abortion has become a political tool for the far right.  It never fails to amaze me that these "true believers" are willing to kill a living person to "save" a fetus. 

Some things never do change.  How very sad.

My March Morning Madness. . .

Little boys of seven and eight years old are super active. Whether they have perfect eyesight or are legally blind.  I know, because I just spent the morning working with four of the latter,at the Miami Lighthouse For The Blind, and I am in awe, not to mention exhausted, at how smart and active they are.

It's Spring Break time here in Miami, and the kids are out of their regular school sessions so the Lighthouse is even busier than usual.  My friend, Virginia Jacko, the CEO of the Lighthouse, asked me to help out Osias, the regular teacher.  Osias, by the way, is also blind, so in our classroom I was the only sighted person, with the four boys, one little girl, and two other volunteers.  I came in handy to locate lost backpacks, find paper for the brailers, and take Luana, the little girl, to the ladies room.

I am most in awe of Silvio, a self possessed eight year old with complete mastery of the computer with its remarkable JAWS program designed to "speak" to blind users.  Silvio informed me that he had a workbook in his backpack that he wanted me to look at because he was committed to completing 5 work projects during his Spring Break.

Project #1 had to do with the 50 United States and their contractional or non-contractional abbreviations.  Who knew that Florida's FL is non-contractional and Kentucky's KY is contractional???  Sylvio understood better than I did.  Working at his brailer, he first inserted a sheet of special paper, then waited impatiently for me to start calling out the states in alphabetical order.  I'm a touch typist but this kid, working on his brailer, was really fast!  To check what he had just typed he would run his finger over the raised braile dots on the paper and, when satisfied it was correct, nod to me to continue.

We finished off the 50 states in record time and then it was time for lumch. Although the kids all have canes that fold up and fit into a holder on their belts, they don't always use them, so Osias asked me to escort Silvio, Rey and Victor to the cafeteria on the first floor.  Getting three kids, each going in a different direction, into the elevator, was an interesting experience.  As was lunch.

I caught on quickly that "the chicken and rice is at 12:30 on your plate, and the brownies are at 2 oclock. . .but please don't eat them first".  The last plea to absolutely no avail. 

The kids knew the best part was coming. . .lunch over, it was music time.  An upright piano stood in a far corner of the lunchroom and they couldn't get there fast enough.  Silvio had already informed me that he had been taking piano lessons for two years, but I wasn't prepared to hear him sit down at the keyboard and pull off an arpeggio that caused everyone in the room to stop what they were doing and turn their attention to this remarkable little boy.

In fairness, Osias insisted that everyone got their turn at the keyboard, from little Luana who knocked out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star", to never-still Rey who quieted long enough to play a creditable "Eensy Weensy Spider".  Even shy D'Vante, the youngest of the boys,  played Chop Sticks  Only Victor, legally blind but with enough remaining sight to play his beloved video games on his little GameBoy, refused to make music. He was happy,  however,  to explain in detail to me the game he was playing and to let me know he had just beaten his own record.  I was suitably impressed.

I arrived at the Lighthouse at 9:30 in the morning and said goodbye at 12:30, after promising the kids  that I would return and giving each a hug and a kiss goodbye.  Osias thanked me for helping.  I thanked him for an incredible morning. 
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Photo captions:
#1 - Osias works with Luana at the piano
#2 - Silvio shows his musical skills. Rey left and Victor in background
#3 - Our classroom.  Victor on his Gameboy in foreground.

I just discovered I'm a cruciverbalist.  And all this time I thought I was simply Jewish.

I realize now why the "significant other" and I get along so well.  He's also a cruciverbalist although I doubt that either he or his family were aware of this significant character trait since he rarely displays it to anyone but moi..

OK, so you just googled the word on your iPhone and found out that cruciverbalist comes from the Latin word crux for cross, and verbum for word.  Our secret is out. . .crossword puzzles are our thing.  We're addicted to our daily dose in the Miami Herald, happiest when one or the other can graciously offer to help out if the other is stuck on a word.  Gracious with a touch of superciliousness, that is.

One of the favorite gifts I ever received was Simon & Shuster's Super Crosswords Book.  My grandson Adam gave it to me several years back and it contains 225 perforated pages of puzzles.  Every time I go on a plane trip I rip out 3 or 4 pages from the book to stuff into my carry-on for something to do while flying.  It makes the time go faster than just reading. 

Actually, according the article on the internet that alerted me to the word, cruciverbalists just plain love word games of any kind.  I guess that accounts for the six different Words With Friends games I continually play on my iPhone with a variety of friends/relatives/colleagues.  Am I competitive?  You bet I am.

According to Will Shortz, the NY Times Crossword Editor and the God of all puzzlers, the fascination of crossword puzzles exists in the fact that "with a human-made puzzle, you have the satisfaction of being completely in control: you start the challenge from the beginning, and you move all the way to the end.  That's satisfaction you don't get much in real life.   You feel in control and that's a great feeling."

Obviously, that explanation does not obtain to the Sunday NY Times puzzle.  Sorry, Will.  I hardly ever feel like I'm in control when I work on that.  Anyone who does, deserves to be called anything they want.
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Photo caption:  Definition of "Chutzpah":  doing puzzle in red pen!

My Mother would be so proud. . . .

I've joined something called "The Writer's Table" at our local public library.  I found out about it purely by chance when I was attempting to pay a significant late fee on the 600+ page book I just finished reading for my book club's next meeting.  (I am not a slow reader but I do have a life to lead and that was a helluva long book.) 

Waiting in line late Tuesday afternoon, money in hand, I picked up a flyer about the group and realized it took place that very evening.  You can't say I don't make quick decisions.

Our leader is Jane whose day job is Children's Librarian at my branch library. Not to worry, we are all adults around the table, at least so far.  When I arrived at 6:30, Jane was sitting with a youngish man named Mark, an English and math teacher/tutor I learned, and a budding novelist and blogger with his first book well underway. Next came Adrienne, also an educator in real life, followed by Lolly and Teresa, the latter currently crafting a fascinating website titled the pixelandtheegg.com.

Writing a book is a solitary commitment.  I've often thought about writing one over the years,but somehow never got around to it even though writing has been a major part of my business life and still keeps me in the pr/advertising loop.  In all honesty, I think I am intimidated about the whole idea.  I really hate failing.

Maybe this Writer's Table group will give me a new perspective on the subject.   Don't expect Hemingway or even Danielle Steele.  More like a pale immitation of Dave Barry if he was born a female and spent the last fifty years as a pr maven.

By the way, while I was being sarcastic in the headline of this blog, my Mother actually was an excellent writer all her life.  I am quick to credit my "writer's gene" to her. . .it is truly the gift that keeps on giving.  Thanks, Mom.
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Photo:  Coconut Grove Branch, Miami Dade Public Library

I'm practicing my "neutral face":. . . .

I read an article recently about the importance of working on your "neutral face". For those of you going "What????" at this point, that's your face when you are not smiling or talking or animated in any way. I just decided mine tends to be kind of grim. Who knew. I challenge you to sit in front of a mirror and check out yours. While I know I have a really good smile (see attached photo), in"neutral" I decided I tend to look like I am either worried, ate something unpleasant, or am just plain mad. I think that's why I have taught myself (unknowingly) to always smile when my photo is being taken, because I never like the way I look when I don't. So why do I care, you ask? Because according to the article, your "neutral face" makes all the difference in how you are perceived in both business and social occasions. People tend to be more receptive to those with pleasant neutral faces. The kind of face where the mouth's outer edges turn up instead of down. Geez, I wonder how I managed to get along in the public relations biz all those years with such a sour puss. Seriously, I do believe as you mature your face loses some of its pleasant look just by virture of gravity on the facial muscles. The article makes it very clear that it pays dividends to work on your "neutral face", particularly when you are in a business situation where you are seeking acceptance for some new idea, or in a social situation where you are meeting people for the first time. Serious has its place in certain situations, to be sure, like maybe when you are accepting the Nobel Prize, but for the most part pleasant offers a better payoff. Let me know how you make out with the mirror test and I promise to be smiling the next time we meet. # # # Photo caption: Smile, Joan, you're on Candid Camera