Happy New Year! 2016




You stepped into my life. A bargain at $15. A happenstance at Ross Dress for Less. Serendipity. It was love at first sight. I grabbed you and took you home. Showed you off proudly and bragged all about you. You helped me stand tall and sassy. You brought color to my world. Kept the dirt and dust out as I kicked up my heels.

But you got worn out but not down. And I could not bear to discard you. You were still worthy of a place. So I propped you up, filled you up with dirt and succulents. New role for you. Still filled my life with color and conversation.

But alas, I thought you’d reached the end, you’d seen better days. I nearly kicked you to the curb in haste. But I rescued you before the trash man took you away.

I decided you needed a few more outings and showings—in my sketchbook. You still have a few more miles to go before you sleep.


Thoughts for the day

‘The whispering wind
Shares the secrets of nature
If we would listen’




Bad Words


Recently we went to my son Tyler’s house to watch his three children Presley 7, Charlotte 5, and Hudson 11 months. Piece of cake.

Presley and Charlotte are quite illustrious in many ways and with huge imaginations. Presley at this time is enthralled with “good guys and bad guys,” Hulk and GI JOE including Lego Mind Craft mania.

So of course the movie GI Joe was the hot topic since apparently they had just seen it.

“It was so cool, Grandma! Bamm, bamm,” and all the machine gun noises!!

Then suddenly he got a very small voice. “They say the “F” word in the movie, just one time tho.”

“Hmm,” I replied.

“But not for real. You couldn’t know it. They blanked it out. “ Apparently he saw the sanitized version somehow.

“That’s really a bad word, the “f” word,” he explained.

Charlotte chimed in: “It really is. My mom watches Gabby and she told us all about it. Her dad uses that word sometimes, so she knows.”

And then she says, ”The “s” word is really bad too.

“Oh, you mean “stupid”? I reply.

“Yes, and the “sh” word too.,” she said.

My husband and I stole sideways glances at each other and before we could change the subject, they added.

“It’s like the “d” and the “h” word. Even though they’re in the Bible we shouldn’t use those words. Even the “a” word. You need to say donkey.”

HMMM. We quickly moved on.

That reminded me of the movie “Good Fellas” it you bleeped out the “f” word it would be a silent movie. We counted hundreds of times it was used. Anyone could have written that screenplay.

It also reminded me of when my daughter was 10 or 12 and she cornered me in the kitchen one day. She innocently asked me if I would please not use any more bad words.

I looked up from the sink where I was and without skipping a beat said, “You mean shit, hell, damn?”

“Yes, Mom!!!!” AAAGH.

“Okay, I’ll be careful. Would you please help me with these dishes now? It’s one hellava mess here.”

She’s grown now and loves to tell that story. Thankfully she was not scarred. My own grandmother who was squeaky clean and as sweet as could be would tell me what a “little shit” my own mother was as a child. Even my father who was a Marine used colorful language and I wished at times he would not. He was never obscene. I survived to tell about it.

First of all, I am not and have never been a “potty mouth.” I reserve the use of the aforementioned words sparingly. Usually only to punctuate the distress of a situation or to make a point or in cases of fear or extreme frustration. So looking back maybe I did overuse those words a tad.

For the most part my language is family and kid friendly. I can count on less 2 hands how many times I used the real “f” word. Mostly under my breath and never in front of innocent ears.

I reserve it for those who are like minded. For example my friend Cindy. We have this on-going term of endearment for each other we use whenever we spot a male hunk jogging while on our weekly walk. We take one look at each other and simultaneously lean over and whisper “slut.”


Drawing with Children Exercise book by Mona Brookes



Sixties memories from a momma in her sixties

High School memories

I grew up in Santa Ana. 1305 So Hesperian Street was my address. We moved there when I was four years old. It was just a few blocks from Mater Dei high school, where I graduated in 1967.

I grew up watching the jitterbug from my parents era and dancing the polka and waltz with my dad. I couldn’t get enough.

As an 8th grader the twist was one of the first new dance moves I learned. It was the craze and considered to be maybe too suggestive, like Elvis. The mashed potato and the swim and of course the Bristol stomp were the new ones as we welcomed the Beatles and British invasion.

We all loved the dance shows on TV. American Bandstand, Shebang and 9th Street West. Good ol’ Dick Clark and Casey Kasem. I never missed a dance in high school.

One of my friends managed somehow to get tickets to Shebang and 9th Street West dance shows in LA. I sill remember the dress I wore. It was bright yellow and black with polka dots and of course black patent leather shoes to match. Which I bought from my earnings as a clerk at a dress store. It was a taped show so we all got together to watch at a friend’s house. We were celebrities.

In the summer my friends and I would hop into my Dad’s parts car and head to Newport Beach just 30 minutes away. It was an oxidized blue 51 Plymouth Station with a 3 speed on the column. Did I mention I stripped the gears learning to drive it? My dad had to replace the trannie.

He was a mechanic and owned his own gas station (Phillips 66 and Flying A) and kept this car on the lot to pick up car parts. I wanted to paint it in the worst way, but he didn’t want his customers to think he would overcharge them with sprucing up the car. Oh well, I really didn’t care. We had a car to take to the beach and dances whenever we wanted.

Gas was 28 cents a gallon and my dad insisted on a full tank at all times. He didn’t want me to run out of gas. How would that look, since he owned a gas station? He also taught me to change a tire, just in case. I learned how to pop a clutch, which came in handy over the years.

So at least 2 times a week, on Tuesday and Saturdays for sure we would head to the beach. The original radio in the station wagon was shot, so my dad improvised and wired up a huge radio that sat on its side on the hump on the front floorboard.. We’d roll down all the windows and blare the radio from the hit stations KRLA, KHJ and some others and sing along. If we hit a bump the radio station would change. It was a great laugh.

We’d spend the day suntanning at 34th street in Newport where we would meet up with friends. We made sure to leave no later that 2:oo pm and drove straight to Disneyland, paid 75cents admission and left making sure we got our hands stamped for our return that evening.. You see after 3pm it went up to $1.50.

We went home to shower making sure not to wash off the stamp. We would get all dressed up in our long dresses. The popular style of the day. Most of us sewed and we made our own dresses. They didn’t have Target or bargain deals unless you went to KMART. So necessity made us inventors.

Every Tuesday and Saturday were dance nights at Disneyland and it was packed. We’d dance until the park closed pausing only briefly to use the money we saved on admission to buy an E ticket ride on the Matterhorn which was 50cents.

“Those were the days my friend, we’d thought they’d never end. We sing and dance forever and a day.”

Love my old ride

Love my old ride


Happy Fourth of July~!


Hanging out at Home Depot waiting for Hubbie to find his screws……

Hanging out at Home Depot waiting for Hubbie to find his screws......

I was in the display patio chair so long…a worker jokingly asked me if I would like a beverage…LOL





Let’s talk about HAIR.


Long beautiful hair: shining-gleaning-flaxen-waxen-give me down to there hair. Shoulder length or longer. Hair, hair, hair, long as God can grow it.


These are lyrics from the rock musical HAIR. Featuring long-haired hippies and their antics and the Age of Aquarius. My now husband and I saw this live on stage in Los Angeles in 1968. It was quite a statement describing the changes in society. Flower children and “free love” and hair. Only hobos had long unkempt hair until the hippy movement. Gone was the clean cut flat top for men and ratted beehive hairsprayed creations for women.


Free flowing long hair was in. We didn’t have blow dryers in those days so some of us would actually pull out the ironing board and iron our hair straight. Being oh so careful not to scorch or burn our coveted long locks. Or if that was impossible you would grow it afro style and perm it.


We all have it. Some of us are born with it, others are born bald. It grows, we cut it and shape it into fashion statements.


Some of us become slaves to the bottle, hair dye that is. And spend enormous amount of money to brighten our lives and stave off signs of aging. Some like my grandmother would put a beautiful blue rinse on her locks. I remember the bottle she kept under the sink.


Some of us embrace greying graciously like my friend who has been a beautiful shade of silver since her thirties. She just recently started taking drum lessons and suggested we start a band. One of her friends would be the vocalist, I would pull out my dusty guitar and her other friend would pound a tambourine. I told her we would all go shopping for grey wigs and would name our band: Shades of Grey.


Some, men mostly, choose baldness. Sometimes baldness chooses us because of illness or genes. Wisp by wisp it drops or some choose to speed the inevitable total loss and use a razor.


Some of my friends are now cancer free, no more bandannas or hats or wigs or toupees to mourn their loss and conceal their journey to health. They have new hair in different colors and textures. Some with tightly wound curls that sing: rejoice, celebrate I have returned.


Some of us have hairy faces, and I don’t just mean men. Moustaches and beards and goatees. You name it. Long sideburns. Just watch Duck Dynasty. Some of us have hair sprouting up in strange places we could never imagine.


Like ears and nostrils, resembling small shrubbery. It takes some elaborate measures to keep these areas groomed with countless ear and nose trimmers to choose from.


Some of us go to barbers to help us in the hair removal process. Some of us go to salons. There we subject ourselves to tortuous methods of hair removal. Waxing of the face, upper lips, eyebrows, bikini waxes and Brazilian waxes. Just the thought of this makes me cover my face and cross my legs.


Others have used home methods of waxing, feeling the sting and pain alone. We use razors and depilatories and messy creams, and devices like the NO NO or the famous Epilady from the 90’s. The Epilady was an electrical device with a coil on it that grabbed and removed each hair individually by the root really fast. After using it I was certain was an ancient torture method, invented by a man who hated women. I would rather give birth naturally.


I returned that item the day after Christmas to Price Club. I was not the first in line with one mind you. The clerk took one look at it, threw it over his shoulder adding to the pile of hundreds behind him and handed me back my $$.


It’s quite a phenomenon now to remove hair, especially the men. Smooth chests seem to be desired. I remember in my day, hairy chests were “in”. Just look at Sean Connery. Even my sons were in some kind of competition with who had the most chest hair at the earliest age. One of my friends husband had so much back and chest hair we would tease her about having to mow it. Serious hair removal is only achieved by laser or electrolysis which actually destroys the hair follicle.


Some of us have the opposite problem. Not enough hair. It has driven sane men to actually think comb overs work. Some are just eccentric billionaires. Some with no money try to disguise the loss of hair by spraying the scalp with colored hair spray. And some have very bad toupees. Several images come to mind.


What’s worse is when they go into hock to have hair plugs installed in their dead hair follicles. Some get hair transplants with varied success. Some try to stimulate the growth of the hair follicle. It’s sort of like face lifts and botox. It usually shows.


For some especially women the current style is hair extensions, very pretty. The worst is dreadlocks because of the drug and lifestyle connotation. Not to mention how unkempt and dirty they look. When I see them I unconsciously look for little creatures moving, which makes eye contact difficult.


As for me, I’ll just listen to my hairdresser who says “for my age” I have beautiful hair. I will continue to color it for and keep it long enough to pull into a ponytail or the new side pony braid since every once in awhile I still like to horse around.






Presley is the perfect candidate for this photo op.

September 2022