Baby Boy and The Broccoli Car (It's a fine day for an art show)

Baby Boy is working on his very first peace globe.

 He's seven.  This is his debut online art show.  

Thank you for coming.

And to think I almost said "no" when he asked if he could download the Art software. In the span of about 45 minutes he'd created the following graphic images and we came up with names.

  Do you know what the first one is?

Broccoli Driving a Car

Sun in the dark

La Fleur Trilogy

The Peace Series

 "Can I be a peace globe worker bee, Mimi?"

   

       and

My personal favorite

That boy

Copyright Mimi's Baby Boy

Monday Mimisms ~ Hairrings and Frogs (not necessarily in that order)

If I had a nickel for every crazy thing that has happened to me this week I'd be a rich woman.

I wish I could describe to you the insanity that besets my life each day at work, but that would be a breach of confidentiality and highly inappropriate. Suffice to say it is causing me a great deal of stress; so much so that I need a career change. If I didn't think I'd be standing in line at the soup kitchen soon after, I'd just walk away. But seriously. When it gets to the point that bureaucracy and lack of common sense robs you of the joy you once had doing what you do - it's time to do what you do somewhere else. I am not one to keep my mouth shut when things go wrong.  I now keep duct tape in my purse. 

Back to funny. Five seconds before I had to walk onstage to begin a performance, my right earring (this one) fell off and got majorly tangled up in my hair. I thought I was going to have to walk on with a new fashion statement: hairrings.

The engine light is on in my car and it is past time for an inspection. They turn it off. It comes back on. They turn it off. It comes back on. This has been going on for weeks. I drive it fast to "blow out the carbon" - whatever - and it does no good. There is nothing wrong with my car. It's a Toyota glitch and a money racket for mechanics. I have a note from the mechanic in case I am pulled over before the emissions test passes. I hope he believes me. If any of you are in law enforcement, please don't tell.

But the lights are blinking in the hallway. Go figure.
This house is possessed I tell ya.



Halfway through the remodeling that is still going on over two months later to fix the tsunami damage downstairs, we get almost all the drywall back and no floors. And thank goodness for that. Wednesday the plumbing upstairs sprang a gusher right in front of my eyes and poured into one of the rooms downstairs aGAIN causing another mini-disaster. My bathroom looked like this. (Oh, the things I tell on this blog)

There is water pouring into the floor, running under the carpet and I can't find my cellphone to call for h-e-l-p. I dump my purse into the floor of the kitchen. After some squalling like a baby on the phone in a panic, I finally find the actual thingy in the wall (who knew??!) that turns the water off - but not before I am soaked. That would not have been a good time for my earring to fall off cause I would have lunged down the drain to find it.

Do I look like a plumber to you? 

I'm a Queen ya know.

Shortly after, I heard a noise...a strange sound coming from behind the living room couch.

 I can hear it but I can't find it. YUUUUUUCCKKKKKKK! It's a baby froggie.  Oh no. Perhaps I really DID turn that last date into a toad. I'm hoping this is a sign from God that real frogs have shown up to replace the onslaught of male frogs I've kissed lately. Or perhaps the awful NOT cute thing just smelled water.
I never found it. I think it drowned.

But things are looking up. Yesterday I fell asleep in the bathtub.

There will be no pictures of that.  

It was not a nice experience.

Thank you, Cheetos Girl. I could use a nutritional snack. 

All in all, things are normal in Bloggingham.

Carry on. 

Memorial Day: Here Rests In Honored Glory

The Tomb of The Unknown Soldier

Arlington National Cemetery

Arlington, Virginia

 Some gave all

Even the dignity of a

name

But we know

Monday Mimisms ~ Lance Armstrong: The Ride Is Over

I watched the Lance Armstrong story on 60 Minutes tonight along with the rest of the world. Scott Pelley conducted a candid interview with Tyler Hamilton, a fellow cyclist and former friend of Armstrong's, has testified and admitted to federal authorities that the seven time Tour de France champion cyclist has used performance enhancing drugs. Tyler, who admitted using EPO himself, seemed extremely nervous and even dodgy at times but still, as much as I would like these reports to be untrue, it would appear that they are well substantiated by CBS News.  It just smacks of true.

It seems he had more than one good reason to keep looking over his shoulder.

I know we shouldn't be quick to judge. I know this.
But what are we supposed to tell our children and our grandchildren -  what are we supposed to tell ourselves - when public heroes who've previously been an inspiration fall flat on their faces in front of the world?
I am not naive.
I am old enough to know better than to believe everything I see and read.  I do not stand shocked at this news. I do stand disappointed. I know there have been and always will be scandals of this sort, but somehow, I never expected to hear this news from this athlete.
Yeah yeah I know. NO sport will ever be entirely clean. But why not? Seriously. Why not?

Do I care that Lance Armstrong injected EPO? 

Yes. I care.

Because I thought he was one of the last remaining athletes with some integrity. He had become a role model for many young kids, an inspiration for those battling cancer, a celebrity we assumed had risen above deceit and cheat at all costs. An iron man. The poster child for grit and determination, hope and triumph.
I care because there are young future athletes Olympic hopefuls sitting in front of their television sets who dream of gold medals because they believed in Lance Armstrong. I care because they will look to adults they trust to answer the whys. How many more trusted role models have to fall on their faces in public before children stop believing in ALL of us?

Our kids don't want to hear it anymore. I don't blame them. Neither do I.

Some will say "He was and still is a great athlete and should be respected for those accomplishments." 
There is no doubt he is a strong athlete with a competitive edge. Wait. What did I just say? See...therein lies the problem. That "edge" was not hard won with hard work and natural born skills but with illegal blood transfusions, testosterone oil, EPO and other substances that put him and his team far above any other honest competitor on the track.

I no longer see a gifted athlete. I see a gifted con man.

It is the same as if we'd learned that Maria Callas or Beverly Sills used a ventriloquist to sing for them -

that it really wasn't their voice at all.

So will he pull a Schwarzenegger and readily confess to his sins when asked? Does it matter?
"I apologize to all my fans, my bicycle, my mother, my father, my family, my wife, my ex-wives, my adoring children, my dog and my cat. Please accept my most sincere regret for hurting all those who believed in me, encouraged their children to believe in me, encouraged MY children to believe in me, read my inspirational books, donated to my charities, and otherwise supported my million dollar cycling behind for all these many years. 

Oops. My bad."

I don't want to hear it.


IF this is true - and the allegations thus far are hard to disbelieve - I just want him to hush.
I don't want to read an apology.
I don't want to suffer through a media frenzy.
I don't want to know if his exes saw drugs, used drugs, sold drugs.
I don't want to hear 'you have no proof' ever again.
I don't even want to hear a confession.
I just want him to ride off into the Alps somewhere and hide behind a mountain for awhile.

Oh, Mimi, aren't you being a bit over-dramatic? 

No.

It doesn't matter to me that he didn't perpetuate this deceit all by himself. I know he had help and assistance. But we didn't know most of their names. They weren't front and center in the winner's circle. They did not become an international symbol of inspiration for a generation of young athletes and....yes...even me.

And while I'm at it, let us ponder: What is the difference in Arnold's cheating and Armstrong's cheating? ('cause I know that's what some of you are thinking)

 Schwarzenegger deceived his family on a highly personal level. He made a mess of their lives. To them and them alone he must make amends. I don't want to know about it. I wish I didn't know about it. Arnold Schwarzenegger does not owe me an apology any more than I owe him an apology for my personal transgressions. Just because his are more public shouldn't mean the price of his fame and public service to the state of California should be a public hanging and a scarlet letter. I am not invested in his marriage.
His cheating is none of my business.

Lance, on the other hand, cheated every young girl and boy who put him on a pedestal. 

Every young person who ever believed in Armstrong's character, athletic ability and greatness just learned
1. Lie but don't get caught
2. Cheat but don't get caught
3. Cover up for as long as the ride will allow
4. "Everyone is doing it" is a valid excuse
5. The team that deceives together sticks together
6. Goal-setting, focus, and old-fashioned hard work will get you nowhere

and the most heartbreaking lesson of all?

Don't believe in yourself....because you aren't enough.

We Interrupt This Blog To Bring You The End of The World

So tomorrow - May 21, 2011 - is supposed to be the end of life on this planet as we know it. And if God is extra-terrestrial, omnipotent, omnipresent and effervescent, it should be the end of life on Mars too - and reality shows. You know, I've heard this sort of thing all my life. Every now and then some wayward religious Bible group calculates the coming of the Lord and other catastrophic calamities about to befall us all. Now I'm not disputing Scripture. Really, I'm not. But seriously. Do you really think Jesus would come in the middle of allergy season?

Doesn't seem right to me.

Can't they be more specific? I have plans tomorrow. If they can pinpoint the day and the year after all these millenniums and sordid crusades since the beginning of time, surely they can tell me if 2:00 pm is too late or too early for me to get a manicure. I do not want to go to Heaven without one.
Presuming I go.
If my great-grandmother were here to read this blasphemy, she'd tell me to paint 'em red and send me straight to hell without supper.

And what about us common everyday Christians who just have faith in God and all things pure and lovely that goes along with it. Do we get to go too?! Or do we stay behind to suffer in the fire and brimstone existence outlined right down to the last horrid detail like ordinary Presbyterians? I don't think I deserve to languish in torment while the earth is being swallowed up in natural disasters and sex scandals - that would be a total waste of blog opportunities.

Doesn't seem logical to me. 

And why is it called Judgment Day?  I've read the Bible from start to finish. Twice. That is not supposed to happen until the last Chapter. Even the Book of Revelation doesn't reveal the revelation or the end of time. Only the end of The Book. And besides, I only made it to Leviticus this time and I've read nothing thus far about plowshares, spoon-bending or calendar changes.

I like Lily of the Valley talk and peace-I-leave-you-peace prose better.

It's so much better for my blood pressure.

And besides, if the world were truly ending tomorrow, don't you think I'd know?

If there had been a foolproof accurate scientific formula-laden declaration of certainly, surely Apple would have made an App for it by now. I know the world is not coming to an end because my SmartPhone alarm is set for me to wake up on May 21st as usual. Steve Jobs  - obviously a Biblical descendant from the Book of Job himself - would have stopped the internal calendar at midnight Australia time May 20th, sent all calls to voice mail, and erased every last SD card on the face of the earth so the next species of man could not copyright him. 

Everybody knows that. 

Which reminds me, according to the sign-holding media-seeking prophets, I should be dead by now.
It's noon tomorrow in Australia already. I guess the Rapture Preachers forgot about those Down Under.

If Jesus had snatched up all the good people in the world, Google would have stopped googling hours ago and no one would even be able to find information on the end of the world.
Think about it.

And do you really think people with the Secrets of the Universe would be holding up cardboard signs on the street corner? I don't think so. They could have saved so many more of us by email spam. And seriously, didn't they think to Tweet?



If they're so full of wisdom, knowledge and mad mathematical skills, they should have been settling the dispute between Palestine and Israel instead of spreading fear among the teetering masses.  I would have enjoyed seeing that before my demise - even for one day. But perhaps a sacred calculator doesn't count what counts when it counts.

However, in spite of my skepticism, in honor of Doomsday I'd like to submit a list to the Lord of those people and things I'd love to see disappear tomorrow. It's a once in a fast fleeting lifetime opportunity. If you don't mind. Oh, I don't want Him to hurt anybody (like He would!)  I'd just like to experience my last day on Earth without their whining and posturing and evilness.

1. Osama Bin Laden (Oops. Too late.) 2. snarky telemarketers who hang up on me 3. Rush Limbaugh 4. the person who wrote "99 Bottles of Beer on The Wall" and 5. the ugly vegetable known as rutabaga.

It has to go. Really. 

I think I can put up with everyone else for another thousand years or so.

I will be up 'til midnight tomorrow night making sure I don't miss any epic global shenanigans.
If I do, I promise to report it, that is, if I'm still coherent after beaming to Heaven at the speed of light in the dead of night. It's a good thing I wear pencil skirts. They travel well.

I don't think I can adequately express my appreciation to Reverend Camping and his crew for speeding up the culmination of my Bucket List. Before tomorrow (which according to my Biblical calculations as reported in the Book of Numbers) I should really learn to to spell Apoca..Apaco...Apalcyl...Alpaca...Apocalypse. There. Pay my taxes, inspect my car, return my neighbor's mail, apply for a Visa and renew my driver's license.  I'd hate to be in jail when Jesus finds me.

I suppose they're entitled to their interpretation of course, I respect that, but couldn't they have at least provided us with insider trading tips, warned us ahead of time to use all our frequent flyer miles or constructed a foolproof lottery number formula based on some crazy simulated formula of 6, 6, 6s?

Even heathens deserve to know.

Who said left-behinders on the short list of life shouldn't enjoy their last days?

Somebody should have told me to empty my Bucket List bucket sooner. 

There's no time to call Hugh Jackman now.

I am not amused either with the mirthful way they are gloating over our impending doom. Nor do I understand why Julian Assange didn't scoop this information. It's highly unlikely that the Tribulation could begin without him. And did they have to scare all the children? There is not one shred of credible evidence that the world will end on Saturday.  Katie Couric left the CBS Evening News for parts unknown and Oprah did stop her show this week but I'm sure that's a coincidence.   We all know she has special privileges with The Almighty. Surely secret Scripture leaks are in her contract somewhere. Her name even sounds Biblical, like opera with oomph and style. Spelled backwards it is even more telling, mystical in a highly profitable backmasking kind of way; but really, don't you think she would have interviewed me first if she knew this were the end?

Sure she'd have to change her magazine from O to Uh-Oh if she'd made such a tragic faux pas but that's small potatoes for a woman of her apostolic influence.  And besides, she started a brand new television revolution on this highly advertised cusp of fire and brimstone.
She's too smart for that.

Doesn't seem likely to me.

I made a just-in-case list because I was raised in a home where put-on-clean-underthings-in-case-you're-in-an-accident was a daily reminder. Since this could be a rocky ride for sure, it's best to be prepared.  I'll start by having a wild fling with an Italian news correspondent at 12:01 am. If I'm still able to move and awake and alive by noon, I may do something even more shocking - like ride through town in lady Godiva fashion, abandon my celery and green leaf diet for 2 hand-tossed pepperoni pizzas or empty my bank account and buy an eternity's supply of samba dance records.  And oh, I'd better back up my blog. You really didn't think I'd turn off my computer just because it's the end, did you?

Not to quote Scripture or anything, but to everything there is a season (Ecclesiastes 3:1)
Apparently, this is the season for kooky people.

But just in case....I ain't drinkin' no Kool-Aid tomorrow.

I Have My Own Time Zone

We bring you 7 royal questions by the Queen of Memes. She wrote this meme and told me I must play it. Imagine!

 Let's talk weekend this week. They seem to go by waaaay too fast these days. I could use a longer break. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the entire world suddenly went to a 4-day work week? I'd vote for that candidate. Do you live for the weekend? Take a moment to answer my nosy meme questions.

1. What is your favorite weekend activity?
SLEEP

2.  How does the weather affect your weekend plans? Does it matter?
 I love weekends rain or shine. Call me crazy but I love a rainy weekend tucked inside Bloggingham with a good book and lots of coffee.

On sunny days (or snow) I often venture out with my wonky camera invading antique stores and unsuspecting victims everywhere. I like to peer into shiny objects (below) and find Japanese lanterns hanging from ceilings (above).




3. When does your weekend start and when does it end?
The weekend begins in my mind around noon on Friday and doesn't end until I get up Monday morning to go to work. Doesn't yours?

4. Can you recommend a good weekend getaway place?

Call 1-800-Bloggingham for reservations!

5. Do you spend weekends alone or with other people?

Other people sometimes spend time alone with me. Does that make sense?

6. What would your fantasy weekend look like?

 I want to be pampered and spoiled by one special person.  Details NOT forthcoming.

7. Do you have any special weekend rituals?

Yes. I actually unplug the alarm clock from the wall as soon as I get home on Fridays.  I don't want to see it. I don't want to know what time it is. I don't want to be reminded of schedules, deadlines, or time constraints.

I'm on Mimi-time.  Works for me.

To play along go here.

Monday Mimisms ~ I'm In Love With A Chair

What a full week I've had. Lots of music, rehearsing, and work work work. Life is good and tres busy.
I'm two months into the reconstruction of Bloggingham after the water damage and there are STILL no walls and floors. Drywall is back up (that's another story) and progress is being made. Strange machines hum all around and there is white chalky powder on the stairs.  I am knee deep in carpet and paint samples (!) which should be a fun task but it's like trying to choose just one lipstick color. Impossible! Most importantly, I am driving the construction workers crazy.  I'd like to keep it that way.

Baby Boy and I went out Friday to get a Coke and came home with a chair. 

Do you like it?

Stop snickering.

It's a 1970s J.C. Penney wing back chair that has been painted with acrylics right down to the legs! It's in great shape. It has a huge heart and it smiled at me. It might have even winked. I know I heard it say, "I've been waiting for you, Mimi Lenox, to buy me." There is absolutely nothing in my house to go with it. But I could not argue with a talking chair. Ergo, I bought it.

It is groovy. Unusual. Rebellious. Non-beautiful. An eyesore even.

I will have to hide it when my mother comes over.  

Does it really matter that Baby Boy said it looks like someone spray painted it with a water hose?

He didn't seem to mind when he sat in it.

For the rest of my pencil life I'd never find a chair like this. Who cares if it screams tacky? Who cares if it clashes with all the other furniture, the walls, the floors and my earrings? Who cares if I may have to build a separate room just to put it in....

Who cares?!  It's a musical masterpiece.

Did I ask you, Homer?

I did ask people on Facebook if they liked it and nine 25! people have humored me with a resounding yes. Jamie suggested I hang my pink floppy hats on the wings and it would fit right in. Gary called it a throne chair. Brilliance! Who could resist a royal chair with pink wings?

Who let that dog in here?

I did.

I'm a magic chair.

We're Too Small To Stop The Rain

 I have always loved this voice. 

Gary LeVox, the Ohio born singer for the trio Rascal Flatts, never ever ever fails to move me with his vocals. He is seen here performing for the troops in Bagdhad in 2007. For me, it's not about the genre but the talent, musicianship and lyrics. I enjoy everything from Prince to Mahler  - even the unlikely American country southern titled band of  Rascal Flatts.
Much music is on my brain this week. Performances, rehearsals, time at the piano and a million details to distract me. But nothing can take me out of myself and my troubles like a simple and brilliantly written melody line. And there is no one on earth who can deliver a ballad like this group or this voice.

People are in such need right now. My corner of the world is being inundated with wind and rain and floods. Strange and dangerous weather. People stumbling in rubble and watching their homes sink into murky graves. Elderly people with no hope of ever rebuilding and sleeping in corners of school gymnasiums on the floor. Babies ripped out of the arms of mothers in epic tornadoes. I don't know what is happening in the world right now but it feels like upheaval, transition, revolution all around ...even in the earth.

So they sing.
And it helps me heal a little and remember to count my blessings.
 

I will stand by you

I will help you through

When you’ve done all you can do

And you can't cope
I will dry your eyes
I will fight your fight
                                                   I will hold you tight
And I won't let go
  

Everyone needs someone who won't let go.

Monday Mimisms ~ What does one wear to a kidnapping?

"Don't ask questions, just meet us there at five. You can get in our car then. It's a surprise, Mom."
"You're kidnapping your mother on Mother's Day?"
"I really can't say...."
I had to duct tape my mouth to keep my pencil head from trying to wiggle the truth out of him...and he's too old to threaten house arrest. But please! What will I weeaaaarrrr?? You're putting me in your car?? I don't like the way he drives, I'm thinking, I hope he doesn't blindfold me too.

I did as I was told and showed up in a skirt.

"Close your eyes, Mom. Don't come in here yet!"
Voila

A dozen pink roses appeared.
In a vase. With water!

A card opened up.
With lovely words






I got in the car. Riding shotgun. No blindfolds. Just whispering and secrets. We rode a looooong way through curvy 2-lane roads and finally a smidgen of civilization showed up.

"Close your eyes, Mom. It's time for Surprise No. 2. We're almost there."

"But....I....where...."

Yes. A restaurant named after ME! Reallllly? Think about it.

(I'd heard of it before but I tried to act surprised ya see......don't tell 'em)

A menu appeared.

Broiled chicken breast topped with garlic mushrooms and lemon caper butter sauce. Served with mashed potatoes and broiled asparagus

Someone really cooked this? Someone named Mimi?

Surely she is no relation to me.

Yummy!
We sat under an umbrella outside, finishing our meal under a perfect warm sky and love that matched the breeze.

I thanked No #1 son and his lovely lady (do I hear wedding bells??) and drove back to Bloggingham happy and content. 

It was good to be surprised. 

Very good.