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Wow. It's 1:42 in the morning and I'm quite happy to announce that despite my self abasing attitude, I have finished the tenth painting. I'm very happy, very tired, but very upset about Gone With the Wind,
which I am on the verge of also completing. This always happens. The first eighty percent of the novel I am madly in love with Rhett Butler. The last twenty is agonizing for me. I hate him, and I hate Scarlet, and I'd like to give Margaret Mitchell a piece of my mind.
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Ah, Valentine's Day is no fun when you and the love of your life are poor. It looks like we'll be taking some wine (two buck Chuck) to the woods with our spiral notebooks and have a hand in living anachronistically. As if we didn't already. To our credit (or dismay), we are coming out of the dark ages slowly, as this week we have acquired both a working dishwasher and a microwave. No more making corn pone on the open fire. No more cooking fifteen bean soup in the cauldron on the dirt floor of our kitchen. No, from now on we can luxuriate in the splendors of Salisbury Steak and Cheese Enchiladas with only 7 minutes of preparation time (Thanks, Banquet TV Dinners). Or maybe not. It would certainly take the fun out of having a dishwasher if we only used it for cleaning silverware. Not only that, but I fear being sucked into a black hole if I partook in the American pastime of eating a TV Dinner, but without the dubious pleasure watching TV.
Obviously, it's late. I shouldn't be writing at such an hour, for I tend to ramble about nothing. That being said, here is painting number ten:
This painting is pretty big, about four feet tall. If you can't tell what it is, thats OK. But in case you are wondering, its the bottom, chiffon part of a jelly fish. See it now? Theres some glare on the painting that shouldn't be there, but alas, it is 2 in the morning.
which I am on the verge of also completing. This always happens. The first eighty percent of the novel I am madly in love with Rhett Butler. The last twenty is agonizing for me. I hate him, and I hate Scarlet, and I'd like to give Margaret Mitchell a piece of my mind. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Ah, Valentine's Day is no fun when you and the love of your life are poor. It looks like we'll be taking some wine (two buck Chuck) to the woods with our spiral notebooks and have a hand in living anachronistically. As if we didn't already. To our credit (or dismay), we are coming out of the dark ages slowly, as this week we have acquired both a working dishwasher and a microwave. No more making corn pone on the open fire. No more cooking fifteen bean soup in the cauldron on the dirt floor of our kitchen. No, from now on we can luxuriate in the splendors of Salisbury Steak and Cheese Enchiladas with only 7 minutes of preparation time (Thanks, Banquet TV Dinners). Or maybe not. It would certainly take the fun out of having a dishwasher if we only used it for cleaning silverware. Not only that, but I fear being sucked into a black hole if I partook in the American pastime of eating a TV Dinner, but without the dubious pleasure watching TV.
Obviously, it's late. I shouldn't be writing at such an hour, for I tend to ramble about nothing. That being said, here is painting number ten:
This painting is pretty big, about four feet tall. If you can't tell what it is, thats OK. But in case you are wondering, its the bottom, chiffon part of a jelly fish. See it now? Theres some glare on the painting that shouldn't be there, but alas, it is 2 in the morning.
