How set in my ways have I become? I just saw a news story for pizza-flavored ice cream. And my initial reaction is a very negative “Why?” I can’t imagine pizza ice cream. Evidently they are also making beer-flavored ice cream and corn-on-the-cob flavored ice cream among others.
I love pizza and I like ice cream. I just can’t wrap my imagination around ice cream that tastes like pizza. What happens to the pepperoni and mushrooms? Are they there like little bits of chocolate chips?
If I want to eat corn on the cob, why not eat corn on the cob? And then for dessert, I’d have ice cream. I doubt that I have ever had ice cream after eating pizza at home or at a restaurant.
It must be about trying something new and different, pretending you’re avant-garde. The beer-flavored ice cream might be passable. I have had frozen marguerites and liked them. But I never pretended they were ice cream.
Not too long ago, I was at a candy shoppe. A clerk came up and offered me a taste of chocolate bacon. Having never heard of such a thing, I thought I had heard wrong, so I asked, “What?!”
She said, “It’s chocolate covered bacon. Would you like to try it?”
Having been taken by surprise, I’m sure I looked at her as if she were crazy. And then I shook my head no and said, “What a waste of good chocolate and good bacon.” And I moved on.
This is the painting project I am currently working on. It was designed by Anne Hunter and appeared in The Decorative Painter, Issue 1, 2010. Ms. Hunter is the kind of designer I would like to be if I could draw.
My first passion is decorative painting. I have been painting since 1990 after I set out to live on my own. My sister and I were visiting the shop of a local painter and I really loved a welcome heart she had on the wall. I asked my sister if she’d paint it for me, knowing I would never receive it from her. So I started taking classes. I’m retired now and nearly every day I spend time painting something.
I live in a very small cottage at Indian Lake, Ohio. From my kitchen windows, I have a wonderful view of the lake which I love. I’ve set my kitchen table in front of the windows and made that my “studio.” This means that every time I’m warned in advance that I’m going to get company, I have to stash all my painting stuff in the back room.
My infamous back room is chock full of things to paint. I call it my 401k, hoping it holds its value better than the economy. You will never see a photo of my back room. I warn everyone who visits that if they open that door, they will be struck blind. I make occasional stabs at organizing it, but then I have to clean up the kitchen in a hurry and everything gets stashed in the back room. Then I have to start all over again. My 401k consists of:
65 canvases, all different sizes, cataloged and on two closet shelves 3 shelving units full of wooden things to paint
a small 4-shelf unit with only papier-mâché items
1 top shelf in the laundry room holding wooden items cut out in 1992
2 large totes completely full of wooden ornaments
1 smaller tote full of metal things
Can you tell that I subscribe to the philosophy that she who dies with the most things to paint wins?
I didn’t think it’d get here so soon. Aging, I mean. I sort of thought it would just arrive with prior announcements like relatives from the East. Or maybe it would pounce on one at the age of 70 or 75 or so, like a cat on a rubber ball. I didn’t know it would creep mouse-like through a small crack in the wall and sit in the corner, mocking me, all the while sending out invitations to all its relatives and friends. They come in hordes, assaulting my body with aches and pains, frailties and fractures, trying to tie me to a rocking chair.
I’ve tried to fend them off, but every day is a struggle. Every day I hold one at bay, wary about its relatives sneaking up on me, and all the while, Aging sits there, smiling, nodding, waiting to welcome me with open arms.
But I’m not ready to give in just yet. My body may succumb to the veracities of old age, but my mind cannot be taken so easily.
I’ve got things to do before I get old, places to go, people to see, words to write, songs to sing. I’m just getting started, Mr. Aging. So wipe that smirk off your face. And creep back through that crack in the wall. I’m not ready for you yet.
My name is Ann, Alice Ann, in fact. I love to paint, but when I am painting, I want to quilt something. When I am quilting something, I want to paint. When nothing is going well, I want to read.
I have 6 grandkids, aged 25 to 5. Two of them live in Kansas, but the others live close by here in Ohio. I live in a very small house at Indian Lake, Ohio. Since I have a full view of the lake, I cannot imagine living anywhere else. I love the view in all seasons, when the lake is calm, or angry, or bluer than blue, covered with ice and snow. It doesn’t matter.