left scandal free for eight episodes


Winter weather was warm and wonderful, not it’s windy and wicked. And white. Lots of snow.
Now the cold and heavy breezes have forced me inside to cuddle with all things fleecy and drink hot beverages.
I’m okay with that, but I’m a restless sort. I don’t like to sit. Just sit. But the only way to stay warm and fleecy and perched upon by a pooch is to sit. Just. Sit.
Thus cuddly duds and a clingy dog forced me to face Netflix and its offerings, from which I chose wisely: Scandal.
Forty-seven episodes later, I’m bloated on carbs and heavily vested in the fictional and fatally flawed characters of this TV drama and whaddaya know, but Netflix only took me to the cliffhanger of season three. I’m perched on the precarious lip of Lack o’ Knowledge High for how it all played out!
She went where? Where did she go? With Jake? And Fitz! What about Fitz!? And Huck is amok! Don’t get me started on Cyrus. And they’re leaving me on my own, I’m left to wonder??
No no no no no no!!
Discouraged and panicky, I went to Hulu, which only offers season four, episode nine and on.
What? What what whaaaat ???
To Google! Which gave me nada, zilch, Big Goose Egg.
I was let down on two fronts — no Scandal, and Google couldn’t help me!?
Bitter, hardened, weary, I dropped the whole thing.
Fine! I told myself. Fine! I don’t care! It doesn’t matter, so what?
What to do? Skip ahead? Pretend the next eight episodes didn’t happen? Wade through to the ninth as if none of the eight matter? Fill in gaps using my own imagination? No! This is a visual world! I need the visual! I don’t want to think for myself! Give me the Scandal, all of it! I need it!
Besides, these people are all crazy! No way I could fill in the chinks of their damaged thinking with my own naïve ponderings.
So I sit, in the tepid warmth of a house, on a couch, under a fleece blanket and a smelly dog whose sharp claws did into my thigh, refusing to let me go, every time I stand to go to the kitchen for more hot tea and York peppermint patties, waiting…the other eight will show, they will…they must!
Help me, Netflix, I need you!

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Opening Line: Lamott


The first line of Blue Shoe by Anne Lamott: “The world outside the window was in flames.”
Maybe this appeals to me because it’s less than twenty degrees outside, snow sits thick on my outdoor wood pile — though I had the foresight to pull in a bunch and light it up, one stick at a time, in my fireplace, though I’d love more radiant heat; my computer’s power cord only reaches so far —  and the wind whistles through a gap in the back French doors, shuffling the curtains all around and reminding me to replace that door should Spring ever arrive.
Anyway, I haven’t felt warm since August and anything creating heat sounds great to me right now.
Or maybe it’s because it’s Anne Lamott, whose inspirational works sit high and proud on my shelves amidst their haloes and warm inner light, the glow that radiates and is orchestrated by tiny angelic voices that sing, “Come, read this stuff, it’s great!”
Many have perused my book shelves and know the Power of the Lamott. They reach up, pull tenderly on the spine, and grab the slim volume, asking questions under its hypnotic power: “I haven’t read this, is it good?”
Another Lamott-colyte is born.
Yes, it’s a word.
Blue Shoe is a novel, though, and this is the first novel of hers that I’m reading.
And I have to know about the shoe. It’s blue. I need more.

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art education for third graders


Art is taught in twelve week courses in my Bubs’ school system. There’s a wandering jane-of-all-trades who wanders the schools, teaching three courses over the year: STEM, Spanish, and Art.
My Bubs loved STEM.
Don’t get me wrong, I love that he loved STEM — I have a science degree; I’m pro-Science — but I LOVE art and was anticipating the Art course. So was Bubs. He may have occasionally seen me draw a little, paint a little, and he dabbled in both…for approximately eighty-two seconds, before something else caught his eye.
I loved that eighty-two seconds.
Art started last week and on Day One I eagerly awaited the report, but I couldn’t seem eager, or he would know Something Is Up, and I’d lose out on info and get a stream of cocked eyebrows, intense stares, and slowly enunciated “fine” responses. I’d learn nothing. (Kids don’t like eager parents, do they?)
So when he magically offered some intel — three whole minutes into the drive toward home — I was delighted!
“Did you know that some guy laid on his back for four years just to paint a ceiling?”
He was incredulous. I was impressed. The Sistine ceiling was the first lesson? Rock on, Art Lady, rock on!
Gearing up for my own lesson for him, weeding the extraneous info mentally so as to pare down for a quick dip in the pool, as it were, so as not to lose my rapt audience quite so quickly, I began with, “It’s…”
Bubs continued. “I mean, come on! Four years?! Why wouldn’t he just use a roller?”
Blink. Blink.
I erupted, slowing the Mighty Taurus to a crawl because laughter and tears were clouding my road warrior aptitudes. (Don’t worry. It’s the Out There. No other vehicles were in harm’s way.)
Finally, Bubs was laughing at my laughing and curious as to why he was laughing at my laughing when finally I was able to ask, “Didn’t she show you a picture of the ceiling?”
Flummoxed, I started to explain about the portraits, the detail, the distance, the grandeur, and Bubs said, “He could still use a roller. He could just spin it.”
I had no words. Again, I was laughing.
Gee, perhaps a visual is what we need now.
To Google!
Maybe now he’ll be impressed, and maybe he’ll think, “Only four years??”

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