I Am Not On The Shelf...

I'm next to the shelf.  "On the shelf" is today's Photo A Day June theme.  I took it literally and slightly unpiled my writing bookshelf (which my Grandpa Stephan made, btw) and took its picture.  I love this bookcase.  I can remember where it sat in every house I've ever lived in.  It was on the west wall of the living room (which was painted battleship gray, looked like a bat cave, Aunt B said) on Folz Lane in Evansville, IN; at the foot of the basement stairs with the Childcraft and lame-ass encyclopedia we got a volume at a time at the grocery on it on Liberty Street here in Green Bay; in DS's bedroom when he lived on the other side of this duplex; and right here next to me holding all my manuscripts, magazines, and writing books.  Especially Shut Up & Write! by my friend and fave writing teacher, Judy Redbird Bridges.  If you have aspirations of writing you need to get you a copy of this book and go through it--again and again.  It's like the best writing seminar you'll ever take and you can have it with you always.  I'll wait while you follow the link (to Amazon, that's how you know it's a real book, it's on Amazon)... okay, back now?  Moving on.  The summer twins, heat & humidity, are back.  I told Durwood that I'd stop at the Broadway Farmer's Market last night after work to get him some tomatoes and, holy Mary, it was hot and sticky.  Of course, I decided to wear a dress to work yesterday and my hooha (or kuka, as Skully says [ "the girls" are hoohoos, she says, it's a central Wisconsin thing] (she's from Wausau)) got seriously hot and sweaty with not much fabric to wick away the moisture.  (what can I say, I have very active sweat glands, yes, even downthere)  It was a relief to get into Titletown Brewing where I met a friend for roasted veggie pizza and about a gallon of ice water.  I get to work again today (lucky me!) so I should get on with this, eat, and then shower.  You totally want me to shower.  The whole town wants me to shower.  Probably the entire Western Hemisphere would vote yes on the "should Barbara shower?" question if we put it up for a vote.  Not much apathy on that issue, I'm guessing.  Moving on.

June 28--John Singer Sargent, Madame X.  The black silk clung to her like water.  It caressed her curves and pooled in her recesses, swirling and floating in the night breeze.  It was hot in the ballroom.  The heat poured out through the French doors flung wide to entice the cool breeze inside.  Perry watched Grace lean on the balustrade, her arms crossed, her hands on her shoulders to ward off the evening's chill,  He watched as the breeze teased tiny, dark brown curls out of her French twist.  She slid her hands down to her elbows and sighed.  Punk Wilson roared out of another door, caught her around the waist, and whirled her his way.  She braced her forearms on his chest, shook her head when he slurred out a marriage proposal, and levered herself free. Punk staggered back into the crowded ballroom like iron filings to a magnet.  "You should have said yes," Perry said, walking out to stand beside her, "he's very rich."  She looked up at him, her brown eyes sparkling and said, "I don't think his wife would like it if I did."

And the dance of romance begins...  *sigh*  Real life's never like that, is it?  I think I watched too many late night, black & white movies with Mom growing up.  Hey, time for Cheerios.  See ya.
--Barbara