Ah, Ed Sheeran.  I’ve been listening to his catalog of music for a couple of days now.  I’m fairly certain The Boy is pretty sick of hearing the Crooning British Ginger by now.

I keep forgetting I have a latte over here.  It’s gone beyond cold.  Still, I drink it for utilitarian purposes.  And I’ve also forgotten to take my vitamins and epilepsy meds.  They’re organized in a nice little pile next to my Wacom.  I’ll get around to them eventually.  Or save them until tomorrow. I can’t be expected to make such decisions right now.

Resurrecting my real blog as I have been so immersed in coloring book craziness I often neglect my self-care.  I’ve had this blog for 11 years and have come to realize this is a necessity towards such efforts, even if the only person who reads it is me.  And I do, quite often.  I’m a nostalgia junkie – what can I say?

Currently I am at the tail end of a three and a half week excursion to Florida to spend the holidays with The Boy’s family.  Most of it has been spent working on proposals and art editing for my upcoming books while The Boy shrieks and screams at the TV. (College football.)  Shrieking and screaming does not mesh well with art editing, I’ve found.  Headphones have become a requirement.

The population of the condo building is primarily retired senior citizens who are obviously so familiar with each other’s existence that any strangers in their midst are cause for alarm and concern.  Whenever I encounter one by the elevator, immediately after I say “hello” I’m interrogated as to whom I’m a guest of, where I’m from, how long I’m here. When I say, “my boyfriend’s father…” they want to know who that is.  I’m surprised they don’t ask for identification and a blood sample.  Next time I’ll just say I’m a representative of a major developer in Tampa who is considering purchasing the entire property and leveling it to make way for a golf course. Or a hyperspace bypass.

The condo itself is a bit peculiar.  It’s owned by The Boy’s father who bought it from a woman who inherited it when her parents died.  As she didn’t want to deal with all the furniture and belongings, she left everything in here.  Which explains all of the 1980’s decor.  The book and VHS collection is pretty impressive; decent amount of Chuck Palahniuk and Barbara Kingsolver but what in the bloody hell is up with all of the Twilight books?

The wife was apparently a ceramicist and there is a sculpture of her dead husband’s head on top of the bookcases.  Pardon the grainy photo, as I was perched precariously on the edge of a structurally un-sound futon in order to capture the image of a very heavy-looking head.  I was fine until The Boy told me the story of The Head.  Now I feel like it’s watching me when I’m getting dressed.  That shit’s creepy.

I seriously don’t know what items in this bizarre place belong to the now-deceased couple or The Boy’s dad.  There’s decades-old sewing supplies, tools, *really* awful art, a first-generation iPod, a bouquet of seashells on sticks (yeah, I don’t know either) – it’s like staying in a sad museum of sorts.  I didn’t even realize people still used wallpaper.

One awesome thing about it is that that there is a large dining room table with a very bright adjustable lamp which accommodates my portable studio and then some.  Very roomy.

Currently most of my socialization has been limited to social media, which isn’t healthy for anyone.  I think I might take a break from the ole Facebook and Twitter (except my professional pages) as a sort of mental detox.  I’ll write more.  Get out more – see more friends.  Regain my dissolved social life. 🙂

Not to mention, getting out more means I have more blog fodder.  Seattle, you’ve been warned. Buahahaha…