Mona was hoping for a Chewie (the chihuahua) enchilada for dinner.  These two have become fast friends despite the cultural, language, and size barriers.

Why do I think North Africa every time I look at this lantern?  Am I going insane or am I in the Nile?

As a child I was always mesmerized by rain droplets on the window of an automobile.  I’d try to count them, get bored, then finally make a game of seeing how many droplets a falling one could collect as it made it raced down the window to sudden death on the slippery asphalt.  As an adult I still find myself participating in the same game and often scold myself for indulging in such childish ventures till I realize perhaps its not so much a childish game that enthralls me as much as it is the nostalgia of  an innocence just out of an adult’s reach.

What a palate pleaser this was.  If only I had my palette and paints handy.  Unfortunately, the pallet containing said paints was lost in shipping.  Oh the fun with homonyms.

Loved how the late afternoon sun just caught the glass of water sitting on my desk.

All our lives we’re told what to do.  Freedom is merely a state of mind – an illusion put forth by those in charge to quell the masses.  I can’t even trespass anymore on my favorite photo spots or clear an overhang above my head.  What’s this world coming to?

What if I was really born in a barn?  Would I be excused for leaving the door open?  I could claim a kinship with Christ.   After all, a manger is somewhat like a barn.  Guess I’d save on the cost of a mattress since hay is definitely more cost effective than a plush-top Sealy.

If I can’t get there by boat, it’ll have to be by scooter.

Food as art?  And not at a Michelin restaurant or on the floor of the Pollock house when young Jackson refused to eat his pureed peas?  Our friends picked this up for us on their journey to the beautiful Pacific Northwest and Alaska.  Seattle’s Farmer’s Market must be da bomb.

Prior to The Great Lakes War, the bridge extended all the way to Michigan.  Friends would walk the distance, meet half way, and tell of their daily on-goings in Wisconsin or Michigan.  They’d meet at sunrise, enjoy the blue waters of the lake, and leave right after the sun set on the Wisconsin prairie; the golden rays beckoning them ashore, alone in its call.   They’d make small talk about the weather, report cards they had to sign, and about so and so doing this and that.  They’d hug, kiss, even weep before saying good-bye, promising to make the journey again sooner rather than later.  The war ended our visits.  Things were said, a college football rivalry became toxic, and people stopped making the trip out.  Phone calls, texts, and Facebook took the place of friendship.  Eventually things just got out of hand, though no one really knew how or why at the time.