Fifty-eight degrees. No wind.
Fifty-eight degrees. No wind.
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In this scene, my heroine, Donna Stone, is on the hunt for a large shipment of stolen plutonium. A hot lead sends her to a posh Beverly Hills art gallery. Just because the owner is sleazy doesn't mean he has anything to hide–
Or does he?
Donna finds out–the hard way.
Speaking of works of art, here's another angry housewife painting from one of my favorite artists, Kelly Reemtsen. You can catch her work here on her website, and also at Skidmore Contemporary Art in Santa Monica, David Klein Gallery in Birmingham Michigan, or DeBuck Gallery, in New York.
The subject is wearing the perfect frock for a the start of summer, don't you think? And who'd a thunk an ax would make such an eye-catching accessory?
TGI Holiday Weekend,
“It’s a Larkaro,” Armand Fronsdal hisses in my
ear. “Arresting, is it not?”
Yep, that’s exactly how I’d describe an art installation made up of a video projector playing a short film in which three big-breasted nymphs cavort in the woods. But hey, what do I know from art?
One thing I do know: this man’s breath leaves a lot to be desired.
But when I turn to face him, I’ve already set my lips into a come-hither pout. “I’m looking for something a bit more… je ne sais quoi? Ah! Romantique.”
Having one-upped his Lounge Lizardeese with my high school French has scored me major points with this jerk. He crooks a finger at me to follow him.
He is too tall and too slight: think Ichabod Crane in Goth. If his ponytail is supposed to cover up the fact that he’s got a bald spot, he’s failed miserably. He’s wearing more eyeliner than me, which is saying a lot, because I laid it on thick this morning.
Albeit no thicker than the crap he’s laying on me now. “Has ma’amselle been complimented for her resemblance to John Singer Sargent’s magnificent painting of Mrs. Waldorf Astor?”
I shrug. While it is flattering, we both know it’s a stretch. Edvard Munch’s The Scream,
“Ah, well, perhaps we shall find some petit amusement, oui?” I murmur. Playing
the bored art patroness has meant dressing up in a shiny ass-grazing red
leather dress that zips up the front, black fishnet stockings that end in
four-inch Louboutin thigh-high boots, and a veiled chapeau perched atop my
French twist. What with the tightness of the dress and the tiny heels of the
shoes, keeping up with his long strides is a bitch.
The gallery is really a warehouse broken up into
several rooms. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the one farthest to the back of
the building. One wall is made up of medieval pitchforks in a lattice pattern.
Near another, a seven-foot hot pink and purple polka-dot penis rises, thick and
proud, among two humongous blue balls.
The center installation is made up of abstract
mirrored balls of varying sizes, hung from the ceiling. They are dripping some
substance the color of blood.
If this is his idea of romantic, I’m guessing he doesn’t go on many dates.
“Voila,” he purrs in an accent as bad as mine.
“C'est magnifique,” I whisper as I stare up at the mirrored balls.
“This is my private atelier,” he hisses proudly. “Everything in here is my own creation. If this piece speaks to you, I’m sure we can come up with some arrangement: say, forty thou? That’s a third off the catalog price.”
“Such a steal. Almost wholesale.” I tilt my head. Unconsciously I straighten the seams of my stockings. In truth, I am taking aim with the toe of my right bootie. It is loaded with truth serum. The sooner I take this guy down, the better. This place gives me a bad case of the creeps, and I want out of here fast—
Ah, darn! His cell phone just buzzed. I wave him off as he excuses himself to answer it.
In one of the mirrored balls hanging from the ceiling, I see that he is almost at the door when he freezes. His back straightens. Then slowly he turns around.
He has a wary look on his face. He doesn’t think I see him as he plucks one of the pitchforks from the wall. And steps up behind
But I’m too quick for him, swinging the largest of the mirrored balls toward his skull.
It knocks him down but not out. The pitchfork skitters on the slippery floor. As I lunge for it, he grabs my ankle, and I fall hard—
Damn. These. Heels…
Copyright © 2011 by Josie Brown. Published in May 2011 by Signal Press. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Author.
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One of my all-time favorite artists is Kelly Reemtsen. She so aptly captures the desperation of the ladies who lunch — especially when they get a bee under their bonnet about something.
Take this painting, called “Flower Power.” The way this wifey in the retro shift holds her hedge clippers implies self-emmolation. And yet, her cocked knee implies a dark streak for dangerous flirtation. Perhaps she's saying, “Approach at your own risk.”
Truly a thorny situation.
To celebrate the launch of
The Housewife Assassin's
Relationship Survival Guide (Book 4),
I'm giving away a $100 gift card
to the bookstore of your choice!
In many ways, San Francisco is a wonderland. One locale in the city that is always on parade is Golden Gate Park, which runs three miles east to west, and half a mile north to south. Its 1,017 acres make it 20 percent larger than New York's Central Park.
Our park ends at the Ocean, so I'd say that's another wonderful advantage. It's far side ends in the Haight, which is why it was once a hippy haven ("Once"? Frankly, it still is. Everything changes, and stays the same).
We'll park at one end, and meander through it, down to the other. In the meantime, we'll pass the archery field, the Frisbee Golf grove, merry-go-rounds, drumming circles, roller blade dancers, both The DeYoung Fine Arts Museum and the California Academy of Sciences, the first home of the San Francisco 49ers (Kezar Stadium) and several lakes (Stowe, for rowers; Spreckels, for those who are running their minature yachts, or sailing their miniature sail boats), not to mention a herd of buffalos. groves of picnickers, and a windmill or two.
Our own favorite passtime is discovering the wooded nooks and crannies; serene groves where one can lose oneself in a good book, while lolling on a blanket, or sprawling on one of the many benches that you'll come across.
The park was concieved in the 1870s, and hosted several public expositions, of which some of its historic buildings remain (the flower conservatory,and its renowned Japanese Tea Garden are but two).
Now, go out and discover something new,
Below, the architecturally renowned California Academy of Sciences
Yesterday Martin Brown and I caught the tail end of the Arthur Tress photography exhibit at the M. H. de Young Memorial Museum. It is entitled "San Francisco 1964." Loved the Mad Men-esque blast from the past I never knew.(Yes, I was alive then; but no, I wasn't in San Francisco.)
Tress's genius was not capturing the happenings, but the people who turned out for them. For example, this one was a demonstration against the hiring practices of Cadillac dealership on 1000 Van Ness (Van Ness was more an auto row then than it is now).
The guy in the middle, in the sweater, has such a contemporary face! but he'd be mid-sixties now. The guy far left, has some really interesting political buttons on his white sweater shirt,, including a peace sign. The guy in the front, with the hat, is leading the demonstrators in a chant.
That year — 1964 — was also an election year. In fact, the Tress also caught supporters of both Republican candidates Barry Goldwater and Nelson Rockefeller at the Cow Palace, where that year's GOP convention was being held. (I'm guessing we won't see another Republican convention here in a very, very long time…)
The exhibition juxtaposed that against a Beatles publicity stunt in which shouting fans held up signs that say "RINGO FOR PRESIDENT." Had that campaign caught the zeitgeist, I'm sure the fact that he hadn't been born in the United States (let alone wasn't a US citizen) would have been an issue. Then again, if enough (then baby boomin') 18 year-olds had rallied to overturn that Constitutional mandate, our 37th president might have been sporting a mop top.
What was she thinking? Where is she now? Whoever she is, she was one classy gal.
The Housewife Asassin's Handbook"You've got a book that won't be putdown – so go pick it up now!" — Cat's Thoughts"As a housewife myself, this book was a fantastic escape that had me dreaming "if only" the whole way through. The book doesn't take itself too seriously, which makes for the perfect combination of mystery and humor…" –Curled Up with a Good Book and a Cup of Tea"This is a super sex and fun read that you shouldn't miss! How do I love this book, let me count the ways: (1) a kick ass woman who can literally kick ass as well as cook and clean. Donna gives a whole new meaning to "taking out the trash". (2) The book is set around Los Angeles, mostly in a gated community suspiciously like Coto de Caza, full of housewives that could be "real" and for the setting along, a big giant WIN! (3) Super sarcasm, snarky dialogue and making fun of all that is wrong in the OC, politics, as well as current world affairs." — Mary Jacobs, Book Hounds Reviews