I wake up to the sound of the cat snoring on the bed. Unable to go back to sleep due to the roar, I wander in to see what Mo is up to.
As it turns out, she has just finished a glorious painting of a fishing fly. She discovered a fishing store yesterday that sells lures with hooks that are 3-feet long, apparently used to hook sailboarders while fishing off the pier.
She came home with a handful of exotic lures that she mentioned were rather expensive. I asked exactly how much they cost, and she just replied that we no longer could afford to buy the “fixer upper as-is buy at your own peril please sign this liability waiver before going inside” house she has been smitten with recently.
And now she has painted one. It’s sitting next to her computer as I walk by for her good morning smooch.
“That’s a nice painting of the fly,” I say glowingly. I’m not really sure how good it is because I’m not wearing my glasses. Still, you can never go wrong complimenting an arteest. Or not.
“It’s a hummingbird,” she replies.
“No, it’s not. It’s a fly,” I assure her.
It’s going to be a long morning at the Smith-Sheppo abode.
Maybe I will use the rest of the money we would have spent on our “Green Acres” home to send Mo to the George W. Bush School of Painting. Now THAT’S a guy who could paint fishing lures. Even if he said they were supposed to be paintings of his dog …