Doris Day owns my hotel. I'm in Carmel-by-the-Sea, a town so Thomas Kincaid-esque, it make me feel as if I might come-face-to-face with Bilbo Baggins all snug in his Christmas elf suit. Everything is so dimiutive and quaint and incredibly chi-chi.
See for yourself
They have a shop here that just sells handcrafted lampshades. Another devoted entirely to an aviation theme—you know, flight jackets for babies and massive framed photos of fighter jets against the blue, blue sky.
Clint Eastwood used to be the mayor and I have trouble understanding how he could have taken it all seriously. His first act in office? Legalizing ice cream cones. Apparently the city had an ordinance against take-out. Not anymore. I just now polished off a bag of Chinese. Alone. In my hotel owned by Doris Day.
I am here on a women's art retreat, an assignment. I'm learning encaustic painting (painting with hot wax) in the company of six other would-be artists. I've learned three things so far:
1.) I LOVE encaustic painting. It's luminous and lovely and just so fun to play with.
2.) Being a visual artist is much more fun than being a writer, especially with a staff waiting on you hand and foot (Chris, more wine. Clap! Clap!)
3.) A lot of women own and wear fur coats without a trace of guilt or self-consciousness. (What would Doris Day think?)
Oh, and if you took all the diamonds off all the fingers in Carmel, you might just be able to bail out the economy once and for all.
Here's my first encaustic painting (they have a tendency to look a little tie-dye Dead Heady)