I believe it was Mary Poppins who stated ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’ To which I emphatically respond, ‘Amen sistah.’ And then Mary Poppins says, ‘Up to bed, spit spot.’ And then I say, ‘You’re not the boss of me, and ps I think you’re a witch. And guess what? Spoonfuls of sugar are even grosser than cough medicine.’

And then Mary Poppins flies away because she can’t handle the truths coming out of my mouth.

But this post has nothing to do with Mary Poppins. This is about things of beauty. I’ve developed an acute obsession interest in art. Nothing specific enough to warrant bragging rights, as in ‘Look at me, I’m a world renowned expert on 19th Century watercolors of transgendered hobo clowns. But only the sad ones.’ Although that would be pretty cool.

And even though I get the sophistication points of being an amateur collector, I’m so amateur that I don’t even have a specific taste in art. Art deco? Sure, sounds good. Impressionism? Most def. Realism? Whatevs. Folk art? Bring it on. Cubism? Hellz yeah. My only caveat is: no shocking/controversial/in-your-face monstrosities, and no reproductions. And despite my transgendered hobo clown example, no clowns. Unless you’re giving me a Picasso from the Rose Period, and then I’d say, ‘Well you broke my no-clowns rule, but since it’s a Picasso, whatever. Thanks.”

There are several difficulties presented with my heightened obsession interest in original art:

1. Small town Sandpoint does not, contrary to popular myth, offer extraordinary art-procuring opportunities. Unless you enjoy $1,000 pictures of moose and bald eagles, in which case Sandpoint is your kind of art town.

2. Also contrary to popular myth, art does not grow on pine or maple trees. Unless your taste in art is limited to pinecones and maple leaves, in which case you should consider calling yourself a ‘leaf enthusiast’ rather than an art collector.

3. In conjunction with #1, and also item #2, there is a severe lack of bereted starving artists offering me their works for a pittance or crust of bread. I am therefore reduced to scouring ebay for original art, which is cool, I guess, but not as cool as buying paintings from a starving bereted artist.

4. Therefore art procurements are limited to special occasions; birthdays, Mother’s days, Father’s days, anniversaries, Easters, Thursdays, etc. Including Will’s birthday, even though Will is not an art collector/enthusiast/noticer but that’s ok because I got permission to buy him art on his birthday.

Here’s the part where you question my motives and ask if I’m really just buying myself art on his birthday. And here’s the part where I say, ‘How dare you question me!’ and I slap you in a dramatic Dynasty-like manner. I have very pure motives in buying my husband art for his upcoming 31st birthday. For one, he’s going to need some decorations for his apartment walls when I kick him out for having an affair with a 25 year old stewardess in 30 years. And for two, he always says, ‘Don’t get me anything’ for his birthday, which is frustrating and annoying, and I swear after 11 birthdays together, I’ll show him what happens when he doesn’t give me adequate suggestions for his birthday gifts!

I don’t use exclamation points nearly enough.

!Here’s the point of this post!: Relish the things that give you joy. Original art hanging on my walls makes me happy. I’m not sure why, but it does. I have paintings from our friend Kyle, watercolors from anonymous ebay artists, paintings from my Grandfather who studied art in the last months of his life thirty years ago. They all make me happy. Giving art to people I love makes me happy. Watching Sister Wendy makes me happy. Don’t laugh, she’s way cool.

In conclusion, I like art. This makes me sophisticated and debonair and also smarter than any playa haters out there judging me.

The end.

(Thus ends my first article submission to the sophisticated magazine called American Art Collector. It’s good, right?)