Thursday, April 23, 2009

spring fashion special

Can you see my Jewish children's Easter "baskets"? I went whole hog this year. The irony of the term "whole hog" is not lost on me, either. As a non-practicing, Buddhist-leaning Hebrew school drop-out, I have absolutely no problem with Christmas. The whole aesthetic gets me drooling like a diseased dog. I go catatonic with slack-jawed glee at the sight of twinkle lights, the smell of pine, and froth with giddy excitement upon viewing a slick, shiny load of gift-wrapped presents, even when I know they will disappoint one way or another.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

bad morning somebody

Jennifer Weiner lives in Philly. She read from her upcoming novel at Headhouse Books last Tuesday night and in a fit of career-savvy, fun-loving adventure, I grabbed a pal and headed east to feast my eyes and ears on someone who has the kind of life that I covet, at least that I think I covet, meaning that I tell myself and anyone who listens that I'd give my... my... well, see, that's the thing. I wouldn't give my right arm. I need that to write with. And I couldn't give my firstborn. I'd feel too guilty. And people never say they'd give their second-born. That doesn't roll off the tongue. I'd give my grandmother, but would anyone want a dusty corpse? Doesn't seem like a fair trade, not much of a commodity. I might give my laptop, but how important is a thing you can buy at a store? Eye teeth? No, I'd hold onto those too.

Friday, April 03, 2009

yin yang pink pang

Enjoying the weather, indulging in a little creativity, taking advantage of the natural light. It makes for much tastier paint. It's just not as good when you eat it in the basement. This way it's more like a picnic. Alfresco dining makes even the blandest paints taste special. I like giving special treats to my children because it shows I care. But washing the paint out of her mouth? Off of her face, hair and hands? That's what Stella would call child abuse, if she knew the term. It was so cute, the other day, she said, "Don't say 'fuck,' Mommy." Baby's first swear word. Precious. But you know, the trauma of bathing that I inflict on this tender angel, I think it makes her more creative. Brings out the soulfulness in her work. It's win-win.