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December 2007
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February 2008

Oh.

Introsp






First off, you are all loving and generous and kind and I appreciate each and every one of your comments. You bring a smile to my face and perk me up just by knowing that you are out there reading and saying to yourself, "Ah, she'll be fine tomorrow!"



For those of you new to this blog, I also write a column on art and creativity for Cloth, Paper, Scissor magazine, entitled, "The Artist's Journey."  Every other month, I pen an essay about creativity as it intertwines with my life and I create a piece of artwork to illustrate the essay. My subjects range from life to art to memory to inspiration to family to friends to whatever pleases my fancy, but all center back on themselves to the nugget of the process of creativity.


So you'd think I'd recognize the symptoms in myself:  the flatness, the laying low, the avoidance of the studio, the lack of interest, the ideas that spin out at work and then fail to engage at home, the blahness of evening, the fall into the stupor of sleep.

Resistance.

Plain and simple.

Too many tempting irons to put into the fire. Too many ideas, too close to the precipice of jumping in, and then a few negative reactions that make me withdraw like a snail into my shell, all hardened and tucked in and spiteful.

Resistance.

I need to get to work.

I need faith in my abilities. I need to not have my eye on the short term but the long term.  Not everything I do has to turn out perfectly. Not everything I do has to be praised. Not everyone has to love me.

I need to get to work.

So many of you wrote of the January blahs. I was being smug in thinking I'd skated around it this year and  flew down the river like Joni Mitchell's.

Share with me your January blahs - whenever they come in the year. How do you wiggle out of it - or do you just let it spin out like a top until it falls down from its own exhaustion?








The Underside of Things

Plummet






It isn't that it happened, what took me by surprise, it's that it took this long to happen. I've been on a playful ride since fall, my energy fueled by the sweet darkening of the days and the playful illumination of lights. I haven't sighed once for other seasons, nor rued the grayness or the chill. My home with the sloping eaves seemed to fit my mood like a glove and I drew a circle around me with candles and throws and books and movies and frequent trips to the city to balance all the nesting.

Is it the ripping off of January on the year's calendar I carry in my mind that has laid upon me so heavily? As The Teen exclaimed,  why are there Valentines suddenly everywhere when it is still Christmas? The spring in my step has vanished and my energy has plummeted as quickly as the temperatures drop. Bed is a siren song and my books lay untouched, movies half-watched, meals haphazardly gathered and then abandoned for others to eat.



Understructure





Yes, there are classes unfilled, articles eviscerated, trips put off. There is the reality of a lifetime of eating upended into the dustbin. There is the slow spinning away of family ties like the gravitational pull outward of the expanding universe. There is the upheaval at the workplace, as we bivouac from floor to floor and offices shrink to the size of a cardboard box we work out of like snails in a shell.

Or is it just that my manager is going to Maui and I'm not?

Fall into it headfirst, I figure. This the time made for early bedtimes and obsessive drinking of hot, sweet beverages. What else is winter for than this slowing down and letting go? The daylight on the drive home is a welcome relief, but we needn't fool ourselves that winter is at its end.

I am mute when I look at brush and paints right now. Perhaps I need a sewing project. Something colorful and lush. Buttoned and beaded. With felt for warmth against the hand. Some passamentarie to play with.

Or maybe I just need to read without speaking and realize it is all right to offer nothing more than the sound of my breath as it slows against the pillow.








Vesp


I'm thinking of getting one of these. Don't know where I'd drive it since I have a highway commute to work, but don'cha think it would be cute for those summer evening spins up to Starbucks? The measure of my coffee addiction would be whether I could drive it whilst chugging a cappuccino.


The weekend was very full. Friday night I pulled myself out of the toxic odor stupor and went right from work to get The Teen and we went to The Dreaded Mall. (Only dreaded by me, you understand.) We bought her a dress for a Sweet Sixteen party and shopped in a few other stores and then drove across the county to meet Mr. Pom at Il Bacio Trattoria. It's "our place" - one of many. I had  beautifully roasted salmon with grilled mango and blood oranges. The Teen topped of her meal with a "small" pistachio gelato which had to be at least 3/4 of a pint.


Saturday, I had the most fun at a jewelry class with Terri Ventura and some other ladies I had met at Artfest For the Soul last fall.  We had a blast making charm bracelets and necklaces. I promise a photo soon as I remember to take it in daylight. I'm afraid I drove Terri ragged as it seems I am not proficient with seeing, manipulating, or attaching jump rings to anything and she was quite busy "helping" me make my necklace as jump rings disappeared down my lap, across the room, and snapped in two. I am intrigued now to make some of my bits and bobs into necklaces and bracelets, but I think I will stick to using superglue.  I have a new and profound respect for jewelry artisans.

Tinsel Trading is turning into a salon in the midst of the grimy, dirty streets of the Fashion District. Amidst the windows twinkling with rickrack and buttons, the vendor selling pretzels and hot dogs, the shuttered windows of closed-up storefronts, women carrying  satchels  filled with glue sticks and brushes, needles and thread, clusters of millinery florals, and as many and varied objects as a magician's assistant, can be seen heading for the colorful shop and laughter can be heard as soon as the doors are open. 

There always is at least one new artist whose work takes my breath away and this time was no exception. I met the  beautiful, brilliant artist, Melanie Mercado,  who brought some of her charming art works to share with us. I'm hoping she soon will be teaching classes about witty paper dolls and most unusual jacks-and-jills-in-the-boxes.


I think that meeting other artists is the most wonderful aspect of taking classes. Although the techniques learned and projects started and finished are very intriguing, for me the bonus  is making real time friends in the arts. What could be nicer than spending an afternoon with like-minded artists, people who understand the quickening of the heart when faced with a room full of ribbons, whose breath becomes as ragged when perusing deeply hued art papers fluttering on the breezes of our passing by?  Whatever the media we are using, as we finally get to work, a  companionable silence  falls until someone looks up and says, "Have you ever been to The Antique Garage?", or some such tidbit of secret treasureland and all stop and listen and whip out notebooks in which to squirrel down the address or website, and the class ends with hugs and plans for future field trips.

Today we stayed in. The Teen made lasagna and I made a pot roast and potatoes, and The Empress and Sister #2 came for dinner. Afterwards, we all lingered around the table, The Princess with her heavily annotated guidebook to Paris, her next trip; The Empress skimming through a new knitting book much too advanced for my scarf-making skills; Sister #2 with a sketchpad; and myself with stacks of ancient Victorias purchased on ebay. Mr. Pom poured himself another glass of cabernet, lit the fire, and escaped into the living room  and the sunny afternoon slipped into evening as we ate pistachios and had cups of almond tea.



Corr




No matter how lovely or jam-packed the weekend, Sunday tapers into a narrow neck. I imagine tomorrow will be dicey at best as we discover whether our offices are fit for occupation. I haven't received any emergency calls, so I expect we will at least begin the day there. After that, who knows whether we end up in Area 51 or somewhere resembling the corridor above descending into the bowels of the earth.

What did you do this last Sunday in January, or as I read somewhere else in blogville - the end of the first third of the first quarter of the year?


Under the Radar/Over the Top

CatI really just try to do my job. I rarely venture out from my office except to speak to the people I work with. You hardly ever see me sitting in someone's office shooting the breeze. I usually eat lunch at my desk. 

And yet, the drama continues.

There's been a weird "dead fish" smell in the lobby of our floor for about two weeks. We ignored it. Figured someone brought fish or curried goat and miked it and the smell settled by the elevators. Then upper management comes by and decides  Something Must Be Done. Our office is now crawling with suits and contractors and the rugs are shampooed and air freshener is sprayed and now Everybody Has Headaches.

What to do? Open all the vents and run the ventilations system full blast. (Sealed windows, the bane of all office space.) 

Uh-oh.

Seems like the bad odor is linked to the ventilation system and by Friday, the lobby smell has intensified by the power of ten and pervaded the entire office. People are nauseous, some throw up, eyes are watering, stomachs churning, heads are aching.

Everyone is sent home. Everyone, that is, except those of us who run a unit and have a daily calendar to manage. That would be me. The one throwing up in the parking lot Thursday night. The one who thought she either had a bug or was reacting to a very stressful day that included much yelling over a particular file. The one who really thought there was no smell until she left the floor and went to another and then came back and was gagging and lightheaded.

I heard the EPA was there but I didn't actually see them. 

So now some of us spend the afternoon on a different floor with our laptops, files, rolodexes, and court calendars. We  I are covering the work that an entire unit does.

We I are wondering if the burning in the back of the throat will be gone by the weekend. And if we I will have to prep the whole calendar for Tuesday if we don't reopen on Monday.

And we I are really going to be pissed if we I have lung disease.


Finding Home

One of my intentions for the new year is to make our home a more liveable, loveable place to be.  It may not be the house of our dreams, but it is our home, the place where we relax, play, and come together in precious times as a family. Mr. Pom and I have valued making a home over other choices. We love houses, we love furnishing our houses, and we love just being at home.

We have some expensive wishes - new kitchen, bump out the dining room, enclose our porch - but we also have some simple, basic wishes, too. My little art room, formerly a nursery I'm sure, off the master bedroom, was one of the selling points when we bought this house. But the room is small and oddly shaped and has never lived up to its potential. Over the years, it had become more and more crowded with stuff and didn't lure me into wanting to stay in there and make art. Lately, it's turned into a giant closet and my bed has become the studio space. Not great when you're painting, gessoing, and glue-gunning and your poor husband wants to go to bed!


Would you want to work in here? And with your back to the room and the closet up against you. Bad feng shui! Bad!


100_1292




I've always dreamed of having a studio with a big, high table in the middle of the room to work on and cabinets and counters around the perimeter. That'll have to wait until The Teen moves out and I get to take over the big room on the 3rd floor (with dormers and skylights to put in - don't tell her! She wants to do that. But that's on the expensive list and remember, we're talking easy-peasy, cheap renovations).

My other dream is to have a booklined study with a table by a window. I want to keep my artjournal out and available to work in each day. I'll never get back to the routine of one if I have to gather up paints, stamps, and pens and drag it all into the bedroom. I am, after all, also a writer, and I want a space that is conducive to thinking and writing and where I want to while away an afternoon with a cup of tea and my laptop open working on a piece. Doing same on the bed = naptime.

Trust me, this wasn't what I had in mind:



Before2

The odd shape of the room has the armoire up against the door to the hall and a cheap table from one of Mr. Pom's former places of business was a make shift  make-do, and you all know how hard it is to get rid of those fast, but ugly make-do's.


Studio3


Inspired by Nina's make over of her studio and by this amazing website from The Guardian UK, I was dying to rip apart my little space and install some organization, warmth, and charm. I cleared out the Christmas rubble and began reorganizing in situ, which is lawyer way of saying, I started hauling furniture around without stopping to clear off a space. If I had to move all the stuff off the surfaces and out of the room, I'd never have the inspiration or time to do it. I was doing fine until I got all the furniture turned around in the room and found I couldn't get in or out and had to yell for Mr. Pom, the-accountant-who-wants-every
thing-neat-and-in-a-straight-line,
and dognabbit, he bit his tongue and helped me drag stuff around despite the falling paints, papers, and bundled up rug in the midst of it all!



Et voila:




After1



If I say so myself, is that cool? I have light from the window, I have everything in neat shelves behind me, and I have a pretty room with all my favorite stuff around me.

I even made a bulletin board - can you believe Mr. Pom was once as little as that blue crocheted baby sweater??



Bulletinafter


No more tubs of fabric stacked to the ceiling in the closet, either. I can now look at and be inspired by all my fabric! (OK, all that I can fit here - the rest is still on the closet shelf and in a coupla tubs in the basement but don't tell.)



Fabricafter



Instead of a rat's nest of Clementine boxes and spilling over shelves, I have an orderly arrangement of all my goodies (at least for now).



Shelvesafter




And I have a sewing area! Yes, it's right up against the desk/writing/painting area, but that's cool. It beats where the sewing machine had been for the last few years (under the desk in its case: can you say unhemmed pants galore?)



Sewingafter


Notice I haven't cleaned up everything before I took these photos.
I wanted to show you that I still am creatively messy and it is a studio, not a photo shoot. (And if you had to wait until I neatened up everything, you'd never see it.) At night I can get some artwork done and still watch DVDs so I don't feel so isolated. Instead of the horrid tangle of wires and beat up cafeteria table, I have a cute little shelf unit from The Container Store:


Tvafter

Now I sit at the big desk I bought at Workbench some 23 years ago when I quit my job as a prosecutor in organized crime and started a little country law practice so I could be at home with The Baby Princess. The desk has held up better than I and with the new addition of it's pretty skirt and vintage valance from France (ebay find), I love to go in there and sit. Soon to come are yellow and white check cafe curtains with a pennant valance.

I have to go. There's a desk full of paints and papers waiting for me; I have Palindrome to watch; and I'm going to convince The Teen to make espresso (decaf this time as we both got no sleep last night!)  I LOVE my new space!


Desktpafter


What I'm Wearing Today

Sunday. Day of Rest. 23 degrees here. But sun shining. Studio bright. Photos to come soon as damn digi battery recharges.

So to entertain you:

1. Favorite Winter Footwear And They Are Not Slippers Despite What My Boss Said Since They Have a Rubber Tread Corrugated Sole Like A Boot And I Call It The Moot - Mule/Boot = Moot And That's A Little Lawyer Joke Pass It On.




Ugg





2. Felted Tote I Made At Tinsel Trading in Charlotte Lyonn's Class Yesterday and Thanks Terri For the Photo!



Tote2





3. What Face Was I Trying To Make When Terri Took The Class Photo Or Another Rhoda Moment.



Face2




4. Terri's Gorgeous New Hair Cut That I Totally Want


Terriv






5. Surf 'N Turf Or What We're Not Having For Dinner



Surfnturf


Rhoda Live

I just ran across a new blog by one of my favorite artists, Laurie Meseroll. She paints funky, funny folk art paintings with a wicked edge, which mirrors her personality: funky, funny, and with a wicked edge.

Who could not like an artist who wears Betsey Johnson shoes and loves all things Rhoda?

Rhoda.

Rhoda!

What?

Oh come on, are you all that young??


Rhoda was Mary's sidekick in TV land. Mary was perfect, polished, and poised. Rhoda was frumpy, messy, and loud-mouthed. Sure, I wanted a giant "M" on my wall, an apartment with a bay window and window seat, a Parson's table covered with laminated fabric, and I wanted to learn how to tie scarves in that chic, Parisian way. But I had more in common with the very ethnic Rhoda with the big hair,  the crazy scarves around the big hair, the layers of beads, and the Noo Yawk accent. (In fact, I really had more in common with Rhoda's sister, the quiet, lumpy, croaky-voiced character whose voice went on to infamy as Mrs. Simpson.)

[Though I woulda punched Joe in the face if he'd dumped me like he did Rhoda, but it was the 70's and they had to make her another strong, single woman. And let's not forgot the wonderful Nancy Walker as her mom. (Who we saw on our honeymoon coming our of a store in San Francisco, thereby cementing the Rhoda obsession for the rest of my life) ] 

I was always the Rhoda in a relationship. I always was best friends with the most popular or prettiest girls, consoling the boys who mooned around them while I was secretly in love with them and they with her, helping them get ready for their dates, and being their beard when they needed a place to tell their mother where they were spending the night.

The dichotomy between Mary and Rhoda also perfectly mirrors my own schizoid personality: wanting to be perfect Mary on the outside and creative  Rhoda on the inside. Rhoda's winning these days, though, and thank God! Who wants to be Mary now?  Too controlled, uptight. I'd have to get a face lift! And what would Mary know about losing weight? Rhoda, well, she and I could write an encyclopedia.  And close families and feeling smothered at times. Yeah, I'm right there with ya, Rhodes. Mary would never wear Uggs to work. Would Mary ignore the hunger in the eyes of her family and go upstairs and paint? What would Phyllis say??  And I would LOVE to be a window dresser!  By now, I'd have been put out to pasture as a newswoman or having my body liposucked to remain on the air.

Rhoda, baby, I'm coming into the city today. Maybe we can grab a cup of Joe? Oh, sorry. Yeah, make that a latte. And don't ask Mary, she'd make us from the train and I am so taking a cab. Bring your sister....

By the way, did she ever get married?





On the Edge

Teen2
Photos by The Teen



Weekend can't come too soon this week. There's more drama at my office on a daily basis than there is on Broadway. While  trying to fly under the radar and just do my work, various people visit me and fill me in on potential promotions, who was rude to whom, shakedowns, and other nefarious goings on that make it seem more like a soap opera set. 

But today is Friday and casual day and I have on jeans and a sweater and my favorite Uggs that The Princess gave me for Christmas. They're like wearing little lambs on your feet. For lunchI have some vegetable soup and roasted chicken that The Teen learned to make last night and it was delicious.

I also have the sequel to Coming Home, Nancherow, the movie made from Rosamunde Pilcher's books. Couldn't find a finer escapist fluff for a cold and rainy January weekend.  (Though I prefer my Joanna Lumley in her wicked AbFab role.

This weekend I'll take photos of my newly rearranged studio and share with you all. It's amazing how much pleasure I've gotten from the room by just moving the desk. I guess there is something to that feng shui.

Have a good one. Hope you'll write. We're midwinter lonely over heah.


Tinsel Trading

Brown



Have you visited the most magical store in the world? Does vintage silk ribbons, antique metallic fabrics and trim, metal threads, glittered letters, vintage millinery trim, bobbles and bobbins and tassels and cords make your knees weak?



Pink


Then take a class with me at Tinsel Trading! On February 2nd, we are going to spend a few hours sitting around a big table, surrounded by walls and walls of ribbons, and make lovely, little whimsical corsages from ribbons, paper, buttons and beads. These are perfect for a little gift for your best girl friend, for your Mom, your daughter, your sister, or the far away friend that you miss.



Gold


You can register for the class by going to the Tinsel Trading website, click on "events" and scroll down.


I can't wait to meet you all!!





Brighton Beach Memoir Pomegranate Style

After we had eaten our fill at Chelsea Food Market on Saturday, Mr. Pom was waxing nostalgic (or just feeling youthful after the extra-strong cappuccinos) and declared that we would next take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry.

Why? Just because. He’s that kinda guy.

Mr. Pom loves to drive in the city and though we had nothing going on in Staten Island (I’d say: who does, but I don’t want to get flamed!) , he wanted to be out on the open water in the sunshine, and then get to drive across the very high and scary Verrazano Narrows Bridge (featured in Saturday Night Fever, which I thought was on the Brooklyn Bridge but he was right and I was wrong. So rare.)

Took awhile for us to get our bearings to drive from Chelsea over to the ferry. When we got there we circled a few times, no easy feat with the one way streets and roads blocked for security.  “Where’s the loading ramp for cars?  Oops. Not here – that’s Homeland Security”

Well, duh, they banned cars from the ferry since  9/11.  (Last time we were on the ferry: we weren’t married: you do the math.)  We wanted to ride the ferry, but we didn’t want to pay for parking, then pay for a round trip ticket for 3 on the ferry (it’s not that much fun), so we were in quandary.

“Let’s go to that beach in Brooklyn,” The Teen piped up from the back seat.

Beach in Brooklyn? All I can think of is that Neil Simon play….what is she talking about?

“Coney Island!”  Mr. Pom said (he  and The Teen are of one mind. Scary)

Last time we’d try to take her there, we’d been in gridlock traffic on a summer Sunday afternoon and got off The Belt Parkway and had gelato in Little Italy instead. So with the help of GPS, we made our way to  Coney Island in record time.  There are gorgeous views of Manhattan on the drive over, but every time we tried to pull off the road to take a picture,  we’d end up behind box cars in the rail yards.




Verz



Coney Island. What can I say? It’s everything  like you’ve imagined and nothing like you’d imagine.



Freak



In winter,  the stores along the boardwalk are boarded up, but the crazy signs and goofy promotions are still prominent.




Capn



The  kiddie rides are  eerily shuttered and raincovers are  windblown and flapping in the onshore wind. Eaten cobs of corn are piled neatly on one ride and we suspected it is a raccoon’s nest.




Mural





But the sun is out and there are a lot of strollers bundled up in track suits or fur hats and boots. The faces are broad, Slavic faces, faces that look used to the cold and prefer winter weather. Older couples in woolen coats with shopping bags walk slowly along next to younger couples bundled up in fur-trimmed hoodies and nuzzling each other behind the privacy of their hoods.





Lights



Kids and dog run free, yapping at each other’s heels, on wide open expanses of beach that normally would be bumper to bumper blankets in the sand.  The gulls cry as loudly as ever and patient fishermen set traps and poles and smoke cigarettes and drink from Styrofoam cups.  Odd bits of languages are filtered by the wind and snatches of foreign words  follow their speakers as the ocean wind whips everything behind us like a broom.



 

Ww

 




We decide to walk to the next pier past the few open stands selling slices of pizza and buttered corn in the summers and doing a good business now in coffee  and knishes. Knots of regulars sit at tables or smoke cigars in huddles, gesturing with coffee cups to each other and passing neighbors.



Para




We are the tourists as we walk in the sun and we smile at those faces that meet our eyes. An older lady rides by on a fancy bike with a broad seat that has a back and wide tires and my daughter says, “Get one like that, Mom.”





Pr




On the pier, it is colder but we challenge each other to make it to the end. Nets lie on benches, some prepped with raw chicken or fish, some in various stages of mending. Two high school age girls take pictures for a class project and one fishermen promises to let them  know when he is ready to throw the net over the pier. I ready my camera, but miss the moment and are left with only a shot of the water closing over the net without the graceful arc of the fisherman’s arm and the corresponding lift of the net like a salute before descending into war.



Catch




From the end of the pier, we have a panoramic view of the boardwalk and the infamous image of The Cyclone, the Ferris Wheel, and the parachute drop.  Looking back at the boardwalk and beach, we can imagine hot summer days filled wit the smell of coconut oil and the grease frying funnel cakes, boom boxes pounding louder than the surf, kids’ shrieks as waves slap them in the face, mother’s cries to not go so far out, teen agers  smoking on blankets and tattoos emblazoned across young and old, and ice chest feasts of pastrami on rye and bags of chips and cold grapes and icy beers.



Pan




But for today, we must imagine it all and walk to the end of the earth, or at least to the end of the pier and wonder who lives in the apartments at the very end, around the curve that must take the wind, summer and winter, and wonder how many nations are represented by the strollers, the cigar smokers, the coffee drinkers, the guy jumping rope, the boy band having their photo op against a graffitied building, the women cleaning the bathrooms, the homeless guy trying to stay out of the wind, the elderly couple in matching sealskin hats and coats, the women riding the pale blue bike, the lovers posing next to the fake palm tree sprinklers, and ourselves, of course, tourists and visitors more so than the Russian voices that visit us on the wind like snatches of Radio Free Europe.  Time to walk back with the sun lowering at our back, the wind biting our faces, the gulls crying good bye, the waves rolling as they will summer and winter with and without us forever and ever.


End

 


We Ate Manhattan

So where was I?

Oh, yes, back at work.

Plunged headfirst into the New Year whether we want to or not. I am always overwhelmed but seeking balance, as I spin like a top out of my downtime and home and  back into the schedules and intensity of work.

Come the weekend, I just want to stay in my jammies and slug around, but when Mr. Pom, whose back has been ailing, felt good this weekend and said, get dressed, time for a Tour of Noo Yawk! I jumped into my clothes, downed a few sinus tablets, and was ready with The Teen to spend the day on tour.

Look at the type of day it was in the city - would you stay home?




Warm



People sitting outside and reading - in January! I'm loving this thaw before the big snow falls. I know, global warming, blah, blah, but right now since I have no control over the present and we're doing our best to help with the future, I will enjoy a sunshine and sweater day!



Our destination: Chelsea Food Market in lower Manhattan.  Built in the turn-of-the-century enormous monolith of a factory that formerly housed The National Biscuit Company, maker of Uneeda Biscuits, and Oreos and Mallomars,  the property was developed into a yuppy food court. Or as The Teen said, "This is like a mall that YOU designed, Mom."




  Shelves



I heartily agree! My kind of mall has a tea store, more bakeries than you could possibly sample, a kitchen goods store, and lots of nooks and crannies filled with everything including a  wine store, Thai restaurant, soup shop, Italian restaurant,  a cookies and milk bar, a gelato shop,  a "handcrafted food" counter with table service and candles, and lots of other enticing food counters.




Fdcourt







First stop was Eleni's, a bakery/candy shop featured on MTV'S WEEKEND COUNTDOWN -   like I know this? No, but The Teen does and that's why we let her tag along.




Eleni



So many cupcakes! How to choose?



Cupcakes2



I'm not one for upside down Christmas trees, but who could resist one covered in cookies?



Tree



I love New York cookies! You almost have to eat them to support the economy, right?




Cookies





When it was time for lunch, those seafood-lovin' Poms  made a beeline for the fish store.  I love a kid who, on walking into a fish store doesn't say "phew", but says, "Smells like the Cape!"




Fish  



I could hear the wheels spinning in Mr. Pom's mind about how he was going to convince me to drive down here on next Christmas Eve morning to pick up the lobsters, crab claws, and other assorted fishies for dinner.

Mr. Pom had sushi and I had shrimp and black bean soup. The Teen  Teen ended up with the world's biggest overstuffed fresh mozzarella  tomato, and basil sandwich.


Sandwih







Great coffee followed, cookies and milk for The Teen and some cupcakes for the big kids, who at work and missing the fun.


Cupcakes


My favorite place was the Bowery restaurant supply store where we bought a huge wooden spoon from France, a tea strainer, a cheap,  stovetop Italian espresso pot, and a blade with a wooden handle that you can use to chop vegetables or cut dough. 

The store was also very cool, even if they wouldn't let me take pictures (do they not know I am Mrs. Pom??) I purchased  chocolate orange tea and an almond tea. Hmm, think I'll end Sunday night with a cup of chocolate orange. I'll let you know how it tastes.



Water


The market is worth a trip when you're in the city looking for some place reasonable and casual to grab a quick lunch. . It got very crowded after 1:00, so plan accordingly. The market is long and winds through corridors with the old factory floors and salvaged pieces of the building that were unearthed during the remodling. There's a faux drainage pip, beautiful decorations, and The Food Network has their test kitchen on the upper floors.



Foodnetwork




And if you're still hungry, Mario Batali's five star restaurant, Del Posto, is only around the corner.  What did we do next to work off all that food? Stay tuned!


Just Hanging Out

Hair2




OK, I chickened out. The hairdresser was double-booked, I was a little late (couldn't find my purse - The Teen, who loses things in the house like her permit and school ID, found it and will never let me live it down!)  I did ask for layers around my face and he complied by snipping a hair here and there. Sigh.  Next time, I'll go armed with photos.

Saturday night was an unusual night at The Poms because all the kids hanging around, literally...


Flip




  The Teen finally got her last Christmas gift - Rockband - and my living room is now taken over with a fake drum and guitar set. She began playing it at 3:00 and as each older sibling came home, another round began. Karaoke was added by Mr. Pom. Must. Find. Way. To. Destroy. Rockband.

I sat in the dining room and painted with my Ipod in my ears and FINISHED the painting by 9:00. You'll have to wait until the summer issue of CPS to see it. I was quite pleased how the idea in my head translated right on the canvas.


The kid hanging around up above? Mystery Man's  best friend and nephew of my oldest friend. T - do you recognize K upside down?? Someone passed this inversion thingie onto Mr. Pom to help manage his back pain. He used it last night and almost passed out. Enough said. Me, not gonna do it.




Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

P10700031





I'm getting my hair cut today by my Italian stylist. Now, don't get all crazy thinking of a slinky, sexy salon with a slinky, sexy male stylist who speaks to me with purring Italiano phrases and makes me feel all like anyone but myself.

Uh, nah. He's Italian, has an accent, but comes from the Dour Region of Italy, more commonly known as "The Poorhouse and Death is Right Around the Corner." He's the most decent, sweetest, and kindest man, but oofah!  he's a depressive!

I'm tired of my hair. Oh, I'm glad I have hair as a lot of it is falling out as I lose weight. But I'm tired of it. I went to great lengths - ha ha funny in the morning - to get it one length about 5 years ago and now I'm tired of it but deathly afraid to do anything different. I have hair the texture of Brillo and layering makes me look like a sheep that got hit by lightening.

My hair has generally looked like this for over 5 years:




Hair


Or this,






Hair2





Safe, boring, blah.

What I really want is something like this (and yes, the body and face also, but that's another post):





Cuteshorthaircuts




But if I were to try the above, I'd probably end up looking more like this:



Notcocute





I think this is very nice but wonder how long I could stand it on my face:



Shortbrownhair1




Short with chunky layers. We've tried asking for chunky layer with The Princess. Chunky layer doesn't translate into Italian......


Short_hairstyles_07_01

I

f I get layers, when it's humid, which is from May to December in New York, I have to tie it up and keep it under control with scarves and crazy glue and who has the time??



Gaultier_hair2006


And not being Gaultier, I end up more looking like this:





Poncho2



Stay tuned.

(All my sisters are snickering as they read this because they know I'm going to end up with the exact same cut as always....._)


That Long Winter's Nap...

Emptytable I wore my most comfortable sweater to work today, kept my pink scarf wrapped around my neck, and refused to switch on the overhead flourescent lights and saw in a pool of timid light from my desk lamp.

One of my paras stuck her head in my door, "In denial?" "Yep."
I sipped from a a triple venti cap like a baby from a bottle all morning.

I managed to get through the week's trial and motion calendar and assign everything. Then I did non-thinking tasks like looking up all the cases for next week and photocopying the calendars.

It wasn't all bad: at some point mid-morning we realized that the phones weren't ringing and it turned out we couldn't get incoming calls. How cool was that? Of course, there was still email, but still, you can ignore an email longer than a ringing phone.

Tomorrow the Big Boss is coming. I shall get there extra early and hide under my desk all day. I probably won't even see her if I don't leave my cell office.

But best of all - today is strange combination of Monday and Hump Day! So only two days left before I can stay in pajamas again and read all day.

What do people do in midwinter who don't like pajamas or reading?

Oh, they ski.

Yeah, we don't like those people.

And they don't like us.


Greeting the New

Santas I spent the first day of the new year working on the class samples for my Tinsel Trading classes. My studio was upside down from Christmas and various projects and although I had a lot of work to get done, I had to tackle my art closet before I could start. I now have all my fabric in my armoire and all the real crafty supplies in a big storage box. Unfortunately, the work desk is still covered in stuff and I couldn't take the time to tackle it. So I spent the day on my bed, surrounded by ribbon, passementarie,  lace, crepe paper, vintage silk flowers, scissors, and needle and threads.

While I snipped and sewed, I watched All Passion Spent, a beautiful story of an elderly English lady who after her husband's death, lives the life she always wanted to have. The day was raw and wet and I couldn't imagine a more perfect way to spend the first day of the year than by sitting in quiet and choosing this color ribbon and that color paper and putting it all together peacefully while the rain hit the windows.

Mr. Pom and I had a simple New Year's Eve. We had sushi with The Teen before delivering her to Sister #4's house for a sleepover with her cousin. She made cookies and a Happy New Year's cake and my brother in law told me when they went to bed at 1:30, the kids were still going strong playing ping pong. I love that she still has evenings where Guitar Hero and ping pong wit her cousins are where she wants to be. I hope all the cousins stay close even when they go off to college. Mr. Pom and I made it past midnight, thanks to some strong cappuccino after dinner, and we had no desire to be out or entertaining as we watched the SNL retrospective on TV.

Tomorrow my little lamp lit quiet time is over and I return to the office.  Mystery Man is home for another two weeks and he is working with his sister as part timer at her job. He cooked steaks for his friend tonight and now they are playing X-Box. The Teen is taking photos of the month long still life she did for art. Mr. Pom is taking a baseball quiz in a book he got for Christmas. The Princess is doing her laundry and taking a shower.  I'm about to make a cup of tea.

This year. Last year. As long as it's filled with love and family together under one roof.