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Kindness

I want to share this beautiful post with you today. It is by Katrina Kennison, the author of The Gift of An Ordinary Day. She expresses so eloquently and beautifully the emotions I have been feeling this year. Her expression of vulnerability and the love and compassion of her husband reflects my own feelings on the way our marriage actually has strengthened since our children have grown up and out. It is a grace-filled post that shines a holy light on the beginning of the second half of life.

 

Read it here.


And I Wore Such a Pretty Dress*

Perhaps I should have taken the weather report more seriously. If I had, I might not have worn a dress and sandals, but the first thing I observed back at work was that all the women had on their summer dresses, even those loathe to wear a dress at any other time of the year.

Funny thing is that the dress I wore today is the purple sister of the brown dress I wore about two weeks ago when I went out to dinner with my girlfriends. That was the night when I was driving the Mini in the hailstorm and rising waters on the parkway. Since I wore the sister dress today, we had another typhoon-like blow down all the trees and turn black as night rainstorm and I froze my tuckus off.

The brown dress, as you may remember, was called "graphite" online and  pictured as a crisp linen in rich neutral colors. In reality, it was  a rather worn, washed out, maternity-looking dress that made me look like I had just been released from a mental health facility in standard issue uniform.

I failed to mention in that post that I had also bought it in purple (or maybe I did; I'm too tired to look or link).  I wanted two simple, cool, casual summer dresses that could be dressed up for court and dressed down for brunch. Something in a natural fabric, nothing constricting, and simple colors that I could accessorize.

I ordered them on sale a few months ago and never even took them out of the packaging, and once I did, it was too late to return. Besides, it's the kind of company (Boden) that makes you pay return shipping, so you really have to think long and hard about it. And you know how you always think that the shoes will somehow miraculously change and fit and the dress will magically morph into something divine whilst hanging in your closet.

I went to the site yesterday to see if anything was on sale and ended up reading the reviews of the dress. All reviews were uniformly as negative as my own appraisal. Unfortunately, there were no reviews posted when I bought the dresses.  The hand of the fabric, the consistency of the dye, the workmanship, and the generally worn out look of the dress would have been revealed to me. Everyone seems to return it. Why is it that I take the poor choice as my own stupidity and feel compelled to keep it? And wear it?? (Or is it just that I am too lazy to organize the return slip, packing slip, shipping slip, box, wide tape, and drive to the parcel post? Yes.)

I thought I was clever, though this morning when I decided to wear the purple one. I put on a wide belt (Mr. Pom's suggestion; can you imagine?), a pretty  necklace, and a bolero jacket in beige denim.  I thought I was clever, that is, until I went to the ladies room and caught a glimpse of myself in profile and saw that the dropped empire waist, gusset pleat, and wide belt made me look about 7 months preggers. I spent the rest of the day with the bolero tightly wrapped around me.

I also spent the rest of the day with a heavy winter sweater that lives in my office wrapped around my bare legs, using the sleeves as a tie under the knees to hold it in place. I'd forgotton about office air conditioning and rain and wind. Tomorrow I may wear fleece pajamas and hope no one asks me to get out from behind my desk.

I'd planned to get my hair cut and colored at 6:00, but I had something different for breakfast, which made me super hungry before noon, whence I ate the chicken salad I'd made for dinner last night, and the scallions didn't agree with me, causing me to have a handful of  of my colleague's jelly beans to get the taste out of my mouth, and being the first candy I've had in several weeks, causing me to have a blood sugar drop, which made me get some Wheat Thins from the vending machine, which were salty, so I drank them down with my leftover cappuccino from early morning, whereupon I had a horrible stomach ache and was so sleepy my face almost detonated into the keyboard.

So I'm home. On my bed. In the dress. Waiting for Mr. Pom to show up with the puppers. Hoping he figured out to get himself some dinner. I need to watch Housewives of NYC tonight to see if Ramona and The Countess pull each other's hair out at their respective daughters' Sweet 16's, but I'm thinking it will have to be watched on repeat another time.

I made it to Thursday. I didn't even need the cane after Tuesday. Right back into the swing of things. And everything at the office has changed but not a single thing really has.

Good night!

-------------------------------

*Not really, but I tried.


Beginning

Of Summer, of back-to-work, of the week, of a perfect summer's eve.

Cool but not cold; warm but not humid; the porch is just the right temperature to need a throw on your feet on the bottom half and a t-shirt on the top.

From my spot on the wicker sofa, I can see the sun setting at 8:49, streaking the silvery blue sky with swaths of Opera Pink and Purple Madder. Cucciolo is asleep next to me and Bella Sera is under the table lying on the cool cement floor. Mr. Pom is watching the Yankees and Micalangela just ran out to meet a friend at Starbucks. The second longest night of the year is all mine on the porch. Were I not so tired, I'd find the fat white pillar candles and line them up on the railing, grab a pillow from the living room, and curl up for the night.

Our neighborhood is cheek by jowl, our house a lot in from a busy street. As I type this, I hear the traffic going by, the noise of our backyard neighbor's yapping dog, and the sound of our across the street neighbor  washing his truck.  But I can still see the sky deepening from satin to silk and the last thin clouds strafed across the edges of the sunset, a ragged edging like the ribbon of a worn baby blanket.  Our porch is big enough for a table for meals, a sofa to chat on and a chaise lounge for reading and naps.  Our front lawn is big enough for a garden filled with hydrangeas and rudbeckia, rosemary and bronze fennel, lavender and Russian sage. The backyard is threadbare, all crumbling concrete and bare-patched lawn, but more than enough room for two labs to chase a frisbee and each other in the evening.

I really don't mind not living in the country. I've grown accustomed to being 25 minutes from the Met and 10 minutes from Long Island Sound. I really don't mind our neighborhood, either. It was a good neighborhood for the kids and friends and school activities. A good neighborhood now during  a time when the house is emptying and quiet and there aren't quite the number of large echoing rooms that there would be a in big house, a house that  would magnify the sudden stillness and make us feel a little abandoned and "over".

Our neighborhood is noisy at times, but it is a neighborhood filled with people: our fireman neighbor who meticulously and some say obsessively takes care of his house and yard (I shudder whenever the kids leave the garage door up lest he should happen to see our junked up rat's nest when I can see his organized workroom and clean as a pin swept cement floor in his workshop garage).

Our neighbor to the west was turning 80 when we moved in. I'd find him climbing our roof to fix a cable we hadn't noticed was dangling, or answer the front door to greet him standing with a coffee can of cherries that he'd just picked from his cherry trees. Now he walks haltingly with a walker and a nurse's aide, slowly and paintstakingly measuring his steps around the block with the same persistence at 90 that he had all his life.

Directly across the street from us lives the mother of a boy I went to school with. She's been in her home probably for over 50 years, still driving and shopping at the A&P. On the other side of us is the childhood home of another boy I went to school with, one who bullied me mercilessly about being overweight and Italian. Thankfully, his family moved away long ago.

It is a neighborhood good for a writer, with stories springing up like weeds in the sidewalk cracks. Our house is gently turning shabby, down at the heels, a house that knows that the main family years are almost past, and attention has turned elsewhere.

9:30 now and suddenly darkness has fallen as surely as a stage curtain. There is just a weak glow over the trees to the west.  It is time for me to go upstairs and put on my  pajamas,  to regret the slice of coconut cake that Mr. Pom brought me, and to pull the drapes so the streetlight doesn't shine in his eyes.

Day is done.

 


The End of the Summer

No wait! It's only mid-June!

Just feels like it cause I go back to work on Monday. 

I was hyperventilating on Wednesday about it, causing Mr. Pom to decide that we shouldn't go to the Cape this weekend as I will just be wringing my hands and bemoaning my fate. But on Thursday morning, which was nice and sunny, I had a paradigm shift and realized that instead of thinking of it as the end to a long leave, think of the next 4 days as a 4-day weekend and do nothing but what I want.

And it worked. 'Cept for the part where I am still struggling with watercolors, or as I call it The Watercolor Portraits From the Bottom of The Dead Muddy Sea. Yes, you'll see them eventually. Maybe. If I ever round off an even number that I can stand to look at. But that's another post.

 

Have you seen Matchbox Magazine?  There are quite a few amazing online magazines that appear just like our fave print ones. Makes me want to start a magazine, but I'm trying to stay focused. I will never stop buying lovely clay-printed magazines, but these are eye candy that are free and luscious and take up no space on your shelf.

 

Whizz over there and check out this feature, which caused me to go right to Amazon and order the book. Maybe later on I will paint the contents of what we travel back and forth with to the Cape. The dogs' junk will take up a page at least.

 

Adolf-Konrad-packing-list-artist

 

I shouldn't be ordering any books, but, really, don't you all agree that I really need this? Really, really?

 

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Come on, illustrated inventories, thoughs, and enumerations! Be still my sketchbook heart!

Lastly, we had a major thunderstorm around 4:00 this morning. Poured buckets, stopped, and then poured some more. Poor Mr. Pom had to walk the dogs, and Bella Sera, she of the feminine mystique, refused to venture off the porch. (Hey, she didn't need a bad hair day right before the weekend!)

Taking her cue, I just let my curl and pulled the top back in a barette, my new summer style.  Whilst I was in line for my caffeine, the dark morning provided a perfect reflection in the store window. As I looked the line up and down in the reflection, I wondered who the frumpy dump was with the Farm Wife hairdo.....oh, 'tis meself.

Off to find a hair appointment and a cut, avoid an argument with my hair stylist about not getting a Keratin ($$~~!!), and try to pull myself back into the legal world in less than 72 hours.

Kiss your fathers/male types of any kind this weekend, and remember that cake (coconut here) is the way to male type's heart.

 

 


It's Not Just For.....

For those of you, like Mr. and Mrs. Pom who were too busy washing up the dishes, throwing out the garbage, and darning socks and missed the opening of Neil Patrick Harris's opening number at The Tonys  (ok, we just plain forgot and were watching inane shows like Housewives of [fill in any  locale]) watch here!

(Warning: this is intended to be a humorous opening, but it is rather chaotic, so if your sense of humor has been sucked dry but too many downward-facing dogs, please click out....)

 


Be It Ever So-o-o-o Humble

It's all coming back to me. The thrills, the joys, the moribund relaxing afternoons,  the waiting-to-hear-Daddy's-car-in the driveway stay at home Mom days.

There has to be a better way.

I shouldn't have to choose between a completely frantic, pressurized, tidal wave of work job or stay at home and rinse the hard sticky rice off the fork tines because no one else did and then everyone will shriek with disgust when they get to the bottom of their glass of milk and see what's living on the bottom of the cup.

Surely, I thought, they've improved things in the 9 years since I went back to work. For one: home delivery of groceries! That's a big one! Except the twenty bags that the guy shleps in along with whatever he stepped on at the curb getting out of the truck,   the twenty bags that I put away, then disposed of non-environmentally friendly (like what: make a braided doormat? Afraid to google because I just know there's one out there and then I'll have to feel guilty about something else I'm not doing), disappears into the cabinets and refrigerator like needles in a haystack apparently, causing all those who expect food to appear lovingly plated and already cooked for them to exclaim, "There's never any food in this house!".

Has anyone learned how to stop unwanted junk mail? Apparently we have not. And now that there are almost 4 adults living in this house, there's a lot more individually addressed junk mail, like some catalogue for shredded jeans, which cost $295, and will cause some almost-adult to  scream when she sees it in the garbage can (oops - I mean recyling bin) under the sticky rice (see above) and leavings of the dog's food (not that there's any leavings with two labs; I made that part up). So that means sorting the mail for five minutes only to have Mr. Pom come home and resort it whereupon someone's Explanation of Health Benefits sits in a pile of matte-finish 4-color catalogues advertising outdoor furniture more expensive than any I've ever bought for inside, just long enough for the 30-day appeal period to elapse.

Then there's the tide of "stuff". As in: where's my stuff? I left it here. I left it on the dining room table. Right in the middle. Yes, my backpack, purse, lunchbag, set of keys, sweater, raincoat, and sunglasses. Why did you move it? There was only two of you; you could've eaten at the other end of the table. Why would you hang it all up in the hall closet? Well how am I supposed to know that?

Oh, and the cleaning of the clothes domestic drama? Still being played nightly with three matiness a week in the bowels of the damp, rotting, god knows what's behind those cartons basement. Your ticket, however, is for a specific time slot and does not guarantee a seat in the washing machine for 48 or even 24 hours, so when your father puts your silk dress in the dryer, (why it was in the washer in the first place, I cannot explain), please do not address the audience in the loudest voice you have whilst you climb the three flights back up to your balcony seats, proclaiming how many days, weeks, and months until "you are outta here".  My clothes? The ones balled up half-damp next to your clothes that were neatly folded by me? Now have mildew? And I would add it to your rent if any of you paid any.

Speaking of non-rent, whilst the house rules are that no child pays for rent  or board regardless of their age as long as they were gainfully employed and/or in school,  and sustenance continues to appear in the larder without cost or effort by you,  the proprietors would appreciate it if the 20 "take out" containers containing three French fries and a quarter of quesadilla are disposed of before the glowing green mold makes the need for a refrigerator light unnecessary. On the same topic, should your father happen to eat five forkfuls of General Tso's Chicken from someone's 3 day old leftovers, , there shall be no Wanted: Food Thief posters with rewards magnetized to the door of the fridge, even if said container "belonged" to a boyfriend.

As for the hours kept by the social inhabitants of this household, including those who do not like it when the parents go away without them, it's good to know that all those years we worried about your sleeping patterns were for naught: you still never go to bed and you still never get up.  Only now, when we have been up taking dogs for runs, eating breakfast, getting the dry cleaning, washing up the kitchen, putting in loads of clothes, sorting the mail, picking up newspapers and backpacks, defrosting food that we shall cook and you shall eat, running to the store for more food, mowing lawns, entertaining dogs, and making medical appointments, we have to jockey cars in and out of the driveway to do so becauses the still-in-bed-at-1:30-people came home last and took all the good parking spots.

 

But seriously, work starts on Monday; the dogs go back to daycare cause otherwise they'd be in the kitchen behind bars until 3 in the afternoon; the house will be quiet all day; the mail will go uncollected; the newspaper lay on the front walk till we get home; and we will have a slight chance of seeing one of the boarders on the stairs as they rush out to work or to play, and when they pass, they may stop and chat long enough to make us remember why we decided to have kids in the first place.

Or they may just need to let us know that there's a light out in their ceiling fan and the third floor toilet is broken and oh, by the way, no one better eat the brownies "they made" with the ingredients you bought.

NOT THAT I'M COMPLAINING NOR DOES THE ABOVE REFLECT THE VIEWPOINT OF THE MANAGEMENT

 

In fact, truth be told, if the art and writing was going better, if I was able to make progress on my painting skills, hell, even if I was able to replicate one stinking painting that I did last week, none of the above would matter now, would it?

Methinks not.

 


Cold and Rainy Saturdays

Are meant for super secret art projects. So no new post today.

 

'Cept  I ran across this on NPR and it's incredibly sweet and moving.

Allegedly this flash mob lip dub was made in response to Grand Rapids being listed as one of the dying cities in America. It looks like a beautiful city and while I was watching the video, I thought, "I want to live in a place with people as charming as that". They could, however, use a few more people of the non-white persuasion. Seriously. Enjoy your Saturday!

And the Snow Was This High.....

Look, don't roll your eyes. Yes, I've posted almost every day. Yes, I'm still home on leave. Yes, I'm actually getting bored and starting too many art projects and finishing ....none.  But I'll try not to ramble.

I went out yesterday in the evening with my friends for the first time in two months. It was a last minute thing; I didn't have time to think of a million reasons why I couldn't go. I forgot when I said yes that I had become quite the homebody and early-to-bed woman.

It didn't help that it was 98 degrees.

I decided to take a nap before I dressed. I put on the AC and woke with a start an hour later. It was 5:10. Supposed to be at my girlfriend's to pick her up at 5:30. Forget showering. Hair would just be a mess anyway. Did I mention 98 degrees?

What to wear? What to wear! Wait, I forgot that I bought this dress from Boden.

Good grief, what the hell was I thinking of when I bought it in brown?? With my hair pulled back and the brown sack material, I look like I needed "Prisoner 453" on my chest.

Oh, right, try some make up and jewelry. Let me go into the bathroom for the magnifying mirror....ACK ACK - what are these hairy growths on the brows, the upper lip....my gawd....the chin!

Tweeze tweeze tweeze, snip snip snip. Put on eye makeup.  Stupid brown, don't need brown eyes too but that's all I have...oh wait, here's some smoky blue....shades of Tammy Faye Baker, I've forgotten how to put on eye make up! Wipe it off start again. Go back in to put on some blush. Forget lipstick entirely.

Put on big teal and white summer bangles, check. 98 degrees. Take off bangles, check

Pretty orange peek toe flats made of grossgrain ribbons will perk this dreary outfit up. Or maybe not.

Yikes, look at the time! Jump in the mini, turn on the AC, put on the sunglasses. Gosh, I've forgotten what it's like to be a grown up out in the evening. This feels kind of good. I love driving the Mini on the parkway....why does it look so dark up ahead at  5:30 ....is that fog, humidity, or no, no, no -  rain! Maybe it will pass us by the time we get there.

Pick up friend, head onto another windy twisty, tree-lined  parkway. We both take off sunglasses at it is getting darker. Notice all cars coming in the other direction have on lights and appear to be ....leaf splattered? Uh Oh. Leaves waving, limbs twisting, trees bending...

And here's the rain. And thunder. Lightening bolts.

Hmm, is it my imagination or did I hear...

 

HAIL!

Lots and lots of hail banging on the Mini, on the hood of the Mini, on the SUNROOF of the Mini. Heh heh, sure hopes that little sunroof screen stays put if the sunroof cracks. Friend does not laugh.

Frantically searching for higher speed on windshield wipers. We are at highest speed. Remember that this is the parkway that floods. And we are in a Mini. Getting hailed on. Friend appears to be gripping cell phone in both hands. Notice I am gripping steering wheel and following lights of car in front.

Friend decides to call other friend. Can't hear her over the hail. Decide to take next exit where we know there is an underpass. Get off, discover underpass is flooding. Keep driving.Debate turning around but we are closer to the restaurant than home.

Other friend advises that rain is letting up.

Breathe collective sigh of relief. Park, get out of car and refuse to look for hail damage so as not to spoil supper. Pretty orange peek toed flats get soaked. No umbrella. Glad did not wash hair, blow dry, and flat iron. Temp is now 70 degrees. Freezing. Make a run for  restaurant.

Margaritas all around. Except for those who have ha gastric bypass and can't drink and drive. Ever.

Eat too much salsa and chips. Split lobster tacos with one friend. Everyone gets to complain about their lives. Dates are punched into smart phones for weekend away in September. Congratulate ourselves on getting there tonight in one piece.  Look at watch - wow, it's 8:25! I need to get home!

In the bed by 9:00 to watch TV.

See on the news that sold out Black Eyed Peas and Carol King concert in Central Park was cancelled. Yankee game start delayed to 10:40!  Watch Housewives of New York.

Tell Mr. Pom that we'd better win MegaMillions cause I can't function as an adult anymore.

Mr. Pom waves stack of bills in my face.

Better practice putting on that eye makeup....

 

 

 


I Could Get Used to This

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The best croissaint I've ever had

We're having a little work done in the backyard at The Cottage. We needed to replace an old brick patio that was too small and had become dangerous to walk on after a winter of heaving and thawing left gullies and bumps of bricks. (Want anxiety? Be a lawyer and rent out a summer house. I see lawsuits where others see cobwebs.)

 

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Let's hope the contractor shows up, otherwise we'll be doing a Lucy & Ethel, i.e. building our own backyard patio (or was it a fireplace?) one piece of flagstone at a time.

Who doesn't need an excuse to run up to the Cape? As long as Mr. Pom doesn't mind driving both ways since I am not up to that yet. I had a fantasy of recuperating up there in my one story house, but the truth of it is that I'd be lonely, so I canned that idea.

Can you see the rhododendrons in the picture above? (Or mountain laurel? I never know the difference.) Their display this year all over the Cape was absolutely phenomenal. They grow into huge tree-like bushes there and look so naturally situated on the Cape where their garish colors are tamed by the amount of green inthe landscape. The ones we inherited are at least 2 stories high and those you see are the ones that are left after we took down about 20 feet of them in order to expand the backyard.

 

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Atlantic at sunrise

 

After our croissants and cappuccini on a bench overlooking the ocean, I rued my lack of courage to stay up there. Maybe just as well, though, since the croissaint above came from an incredible bakery/bistro, like nothing we've ever seen on the Cape, and we went to it three times in three days, including once for dinner where we had smoked salmon produced by Daniel Boulud, (see our New Year's and anniverary posts for pics of Daniel Boulud dinners).

 

 

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For Blackbird

 

The access to this particular beach is extremely steep. Don't be fooled by the pic, which is taken with my Blackberry and I couldn't get the right angle, but the dunes here are over 4 stories high. At least they put up the ropes, which were not there a few weeks ago.  I took a pass on climbing down, not wanting to kick up any knee pain on our visit. 

A young couple with a small child and a small dog arrived while we were having our coffee. The husband threw a frisbee over the dunes and this tiny beagle-sized dog dog raced down the dune (not the path) and retrieved it. About 25 times.  After awhile, he did start to slow down and cooled his paws more than once in the tidal pools,  but everytime he reached the top, he went mad  with excitement until they flung the frisbee down the dunes again and he plunged over the side. (We can't get the dogs to retrieve a tennis ball from 20 feet away.)

Then the surfers showed up, and one second a dude with a surfboard was standing next to us and the next second he was on the beach. I thought maybe we were having a caffeinated sugar high but, no, the next surfer dude did the very same thing, which was to jump right over the side and skip down the dune in 3 steps.  Very impressive, but guys and dogs, isn't the rope there to protect the dunes?

 

 

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Sunset over the bay

 

The weekend was very cool but sunny, and lovely but for the incredible pollen that turned everything inside and out green within a matter of minutes, including Bella Sera, whose eyes started gumming up and breathing was labored. A quick trip to the drugstore revealed that Benadryl has been recalled due to manufacturing issues, but the kindly pharmacist recommended a generic anthistamine pill, which Bella is glad to swallow so long as it is encased in cheese or peanut butter. Which of course means that Cucciolo has to have a piece of cheese or peanut butter also, so everyone is Even Steven.

 

 

IMG00795-20110530-1910 You can spy a bit of the old brickwork in this pic. We saved it all to make a front walkway next spring Before The Wedding (hereinafter referred to for the next year as BTW)

Cucciolo, however, had an extra treat: a full bag of hot dog rolls, the bag, and the plastic closing tag. A few days later, he started having "gastric distress", followed by some worrisome symptoms, followed by Mr. Pom at the emergency vet on Saturday night. So now Cucch gets a different kind of pill, and if I forget to time up their dosages at the same time, I am feeding them cheese and peanut butter four times a day. They'll be waddling soon.

 

(As I said to Mr. Pom at 12:30 last night as we tried to get both dogs settled in our bedroom at home in the 98 degree heat and one air conditioner, I never thought that I would be a kennel handler in the second half of life. He had no comment. What? Just because he walks them all the time, was at the vet till 10:00 on Saturday night, and was brushing them? Puleeze. Do you know how much petting these dogs require??)

 


IMG00818-20110602-1855 We don't surf; we take pics of each other taking pics.

 


She Who Hesitates Is Lost

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I had these pics to show you under the caption "Spring", but clearly I waited too long as it is 95 degrees this afternoon in New York.

 

 

 

 

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They are duck eggs, I presume, laid in the mulch right up against the a free standing Starbucks in CT.

On our return trip home, they were all gone.

I hope they were hatched and not eaten.

If they were still there today, they'd be fried!


P. S.

I somehow lost the opening of the post below!

Thank you all who sent me such lovely emails on my tenure at the magazine coming to an end. What could make an author glow more than hearing from so many that they turned to my column first when they opened the magazine? I am sure that they will have a fantastic rotation of authors/artists to fill that space and now I will turn to it first when I get my copies of the lovely magazine!

I never meant to tease you into thinking I was closing down the blog. I tried to put it up front that I was not. I don't like those type of posts when the readers have to beg the blogger  to continue the blog. I have blogged so long that it is a little like breathing and a little too much like breathing. In other words, time to reinvigorate the same old same old and I do struggle sometimes with content for as the family matures and the job gets bigger, it is hard to be fresh and open about life's adventures.

Have a fantastic week! Off to the surgeon for my post-op. I hope to be home another week as my energy is in the dumpster and I still have limited ability for "prolonged sitting and standing" as the jargon goes in my line of work.

Have a wondrous first week of June, my favorite month of the year!


Summer Sundays Have Begun

Sunday evening and the house is full. Seems like being an empty nester is a relative condition.

Mystery Man has found a new job in New York and will show up unannounced occasionally on the weekend, with laundry in tow. He takes over the driveway to wash his car and just when I am ready for a nap on the chaise longue, he spends a good half hour with his electric buffer waxing the car. Oh, but for the energy and passion of youth - I couldn't be bothered waxing my eyebrows let alone a car for a half hour.

The Princess is making French toast and bacon and despite my resolve to eat only salads today, two slices of bacon and a brownie jump into my mouth. I am having sinus/allergy issues, thus rendering my food choices akin to those of a ten year old. We have long discussions about wedding colors, gown styles, and endless hours of surfing invitation websites, which are impossibly too beautiful to choose just one.

The bacon and the brownies she made also help fuel the nighmare dreams I have after surfing Mother of the Bride" websites.  Can I not just wear a linen coat dress with spectator pumps and avoid off the shoulder/strapless(!)/beaded/chiffon v. dumpy boleroed satin sack nightmares I am having?

Cucciolo decided to snack on an entire bag of hot dog rolls last weekend, bag, tag, and all, which resulted in Mr. Pom spending Saturday night at the emergency vet. I'll spare you the symptoms, but let's just say that I have had four dogs in my life and I can add to my career the job of canine midwife with experience in tinsel, peds, and now plastic bag birthing. Thankfully, a scary situation resolved into just an expensive vet visit and Cucciolo's pleasure and gloating over Bella Sera that he gets chicken and rice 4 times a day and she only Iams twice.

The youngest child is gainfully employed for the summer and doing well. Her hours are completely the opposite of mine, however, and if I am not drooling onto my pillow, I try to wake up enough to switch on the bedside lamp when I hear her car so I can  say hello as she breezes in between work and going back out with  friends. I remember the allure of summer nights and hot breezes through car windows full of friends aimlessly riding through streets dappled by streetlights through leaves. I do remember. I'm trying not to remember. But I do.

 

 


The Second Half of the Royal Year

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I am the Queen of Pomegranate Land, let's not be coy and use false modesty and pretend otherwise.

Long live the Queen!

 

That said, I know I haven't been a very good blog Queen this last year. I admit to being more than a little  fractured with work and home and, frankly, I have more issues than less in my life about which I need to be circumspect. Discretion is the better part of valor, a wise person once told me.

My Royal Proclamation is thus: the second half of 2011 will being a new joie de vivre and elan to this tired old blog and tired old Queen!

I started this blog in 2004, which means that it is A.N.C.I.E.N.T. in blog years. In the heady, early days, I had just returned to work full time and I was juggling the demands of motherhood, marriage, creativity, and the revival of my legal career. I was very focused on capturing for myself the fleeting moment of creativity in my daily life as I no longer had uninterrupted hours - nay, minutes - to focus on my art and writing. I had envisioned a May Sarton like diary where the vase of yellow flowers on a Swedish chest would illuminate the quotidian sacredness of family life. 

I had a wonderful time with it and I remember someone writing to me to say that I could make going to the post office sound romantic. It was lovely.

A short while later, I was so very, very,  lucky to be asked to write and create artwork for a regular column for a new magazine - Cloth, Paper, Scissors. Other than a word limit, I had complete editorial control within the context of the title of the column, "The Artist's Journey" and it was scary and thrilling and demanding and unbelievably gratifying and rewarding. 

Unfortunately, not only did I have very little spare time to work on the blog, I had to "save" my best thoughts and writings on creativity and artistry for the column, with the result that the  blog evolved into a sort of "catch-all" for miscellaneous events and pictures of the family and friends.   I had every intent to set up a web page with links to the articles, the artwork, etc., and even retained a wonderful woman to work on it, but I literally did not have the hours in the day to even photograph my artwork to send to her. I was running out of steam with so many demands on my energy and I made the decision to put my best work into the column and have the blog evolve into whatever it was to be at that time.

It's been a marvelous ride, a joyful opportunity, and a satisfying assignment for some 6 years. However, one of the perks of being the Queen is that I can realign the kingdom anytime I want. The years are slipping by faster than a deck being dealt by a Las Vegas hustler. I need to grab some time, now, and put back on full boil a few writing and art projects that have been slowly simmering for years without any real attention from me. 

  Since my full time job is not a negotiable factor at this time, I have decided that "The Artist's Journey" will end with the November/December 2011 issue. It's been the most splendid assignment of my lifetime, and I am happy to leave it while it is still a joy rather than wait until it become tedious for me and for the magazine.

I am ready to dive into more sustained writing and art projects. I am ready to pursue areas of art that are strictly for me to puddle around in without worry about a finished, publishable product or that I have left myself no time to pull together the column and artwork. I don't know if I will ever have a chance to work with such great people and such a fabulous magazine, but I am so excited to have time to consider what to do next.

There are two major projects simmering on the back burner. There are wonderful journals that I am playing in, like this one where I sketch from magazine tear sheets.

 

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There is also a  series of paintings that have caught my attention (see the Madonna at the top of the page), and plans to get back into sewing and textile work.  I feel wonderfully energized and excited to dive into the more complex writing and art projects that I have let go for the last few years. Including the blog! And a website! And most of all, just having the time to play around in art without the need to consider whether the result will be submission-worthy is what I am looking for right now.

  Now go get yourself a beer an a book and have a relaxing weekend. If the dogs are any indication, it's gonna be a hot one.

 

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Long live the Queen!