tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-344912862024-03-04T20:01:38.080-08:00My Apron StringsMy domestic blue heaven, and those two pairs of small hands, clutching at my apron strings.Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-28353845371188282412007-12-03T23:04:00.000-08:002007-12-03T23:14:57.163-08:00The Party's Over<span style="font-family: times new roman;">It's true, guys. I've had it with trying to make a go of this particular little blog. I started out with such big hopes and schemes a little over a year ago. But it was a tough year (again) (enough of </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: times new roman;">that</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;">, already!) and I felt the need these days to not be this person, this blogger, struggling to maintain a sense of okay-ness and upbeatness and show that I was rising above the grief and the drama of the previous months. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Ugh. See, there I go again. Something about this blog just does that to me, these days, makes me into a far more mordant and morbid person than I feel myself to be (mostly). </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">My 2 monkeys will still get plenty of air time over on the new blog, since they do dominate nearly all my energy still, but I also hope to talk more about the books that are dear to me, and books that I'm reading lately and my random and opinionated thoughts on them. Also, I still hope to focus a bit on my nesting tendencies and the fact that I have a long laundry list of decor changes and upgrades to nearly every room in this house. After all, 2008 is destined to finally, finally be the year of Ikea Kitchen Redo. Really. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Thanks to all who've followed me and offered comments, encouragements and hellos here on my first blogging endeavor. I hope to see you (and more often than twice a month, </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: times new roman;">I swear) </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;">over on my brand-new blog, </span><a style="font-family: times new roman;" href="http://thereadingnest.blogspot.com/">The Reading Nest</a><span style="font-family: times new roman;">. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Cheers, and happy trails. </span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-61488375111485996372007-10-12T21:47:00.000-07:002007-10-12T22:04:47.894-07:00Vote for Me! (Or, Setting Myself Up, Pt. 2)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ztbDT6JQjPBr8FPoltyidOxkvlKQtn8DwRvk6zhJQCPNyH7YOujfj2jy4CBkHMGmjMyDJihp1_MDXKp0DdYFApmHej6y_Xe2nnLxa7b41E7YTroKDj5ajcVBNVkOFA39cZePyQ/s1600-h/kitchencounter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ztbDT6JQjPBr8FPoltyidOxkvlKQtn8DwRvk6zhJQCPNyH7YOujfj2jy4CBkHMGmjMyDJihp1_MDXKp0DdYFApmHej6y_Xe2nnLxa7b41E7YTroKDj5ajcVBNVkOFA39cZePyQ/s400/kitchencounter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120682181692980642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">It's time again for <a href="http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/fall-colors-2007/">Apartment Therapy's Fall Color Contest</a>, and once again I couldn't help it -- I just felt compelled to enter. Unlike <a href="http://myapronstrings.blogspot.com/2006/10/setting-myself-up.html">my entry last year</a>, when I took pictures of the more formal living room area (but really, how formal can it be, with a train table taking residence there?), this year I shot and entered pics of our tangerine-orange family room & kitchen, along with a shot of the entryway and guest bath. What is strange is that last year, the color that was hot and in so, so many of the entries was GREEN. Apple green, grass green, lime green -- you get the picture. Oddly, quite a few of this year's entries seem to feature goldenrod/orange/marigold walls very similar to mine. Am I really that tapped into the zeitgeist? I think not, but what do I know? I'm just bracing for the tangerine-backlash to kick in among the commenters.<br /><br />I just sent my entry in a couple of days ago, so I was surprised and happy to find that my entry has been posted this evening. (Merely sending in your entry doesn't guarantee you a entry on the contest page, so just being invited to the party feels like an honor.) Thankfully, the comments in this year's contest for all the entries overall are far less snarky and nasty than the year before. (Luckily I was spared any real vitriol last year --- let's just hope I'm not speaking too soon.)<br /><br />Anyhow, <a href="http://la.apartmenttherapy.com/la/fall-colors-2007-west/9-kellys-orange-you-a-happy-family-room-033906">go over there and call me an Insta-Finalist (please!)</a> You do have to register on the AT site, but it only take a sec. Above is a close up shot of my kitchen counter, which I didn't end up sending over to them, although I really wanted to, as it's one of my favorite parts of the whole area (when it's clean, that is).<br /><br />Wish me luck!<br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-19054798087646471582007-10-09T16:02:00.000-07:002007-10-09T16:37:45.956-07:00Breezy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVbSFFTVt_dq5SkoW9HADCHZDhP7L7YJcNWjt4d_PLhPuAhBLp9hyphenhyphena0FzQgurvqQf-3qIVpy4ZoZE13lmk4GNlzaPJaJw8H1Kv1UGklwBPDcu9r3CgBuHrlAcibJvFYkYtsIXFGQ/s1600-h/IMG_4032.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVbSFFTVt_dq5SkoW9HADCHZDhP7L7YJcNWjt4d_PLhPuAhBLp9hyphenhyphena0FzQgurvqQf-3qIVpy4ZoZE13lmk4GNlzaPJaJw8H1Kv1UGklwBPDcu9r3CgBuHrlAcibJvFYkYtsIXFGQ/s400/IMG_4032.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119485221552225682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Yes, I'm still here. I realize I've been starting just about every post that same way, lately. Maybe I'll just post once a month, throw in some lovely but dated picture like the one above (taken around this time, last year) and that will suffice: "I'm still here, here's a view in or around my house, hope you're all well, and adios."<br /><br />I should tell you that I came this close, <span style="font-style: italic;">this close</span>, to shutting the blog down completely. I had the post and good-bye message written, and all I had to do was hit the "Publish" button, and I could've walked away. But then I decided to sleep on it, and in the morning my decision to call it quits felt like an over-reaction, a plea for attention (from who, I'm not sure, since I think I have all of about 2.8 regular readers) and just a bad idea overall. <br /><br />So here I am. I won't try to catch you up on th past few weeks since I've been gone. Part of the feeling of being burdened by this blog is feeling like I need to account for and relate all those hours & days I've spent since the last post. Thinking about doing that makes me feel tired, and bored.<br /><br />I took the picture above on a pristine, blue-sky day last fall -- a day a lot like today. This is the view looking east out the upstairs stairway windows. It was breezy out then, but then it's often breezy around these parts. It's the second week of October, and still 88 degrees out. I'm about over that, but such is life in Southern California -- and the Inland Empire region, at that. I'm all ready for cold days and crisp nights and trying out some flannel sheets and baking a cake to go with the Maple Pumpkin Butter I bought a few weeks back. Ready to wear long sleeves, and socks, and let that deep flip-flop tan on my brown summer feet finally fade away. Maybe next week?<br /><br />Also -- I think it's time to buy Tucker a big-boy bed. The crib seems to be the last major hold-over from his true baby days, now that he seems to be fully potty-trained during the day. (Unless you count the pacifier issue, which we won't for now.) Lately it seems that two or three times during the very early morning hours, from about 2 a.m. on, Tucker will wake up crying because one or both of his two beloved pacifier's, or fi-fi's, has gone missing overboard from the crib. If it's after 3 or 4 am (which it often is), that means that I am twice woken up from a dead sleep to stagger down the hall, drop to my knees and root around under the crib for the missing fi-fi. This morning, when I went in there around 5:30, it felt cold in the room, so after finding the missing fi and giving that half-reassuring, half-threatening pat on the back with my slurred, "now go back to sleep!," I put a blanket over him and his nestled down and went right out.<br /><br />Now, this afternoon, there was a call for the blanket again at naptime. Twice before he fell asleep, I was summoned into T.'s room to adjust the blanket because it wasn't covering his toes, and evidently one must have ones toes covered with a thick blankie to sleep well on a toasty afternoon. I see bad things coming from this, a bad precedent that I've set out upon in my misguided doting-mommy ways in the dark chill of 5:30 in the morning. I foresee endless trips down that hall at all hours, to fetch the fi-fi's, to retrieve the dropped "Cars" cars, and now to tuck the blankie in around those poor and naked toes. Oh god.<br />So yes. A big-boy bed...with tucked sheets and blankie, and maybe even a nice soft pillow, too. We need to get on this, and soon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-59138453567757951342007-09-19T22:29:00.000-07:002007-09-19T23:39:25.482-07:00Came & Went<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEcrsiy2g1lXZMoTfrpL4uEotyAILktes39bVhpEP4x4p0JxV0kX2F6w13C7MJQqh7rqtHIqI4yIr4YELMQFqLgwqyIqOY_1ljxEa8nB-m2wThhIq-TM4OV3QW7NvNI0b9VNwfg/s1600-h/toast.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEcrsiy2g1lXZMoTfrpL4uEotyAILktes39bVhpEP4x4p0JxV0kX2F6w13C7MJQqh7rqtHIqI4yIr4YELMQFqLgwqyIqOY_1ljxEa8nB-m2wThhIq-TM4OV3QW7NvNI0b9VNwfg/s400/toast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112170618982993922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">This blog's anniversary, that is. It's been a year, and this here brings my post total up to 49. An average of 4 posts a month, or 1 a week. Several times in the last week I've thought of shutting down the blog completely. I don't think I'm cut out for it. I'm reticent by nature, I hold my cards pretty darn close, and maybe the naval-gazing tendencies inherent in blogging just don't jibe with my Inner Me. Witness my "design week" intentions of posting pics of my house over several days. I made it through my bedroom and powder room, and then petered out.<br /><br />Still. Here I am, for now. I think that after a year of blogging, I need to accept and recognize that I'm just not the type to post beautiful pictures of my freshly baked tarts, served up on my prettiest china. I want to be that type, of blogger and person, but it's not happening. I could, instead, take some pictures of the slapped together PB&Js I make several days a week, served up on our finest Dora & Diego paper plates.<br /><br />I am still riding a pendulum of wild emotions these days. I found out earlier this week that my step-grandmother died, a bad death of lung cancer, in rural Oklahoma. I hadn't seen her in about seven years, but still. What I remember is being at her and my grandpa's house in Norwalk as she and her sister sat around the kitchen table, smoking and listening to country music. They both had big black bouffant hair-do's, even in the mid-'70s, and they sat before their hand mirrors and vanity cases and "put on their faces" and gossiped in their thick Arkansas drawls.<br /><br />It was another life and another time, long gone now. And my paternal grandpa is still alive back there in deepest Oklahoma, ensconced in a nursing home, remembering none of it, not aware that his second wife has gone and left him.<br /><br />Back here in my own home, things are good. Mostly. If I'd written this post yesterday I might've been all gushy with the thick bliss of our domestic life, and how fall is in the air and the cooler air makes everything seem rejuvenated and fresh. How we went camping with the kids for the first time this weekend, and how much fun that was.<br /><br />But, I'm writing tonight, after the pendulum has swung again. There is always a flip side to it all, the dark side. Some nights I go to bed beside my husband and thank God and the heavens for our sweet, full, crazy days. And then there's nights like this, when I think of <a href="http://youtube.com/watch?v=6LSP17visk8">this song</a>, and how it makes me want to lie down and die a little, because it's so true, and the truth hurts.<br /><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic;">I said I know we don't talk about it.<br />We don't tell each other....<br />All the little things that we need.<br />We work our way around each other<br />As we tremble and we....as we tremble and we bleed.</blockquote>Sweet and bitter, bitter and sweet. It should be required listening for all engaged couples about to take the leap. That, and reading Jane Smiley's novella <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Age-Grief-Jane-Smiley/dp/0385721870/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/002-8200377-7487269?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1190268430&sr=1-1">The Age of Grief</a>. Now that I think about it, perhaps that would be a better name for this blog, considering all the events of the past year.<br /><br />Oh, don't worry. It won't last. The pendulum will swing back, as it always does, is arcing back over toward contentment and gratitude even as I write these words. Tomorrow afternoon will find me, and all of us, back at Disneyland again, and I'm not even being metaphoric, not one bit.<br /></span></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-50530943592991130272007-08-28T22:15:00.000-07:002007-08-28T23:04:29.793-07:00Writer Envy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiMTyGmcHINf2N4lPLSCGnQM3Z2NM4jHpAOiVxKh0Z4ybYXwFkEJbrtdwByTThhIi5F2TNQ6p2Db2tKjOJSFCuYOSC2H5mHcjvSSu5Xne-0kRYwPOghygPmxBOGGtF44wwzg8VDw/s1600-h/MirandaJuly.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiMTyGmcHINf2N4lPLSCGnQM3Z2NM4jHpAOiVxKh0Z4ybYXwFkEJbrtdwByTThhIi5F2TNQ6p2Db2tKjOJSFCuYOSC2H5mHcjvSSu5Xne-0kRYwPOghygPmxBOGGtF44wwzg8VDw/s400/MirandaJuly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103997159536931314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">So, a small break from all the decorating talk to say a few words about the book currently on my nightstand. (Actually, there are 3 books on my nightstand, but this is supposed to be a somewhat quick little post.) Even though I've got my Hot New Writer radar cranked down pretty low these days, I still noticed a lot of press and attention given to Miranda July's story collection, <span style="font-style: italic;">No One Belongs Here More Than You. </span>I always feel that little bit of....<span style="font-style: italic;">frisson </span>when I see that a new story collection is out by some hip young thing. Frisson, which you know, is actually more like a little shiver of unadulterated jealousy.<br /><br />I wanted to read the book, and yet I didn't, especially after seeing how cute and ingenue-ish looking Ms. July is. Cute, waifish girls with adorable haircuts are not supposed to be good writers, too. That's specifically one of the rules made by the just and honorable Writing Gods. Right? Oh, and then add in that she also made a movie that won special jury awards at the Cannes Film Festival. Really, how good could she be?<br /><br />Well, turns out the answer is: Pretty Good Indeed. (Dammit.) I'm enjoying the book very much, and as always, when I enjoy a book very much and lay there admiring the writer's wit and graceful turns, I get that old, biting sense that I need to be writing, too. Really, really need to get on that.<br /><br />If you look over there at my "About Me" square, it says that I'm blogging to tear down a massive Great Wall of China-sized writer's block that's been lodged in my face since.....since a long time. Maybe the blogging is doing it's work, because the writing voice, that little echo in my deepest inner ear, is making itself heard these days, and I'm listening.<br /><br />In the meantime, I'm glad that I picked up this collection of stories. July's stories are on the short side, and quirky enough to remind me a little of Aimee Bender's work, but without what I consider Bender's love of the gimmicky hook. She has some great lines that resonate and reveal in all the best ways that the short story form is supposed to do. Like this, from a story about two young girls who have run away to Portland together and gotten jobs:<br /><br /><span><blockquote>"Everything we had thought of as The World was actually the result of someone's job. Each line on the sidewalk, each saltine. Everyone had rotting carpet and a door to pay for. Aghast, we quit. There had to be a more dignified way to live. We needed time to consider ourselves, to come up with a theory about who we were and set it to music."</blockquote></span>Lovely. So much for the just ways of the Writing Gods, not that I had any real faith in them, anyhow. (July's <a href="http://www.noonebelongsheremorethanyou.com/">website for the book</a> is also super-duper cute without being cutesy, and the "About" entry on <a href="http://mirandajuly.com/">her other site</a> is enough to arouse envy and grudging admiration from any soul with creative aspirations.)<br /><br />As for me, I spent the day daydreaming of and being nostalgic for college campuses I have belonged to and visited, like UCLA and my alma mater, CSULB. I've had some serious longings lately for my county of birth, L.A. County, and for college campuses in general. I realize lately that if I want to get there, to get back to them, then I'm gonna have to play like a salmon and swim terribly hard upstream to escape these suburban, exurban sticks and find my way home. And the only real way to do that, it's becoming more clear, is to become myself, somehow, and buckle down to listening to those narrative- and metaphor- and sentence-lovin' voices in my head, and not be afraid of what they have to say.<br /><br />Jeez. No wonder it's easier for me to just take pictures of and talk about the john.<br /></span></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-51356402516731432982007-08-26T17:05:00.000-07:002007-08-26T21:58:28.252-07:00Quick Design Lust Post: The Bathroom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8bn1o-cGX5YyJO0piflYyLTpErTEzV1oVC_PbrpwoGaKExbT3JBEMCb1ai-wSuKK77TeZ2lAXvqnaRGurmBghdH1hQ0lxFFDelvZW0DVD_EpE-B0UY6kITo51UBPMxnq5dfgu7Q/s1600-h/newbath.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8bn1o-cGX5YyJO0piflYyLTpErTEzV1oVC_PbrpwoGaKExbT3JBEMCb1ai-wSuKK77TeZ2lAXvqnaRGurmBghdH1hQ0lxFFDelvZW0DVD_EpE-B0UY6kITo51UBPMxnq5dfgu7Q/s400/newbath.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103170949563101618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:85%;">There are actually 2.5 bathrooms in my house: the master bath , the "kids bathroom" down the hall painted bright yellow, and then this one. Since the other 2 are upstairs, this is the most public bathroom, and though it's the smallest, it's also my favorite.<br /><br />This next picture below shows how the previous owners had the place decorated when we bought the place over 3 years ago (!). It was the primary bath of a teenage girl, which I guess explains the red M&M clock. Even so, if I was her mother, no way would I have let her pair purple accessories against the orange-ish brown tiles:<br /></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguoObkdq6jsXtWppoeYQcS1bHv3p8DXq99vmpYHS3TBIcMpC7LlS6wGn_DV60Bkt_sFqP9qEMA1M8ZYoLsZONZOkwMW2XPoz1B5U71fP4utK34kg12VqqasD6ryM3hlUwDy86QUg/s1600-h/downbath.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguoObkdq6jsXtWppoeYQcS1bHv3p8DXq99vmpYHS3TBIcMpC7LlS6wGn_DV60Bkt_sFqP9qEMA1M8ZYoLsZONZOkwMW2XPoz1B5U71fP4utK34kg12VqqasD6ryM3hlUwDy86QUg/s400/downbath.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103167328905671074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Not a terrible looking room, but certainly not all that inspired, either. I lived with this same bathroom, with its white walls and cheap builder-grade fixtures for over a year, and couldn't quite figure out what to do with it. </span></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:85%;">This was my initial decor for the bath, which was perfectly <span style="font-style: italic;">okay</span>, but even then, was fairly yawn-inducing:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzxuiKKCiq1mIp08B4kXfhUNUUF3i_WBZGYzDsFZh6iHYalyKwFetaTdxQDM0eXCP37u9dCPf-Y8NE0Bmr1qqnwAHqqJL7_hlHlXQzCTaIb0kljY54f31viiyc2F8a_phihLhxSQ/s1600-h/oldbath1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzxuiKKCiq1mIp08B4kXfhUNUUF3i_WBZGYzDsFZh6iHYalyKwFetaTdxQDM0eXCP37u9dCPf-Y8NE0Bmr1qqnwAHqqJL7_hlHlXQzCTaIb0kljY54f31viiyc2F8a_phihLhxSQ/s400/oldbath1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103227290944090562" border="0" /></a>For a while, I considered tearing out that rather unattractive white wraparound counter and putting in a stand-alone vanity sink. But, the room needs some counter space, as this is the bath that our infrequent house guests use, too.</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> Also, this was meant to be a quick, cosmetic fix-up, not a total design overhaul. I did know that I wanted the feel of the room to somehow jibe with the style of my <a href="http://myapronstrings.blogspot.com/2006/10/setting-myself-up.html">retro-modern living room</a>. Then one day, I was flipping through a catalog and was struck by a picture of some pretty aqua-blue robin's-egg hand soaps, all tied 'round with a dark brown ribbon. And voila, my inspiration was found. (If you think hand soaps are a strange source of inspiration for my bathroom design, well, I can't wait to show you how the colors in the family room were inspired by a drinking glass from Ikea.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-DhSfmZEPazqQpsO8VHAXQPQvOArORmOwVcfusvoVJkqoWThVavRNCy6CJ4ze-8ibEAxLxfBevah7QfGRi7_gHfyPgnWsGxSLFCt-vQ5uc72utY50tdXas62lUWjUD8NWT0TKg/s1600-h/oldbath2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-DhSfmZEPazqQpsO8VHAXQPQvOArORmOwVcfusvoVJkqoWThVavRNCy6CJ4ze-8ibEAxLxfBevah7QfGRi7_gHfyPgnWsGxSLFCt-vQ5uc72utY50tdXas62lUWjUD8NWT0TKg/s320/oldbath2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103230486399758802" border="0" /></a>Myk and others were a little dubious at first of my idea to paint the walls dark brown. My argument was: since there are no windows in this room anyhow, even with bright white paint, you'd still need to flip on the lights to avoid doing your business in pitch-black darkness. Speaking of the lighting -- one of my favorite parts about sprucing up this room was being able to change out the dreaded 4-globe fixture about the sink. (Sorry I don't have a photo of its replacement, which has milky white glass and brushed nickel.) Also, even though I again don't have a photograph, I need to mention the terrific job that Myk did installing white crown moulding around the ceiling. This room has an extra-tall ceiling, and the white up there against the brown really draws the eye up and adds a feeling of space to what might have otherwise felt like a small, dark closet.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhIdiZtaPuS6X8-Jt_Hdot60VW9Ry5R3_Us0AScaq86uQBeqpVrcAXOfkqeVyub_9-sJW-vB0snDAk9es1pZ9PbylI2TAJdEhyatruhLgnWFC8jVlqwIizuAE3Y05MqkGb-_5g-w/s1600-h/newbath2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhIdiZtaPuS6X8-Jt_Hdot60VW9Ry5R3_Us0AScaq86uQBeqpVrcAXOfkqeVyub_9-sJW-vB0snDAk9es1pZ9PbylI2TAJdEhyatruhLgnWFC8jVlqwIizuAE3Y05MqkGb-_5g-w/s320/newbath2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103231989638312418" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">We also changed the faucet to a brushed satin nickel, the same finish as the towel rack. Just to the right of the door here, there's a shower with white faux-tile and a glass door. After this project was done,</span></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">this became one of my favorite rooms in the house, and it alway gets a big (positive) reaction the first time people see it. What a surprise to enter, flick the switch and see all that dramatic contrast and the rich cherry-brown walls. Barring the need for some kind of artwork on the big bare wall to the left of the door, it also feels great to know that this is probably the only room in the house where I don't feel the need to buy anything else to declare it done. No wonder I love it!</span></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-32929070344800087412007-08-23T14:53:00.000-07:002007-08-23T20:01:46.260-07:00Design Lust, Day 1: Bedroom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrWdHLWxyARj50fb_uhUA2tk4Hqm4qD5NWr4TSWRVxCpdFV4gZ2ZvJqvAWpIBwql0vSeGEYaF8ezB4P4Y4vyfoINtCb5TkxdokWs_ekWV4ysdPSaB_q0DxseInh8yApcqT3pprKg/s1600-h/bedroom1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrWdHLWxyARj50fb_uhUA2tk4Hqm4qD5NWr4TSWRVxCpdFV4gZ2ZvJqvAWpIBwql0vSeGEYaF8ezB4P4Y4vyfoINtCb5TkxdokWs_ekWV4ysdPSaB_q0DxseInh8yApcqT3pprKg/s400/bedroom1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102039517738381682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Sorry for the slight delay on getting started here on my proposed "design week," focusing on my house. Like I said, things have been extra child-centered around here these days, and like Willie Nelson says...funny how time slips away. But enough dilly-dallying and excuses. Let's just jump right in.<br /><br />I'm starting with the least finished and realized room in the house, our master bedroom. (Excluding Myk's office, but that's His Domain, and I have no say in there.) My head is bursting with ideas and colors for this room right now, but any plans for a re-do here (or any other room) are on the back burner until we tackle our next major project, The Ikea Kitchen. (Another subject altogether, which will probably deserve it's own week of posts somewhere down the line.)<br /><br />Still, while the major projects of painting and wallpapering and re-curtaining the room will have to wait a bit, I've been buying things here and there, in anticipation of what this room will need <span style="font-style: italic;">someday</span>. The first of these recent purchases was a new bedspread. Over the winter I brought back out, after a spell of retirement, my beloved patchwork duvet cover from Anthropologie, bought at least five years ago. I loved that bedspread, and got really thrilled when I noticed once while watching Gilmore Girls that Lorelai had the same pillow shams on her bed. However, the patchwork had a rip in one of the squares that only grew larger and larger with use, and it was a bad rip, not something that could be repaired. That one ripped square grew to become a big flapping rip of several squares, hidden only by my fleece winter blanket. Plus, it was a little feminine and girly and shabby chic-ish for Myk's taste, so I promised that the next one would be a little more neutral and less floral.<br /><br />In May, after much catalog-perusing and heavy thought, I bought a dark tan/linen matelasse bedspread, the kind I'd seen and loved in the <a href="http://www.thecompanystore.com/">The Company Store</a> catalog, but bought at Ross for much, much less. I love the clean and crisp look of this, especially paired against a set of white eyelet sheets (which are out of rotation on the bed this week). Despite my promises of making the bedroom less feminine, I think I'm going to have to take that back. Note the floral, chintz pillow. It's only ONE decorative pillow, though, so I think this is a bit of a compromise. The only problem with the bedspread is that's it just a bedspread, and a very thin one at that. The colder months ahead are going to require something heavier in addition to this, and I can't quite figure out where to go. A throw? An actual comforter over this? More catalog-perusing is definitely in order.<br /><br />The other, much more recent purchase, was this vintage Turner print that I found on Ebay. I wasn't really shopping for a print for the bedroom, rather I was instead hunting down a Turner flamingo mirror for the living room. (Which I found! More on that later.) Still, when I saw the great price, the nice big size, and the colors in this print, I knew it was perfect for the bedroom, especially for my visions of what the bedroom will look like someday.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsTLcsEMapRyChWQVXO2CTWfXkVd-p5vSEPoFUTJvLafSU2cNy4Kyo4uWA9cpQV1Tgat2mKa93bNSQEUvwsZhwFCoXBy6DH9NuSN2YLSpS_B-cuw6_g_wjDabTC7wU1gj56w57oQ/s1600-h/bedroomturner.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsTLcsEMapRyChWQVXO2CTWfXkVd-p5vSEPoFUTJvLafSU2cNy4Kyo4uWA9cpQV1Tgat2mKa93bNSQEUvwsZhwFCoXBy6DH9NuSN2YLSpS_B-cuw6_g_wjDabTC7wU1gj56w57oQ/s400/bedroomturner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102039736781713794" border="0" /></a>So, here are my thoughts for this future master bedroom of my dreams: The word that keep coming to mind when I think of the design and feel of the room is <span style="font-style: italic;">louche. </span>An old-fashioned word, meaning "shady, shifty, indecent and disreputable." And decadent, too. No, I don't want my room to look like a bordello. But I was struck by <a href="http://www.raycaesar.com/pages/home.html">this image</a> on the home page of visual artist Ray Caesar. (I'd post it here, but couldn't grab it off his site.) Obviously, I won't have the stained mattress, but so much of that image resonates...the wallpaper, the window fan, the very vintage, mid-century feel. This is what I want. A room that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blanche_DuBois">Blanche DuBois</a>, that randy old broad, would feel right at home in.<br /><br />The pine sleigh bed, the side tables, the bed lamps, the paint color...all of them are out. As are the green window curtains, which are pretty, but also remind me a little too much of that <span style="font-style: italic;">Gone With the Wind </span>skit from the Carol Burnett show. (And yes, I AM that old, to remember this from my '70s childhood.) (The curtains framing the room in the above shot are staying. The shot was taken from the bathroom, looking into the bedroom.)<br /><br />Behind the bed, which will exchanged for the black wrought-iron bed currently used in the guest room, will be an one accent wall that is wall-papered. I am very, very fond of an <a href="http://www.osborneandlittle.com/">Osbourne & Little</a> wallpaper I saw in a recent issue of House and Garden. A web search of that design was unsuccessful, but I did find this one, which is quite similar in feel (the other one had birds, too) and the overall look of this shot deserved inclusion here, because it strongly hints at the feel I'm going for:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_JC58cdWt6EcANx_NiieIQBBslAoJSdgcjDm-0BMG3rY0kZw3fiyDanv_yH9YIstPol-za896PaSZbpDYC1_scftYv6Ym4Di2ELs6y1b3pJ3hp3Rciq2m8fqu1hB0bzzMEreQw/s1600-h/original-osborne-little-01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_JC58cdWt6EcANx_NiieIQBBslAoJSdgcjDm-0BMG3rY0kZw3fiyDanv_yH9YIstPol-za896PaSZbpDYC1_scftYv6Ym4Di2ELs6y1b3pJ3hp3Rciq2m8fqu1hB0bzzMEreQw/s400/original-osborne-little-01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102048653133820306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Those lamps are also very similar to what I see next to the bed, too. The Turner print will move to the left of the bed, above a small loveseat I'll bring out of the garage and slipcover. I'm not sure what will go over the bed....right now, I'm thinking of one large or several small Venetian mirrors.<br /><br />I realize now, after struggling to write this post, that reading about what I'm planning to do someday is not half as exciting as simply showing you pictures of what I've already accomplished. I have more to say about the bedroom, my plans for which are rooted in the bedroom of my teen years, and my interest in design, which I realize lately has been with me for much, much longer than I recognized. But I'll give us all a break and stop here for now.<br /><br />More tomorrow (or rather -- soon!) of a much more finished and realized room in our house. Thanks for making it down this far!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">**Edited to note: As with all my posts, you can click on any of the above pictures for a much larger, better detailed view of the photos. This is especially helpful with that first shot of the bedroom. </span><br /></span></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-45568003314934410012007-08-21T22:43:00.000-07:002007-08-23T20:01:46.261-07:00Design Lust<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLDnrc0M9FIE0oFV_0LOjRVE2GlR-A8EaCq8QZDgyJ3HQ_Qmz673tQLq99Lp4nxwJYqz2F3c5A7EW0Iv92Xlx_l3McbZtdjp9nUH3FcuBPU-B9us4X_PKLWLDahJUxs7-KM275rw/s1600-h/condenast.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLDnrc0M9FIE0oFV_0LOjRVE2GlR-A8EaCq8QZDgyJ3HQ_Qmz673tQLq99Lp4nxwJYqz2F3c5A7EW0Iv92Xlx_l3McbZtdjp9nUH3FcuBPU-B9us4X_PKLWLDahJUxs7-KM275rw/s400/condenast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101398738682589538" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Boy, am I in a strange mood these days. Who knew that your firstborn starting kindergarten could throw you for such a loop? But it's only been two days so far, so maybe I can't blame it all on school starting. The thing is, somehow, for the last month, starting around our trip to Hawaii, I feel like my childcare and mothering duties have ramped up even more. I'm not sure why this is so. I'm not even sure HOW this could be so. But man, I'm feeling very, very <span style="font-style: italic;">childcentric </span>these days. Perhaps this is why I''m so drawn lately to images of austere, beautiful and lonely rooms, like the one pictured above. I would like to be the woman in that room, with all those beige books surrounding me, dressed in a long skirt and heels and having nothing more pressing to do than to idly leaf through a magazine. In my world, it's 99 degrees every day this week and I'm wearing jean shorts and flip-flops like it's a uniform. When I sit down for a few stolen minutes to leaf through my new issue of <a href="http://www.dominomag.com/">Domino</a>, I'm likely to be surrounded by sippy cups and Matchbox cars and random pieces of pink plastic princess accessories. But in my <span style="font-style: italic;">mind</span>, baby, I'm just like that blond sylph on her white carpet, and the only sound I can hear is the distant hum of the maid vacuuming the east wing.<br /><br />Today Grace at <a href="http://designsponge.blogspot.com/2007/08/blast-from-past.html"> Design*Sponge</a> posted about the <a href="http://www.condenaststore.com/HouseAndGarden/index.aspx">Conde Nast image store</a> (and the image on her site is by far my favorite, but damn, she snagged it first.) Conde Nast is the publisher of many, many magazine and they now have an online shop where you can purchase (for a rather hefty price) vintage images and illustrations from the covers and pages of House & Garden. This is where I got my image above, and where I wasted many moments surfing through so many beautiful images of home and decor and food fabulousness that it put me into a rather cranky mood. Upon reflection, I recognized that the true name for this mood is envy. Envy and lust as I perused image after image of pristine and inspired decorating. <span style="font-style: italic;">Who are these people</span>?, I thought. <span style="font-style: italic;">Who are these people, and how the hell do they have so much money to live like this?</span> This is the same exact thought that runs through my mind any time we drive through a gorgeous, high falutin' neighborhood and I stare out at all the beautiful homes, practically licking the car windows and wondering: <span style="font-style: italic;">Who are these people, and what did they do to make all this money? </span>Because, really, there just can't be THAT many doctors and lawyers in the world, can there?<br /><br />Anyway. I've decided to spend the next week blogging about my own modest home, and the design choices and purchases I've made recently. Including, at long last, some pictures of the couch we ended up buying for the family room, after those posts many months ago chronicling my frustration at all the puffy couches sold at the big retail furniture stores.<br /><br />I <span style="font-style: italic;">could</span> be blogging about kindergarten, and one very excited and happy little girl, and while I'd love to bend your ear bragging about just how great and confident she was on that first morning, I'm going to stake my claim here on this blog and say this is my space, my own private design Idaho this week, and dammit, we're going to talk about the couch instead. See you tomorrow!<br /></span></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-55038381676654091592007-08-09T22:12:00.000-07:002007-08-23T20:02:28.014-07:00Home (And How)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgnT_dV5rSV9O-pcz-07kZHVPngak7i2-Cg91_K5QkoRc5kKan-Vwgmpm1TcPIpMT6YR48YSuowAqH1RFxghEAD9ukmesfwQ1kW64iPBvX5kbjpC2LCBxET5OEQ8JOGYqFkeFwA/s1600-h/1sunset.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgnT_dV5rSV9O-pcz-07kZHVPngak7i2-Cg91_K5QkoRc5kKan-Vwgmpm1TcPIpMT6YR48YSuowAqH1RFxghEAD9ukmesfwQ1kW64iPBvX5kbjpC2LCBxET5OEQ8JOGYqFkeFwA/s400/1sunset.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096937552639028050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">We're home. (Thank you <a href="http://bella-enchanted.blogspot.com/">Genevieve</a>, for the good trip wishes, and for checking in on me.) My goodness, what an adventure. It's been about a full week since we returned, and we're almost, almost back to normal around here. I was so intent on having a clean house to return to, but in the end, I'm not sure my efforts made much of a difference, once our suitcases exploded forth their musty vacation clothes and all myriad of just....<span style="font-style: italic;">crap</span> that seemed to stow away back home with us. (Not even souvenirs...just crap.)<br /><br />Above is a shot from our first evening in our hotel room, from the balcony. We booked an ocean view room, but were upgraded to ocean front, instead. Nice!<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJVzxTD3eY7oyaFNy38guXyJf6ywEg9JWdSmZjbODhEV3Uggc-9tfpoS8QbpvVqFWncAiEOde8uVfNgCMVbPN8NiVYW7O2KzFvO5yRNurMuvzmh6STJGI882iw9bRuWN34_G8_w/s1600-h/kayaks2..jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJVzxTD3eY7oyaFNy38guXyJf6ywEg9JWdSmZjbODhEV3Uggc-9tfpoS8QbpvVqFWncAiEOde8uVfNgCMVbPN8NiVYW7O2KzFvO5yRNurMuvzmh6STJGI882iw9bRuWN34_G8_w/s400/kayaks2..jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096938896963791714" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Another shot from the balcony, of kayaks scooting past</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZD33psJAzTjsJahciwjEI16LGiwL-cZnkjEDdVp5Wh8hbgPTOeIUxWRssn8DKFAH3kA84ev7UGb0mW__vo-RV4Wr9ac4xg189oVUHhAOtBHbpNg08YeAkm0fUzonI9y0pvWmSGA/s1600-h/lastsunset.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZD33psJAzTjsJahciwjEI16LGiwL-cZnkjEDdVp5Wh8hbgPTOeIUxWRssn8DKFAH3kA84ev7UGb0mW__vo-RV4Wr9ac4xg189oVUHhAOtBHbpNg08YeAkm0fUzonI9y0pvWmSGA/s400/lastsunset.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096940043720059762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Another day, another gorgeous sunset.</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQ5EjFqhJ5sSvbS6rLhcEoJ6q8diJ3IyUjJxA7joDeVy_331iXnzTid0y_moA6CJB4Pp_iZb7jLTAEtsILPg9Nyba58Ot1M57sv4WJ_xaMTOo_xx0AtxKG0H_2v4y_NeEaQwssw/s1600-h/crystalbluemom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQ5EjFqhJ5sSvbS6rLhcEoJ6q8diJ3IyUjJxA7joDeVy_331iXnzTid0y_moA6CJB4Pp_iZb7jLTAEtsILPg9Nyba58Ot1M57sv4WJ_xaMTOo_xx0AtxKG0H_2v4y_NeEaQwssw/s400/crystalbluemom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096940795339336578" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Here's a shot of me, the night we all shared expensive personal pizzas for dinner in the open-air hotel lounge. This is about as relaxed as I felt and looked the entire trip (not counting the massage in the spa, which was a lovely treat, but all too soon forgotten). Note the full-sized margarita in hand.<br /><br />Why so tense in the land of paradise, you may ask? Why couldn't I feel more relaxed on the vacation to commemorate my tenth wedding anniversary?<br /><br />I present:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUxdhW5fQ68xqgt0g12L-EWldp4xc7kb84n_cB8xq9wQFSRn6yFeRZjc8zdJGMWbR5Yslo0ClsZgZfXgSjZaf7v04JHTSUe8u-2rpFzN0HVjJkplVObJd5-4H0MwUJDxk8MXIuw/s1600-h/huliheepalace2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUxdhW5fQ68xqgt0g12L-EWldp4xc7kb84n_cB8xq9wQFSRn6yFeRZjc8zdJGMWbR5Yslo0ClsZgZfXgSjZaf7v04JHTSUe8u-2rpFzN0HVjJkplVObJd5-4H0MwUJDxk8MXIuw/s400/huliheepalace2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096944763889118130" these="" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >These two.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Monkey One and Monkey Two, we call them, although I think that the sounds they make as they spin and spiral through the world are technically closer to that of chimps. Wild chimps. On acid. Wild chimps on acid who needed to be corralled and sprayed down with SPF 50 each time we entered water and sunshine, in that land of endless water and sunshine. If you're not a mom, or a parent, I probably sound like very whiny, spoiled woman right about now, daring to bitch about a TRIP. For a WEEK. To HAWAII. But, if you are a mom --- well, 'nuff said. It was a wonderful trip, a challenging trip, a beautiful trip. (Note my reluctance to use the word "vacation," though.)</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">So, yes. We are home now, and how. Home with a vengeance. I knew that it would be an adjustment, having Lily here full-time now that preschool is over and done with, but, sakes alive -- it's so different, and so much....</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: times new roman;">louder</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> in the house this week. It's been hard to get a thought in edgewise up here in my head. You would think that, being home full time and having access to me on an even more constant basis would tone down her deep and unquenchable lust for my full attention every minute of the day, but uh....no. That would be a.....</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: times new roman;">no</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Still. We are home. Kindergarten (only half day around these parts!) is just over a week away. So, one big, Olympic-size adventure under our belts, and one even bigger one, of a different sort, just up around the bend.</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-39175501541677842992007-07-23T22:56:00.000-07:002007-07-23T23:04:33.908-07:00We're Off To<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigigEIe9ZoHauph50VwjqELFwpv_9yjSvyZEPnivLQmfAQdyn-dwUUBL0kldMKHugCWPq2rDgOGZUOIVqcqFJAj7Z2CNSbWprMgP8yGX3nZHuOGMdWm5LMhCUWlrQMwuUDUKKkDw/s1600-h/Hawaiivintage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigigEIe9ZoHauph50VwjqELFwpv_9yjSvyZEPnivLQmfAQdyn-dwUUBL0kldMKHugCWPq2rDgOGZUOIVqcqFJAj7Z2CNSbWprMgP8yGX3nZHuOGMdWm5LMhCUWlrQMwuUDUKKkDw/s400/Hawaiivintage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090638579372518210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Yes, we're really going! Tomorrow we're leaving for just over a week on the Big Island of Hawaii. Neither of us have been, but we made the reservations back in February, and in a flash...it's here, and it's time. We'll celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary on Thursday, but this is no romantic escape -- the 2 monkeys are definitely coming with us. (And who would possibly volunteer to watch them for that long, anyway?)<br /><br />It was stressful getting the house clean, the supplies bought, the clothes laundered, etc. Tonight, after finally putting our two very-wound-up and excited children to bed, I snapped to Myk, "We shouldn't be going on this trip. Only people who know how to relax and have fun should go on vacations."<br /><br />Ah, sounds like we're all a bit overdue. Aloha! See you in August.<br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-26256092259899348132007-07-20T15:47:00.000-07:002007-08-23T20:02:09.032-07:00Evening<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4oTinUQCiXAlWb6ic1aYf7T4fuuMArUs3aLHgQosI5AzGGR5zxhSwe7r-2j3Obnkckjhueb4lg7k8nzIM0y20oUlhuP08TN34F6Xz5m5h7VCIS8mUEtro3uxi-6lF2tZpHvtRoA/s1600-h/20000417+Avalon+and+Snowy+Cabin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4oTinUQCiXAlWb6ic1aYf7T4fuuMArUs3aLHgQosI5AzGGR5zxhSwe7r-2j3Obnkckjhueb4lg7k8nzIM0y20oUlhuP08TN34F6Xz5m5h7VCIS8mUEtro3uxi-6lF2tZpHvtRoA/s400/20000417+Avalon+and+Snowy+Cabin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089417876652550946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Yes, I'm still here. (Madly waving.) I really, really need to get on board with posting more often. I've been right here, at home, doing major kid-duty, as always. Anyway...<br /><br />Last night I went alone to the movies to catch <span style="font-style: italic;">Evening</span>, before it disappears from theaters and comes out on DVD in 3 weeks. (Isn't that about the rate of the theater-to-DVD turnaround these days?) I didn't have high hopes for the movie, yet I really wanted to see it, because I'd read the novel years ago, and it holds a special place in my heart. I read it while on spring break in that tiny little cabin pictured above, just me & Myk and our sock monkey, Fred. (Fred used to accompany us on all our travels, but now that we have children, he not-so patiently waits for attention on Myk's bed table.) I cannot remember what path my brain was traveling on, back in the spring of 2000, that made me decide going to Convict Lake in the high eastern Sierra's for spring break from grad school would be a great idea. It was, um, pretty <span style="font-style: italic;">cold</span>. And it snowed quite a lot. But it was romantic, and we had the the little ring of cabins and the lake almost all to ourselves. One night, we had dinner in the very good lodge, with a fire burning and snow flakes dropping silently out the windows. We took a daytrip up to Mammoth, and the June Lake loop, and my beloved tufas at Mono Lake. And in between, back at the cabin, with the snow and the lake and the massive mountains right outside the door, I was reading Susan Minot's <span style="font-style: italic;">Evening</span>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rPHifDRppOjZv02ZdMDB7fl6hyZ6HQO_I8FJUdBjkS4wxMlqmyuWA3ImeZyMpBkEGRtP8zcQgIHIHFgePQjqJG5koovN-6L7KjBoHvx7Tv-kz1XFNaH8_wMoKEXnGXk16oKnHw/s1600-h/20000418+Convict+Lake+%26+Mountains+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rPHifDRppOjZv02ZdMDB7fl6hyZ6HQO_I8FJUdBjkS4wxMlqmyuWA3ImeZyMpBkEGRtP8zcQgIHIHFgePQjqJG5koovN-6L7KjBoHvx7Tv-kz1XFNaH8_wMoKEXnGXk16oKnHw/s400/20000418+Convict+Lake+%26+Mountains+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089425087902640946" border="0" /></a>This is first section of <span style="font-style: italic;">Evening</span>, on the first page, and after reading it, I was snagged, utterly:<br /><br /><blockquote>Where were you all this time? she said. Where have you been?<br />I guess far away.<br />Yes you were. Too far away.<br />They sat in silence.<br />You know you frightened me a little, she said. At the beginning.<br />No.<br />You did.<br />He smiled at that.<br />You looked at if you didn't need anyone, she said.<br />But those are the ones who need it most, he said. Don't you know that?<br />I do now, she said. Too late.<br />Never too late to know something, he said.<br />Maybe not, she said. But too late to do any good. </blockquote>Like I said, I didn't really have high hopes for the movie, and I wasn't wrong. The plot was changed quite a lot, from what I remember. The reason why Ann, the heroine, and Harris, her love, couldn't be together, was not at all the reason suggested in the movie. In the book, Ann's five grown children are not much more that shadow characters, floating in and out of their mother's bedroom as she lies dying and remembering the weekend in 1954 that she met and lost her one true love. In the movie, I was irritated and bored by the sibling rivalries and "life moments" shared by the 2 sisters. And what was up with that ending that totally ripped off <span style="font-style: italic;">The Way We Were</span>? Well, I won't go into all the myriad differences between the novel & the film version. This is usually the case, isn't it? I would like to know, however, why all the commercials I saw proclaimed, "from the creator of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Hours</span>..." True, Michael Cunningham did co-write & co-produce alongside Minot, but why does he get all the credit, when it's not his book or his vision?<br /><br />Even though the critics have labeled the film a "tear-jerker," I didn't get misty for even a second. Compare that to when I read the devastating final, major scene between Ann and Harris. I remember that I was lying next to Myk on the small cabin bed as he napped, and the little wall heater kept blowing it's warm, dusty air through the room. I started reading and got immediately misty-eyed, and by the end of the scene, I had to bite on my knuckle to keep from sobbing out loud.<br /><br />Later, I actually got to meet Susan Minot and even sit at the same table with her, at a women writer's conference in Long Beach. I remember shaking her hand and telling her how much I loved her novel. (Oh, how I hate sounding so inane and groupie-like, but just how else does one say these things?) I'm sitting here now, with my signed copy of the paperback on my desk, and it feels like a lifetime ago. I remember also that Ms. Minot had a great purse, and I was in awe of how...<span style="font-style: italic;">East Coast </span>she looked and seemed.<br /><br />One good thing about the movie: the gorgeous house used for the 1950s scenes, a real family home on the coast of Rhode Island (it's supposed to be Maine, in the book), with wonderful interiors and set decor. I swooned at the beautiful mural throughout the downstairs living room. (I read in House & Garden that it was painted by the home's original owner.) I've been on a real design-bender, combing through magazines and the 'net this week, and my hands are itching to get ahold of a brush and get to paintin'. I have big, big plans for my master bedroom. And after this week, I'm suddenly possessed by one rather startling and surprising word: <span style="font-style: italic;">wallpaper</span>. (Yes, it's true, darling. As always, you just have to trust me on this.) It's going to be fabulous.<br /><blockquote></blockquote></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-68108699651283318902007-07-03T07:37:00.000-07:002007-07-03T08:43:36.480-07:00Like Palm Springs, Yet Not<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzwsqj1tZxuChkeiDg74Jyequj1jDSY3JpqAY9YxQRGExQK84v51mBD_8dUfiargMI1mOCdRJoAF1om9EPJyL7arspNCL4DKZ9Q24VRMYGs6aVqO4OZv62uscwUK4OPtaISaahw/s1600-h/IMG_4034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzwsqj1tZxuChkeiDg74Jyequj1jDSY3JpqAY9YxQRGExQK84v51mBD_8dUfiargMI1mOCdRJoAF1om9EPJyL7arspNCL4DKZ9Q24VRMYGs6aVqO4OZv62uscwUK4OPtaISaahw/s400/IMG_4034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082982050367801474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">We're in the full swing of summer over here. The days are super hot this week, up over 100 degrees. The weatherman says it'll be 105 today. When it's hot and brilliant and cloudless like this, I can almost, almost squint my eyes and pretend that we're in Palm Springs. Except, well, even though P.S. is just over an hour northeast of us, it's still sort of another dimension and lifetime away, too. Where Palms Springs is lousy with old people and gay realtors (not to disparage either group -- I'm just sayin'), this place is instead lousy with kids, kids and more kids, and the people who take care of them (stay at home moms like me). Also, we still cool down pretty quickly after dark, which I guess is nice for most, but listen -- until you've sat out by the pool, under the stars, on a 95-degrees-at-10pm Palm Springs night, you've never lived.<br /><br />Speaking of staying home with the children -- I'm also celebrating the fact that as of July 1, I'm no longer serving as Co-President of my neighborhood chapter of this group:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzgSouo_YU1O3OY1SpKY3jrewBppODBtkNzd0vVjBGnCRkvIBiYRCoGlyMAHiwlWBU1zVgcXjvH5IEJq6lXkrama_K2c-ln5rYOFySu6G4byzTqCTuIgWKFsD8wG7uswPXuoYIAA/s1600-h/logo.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzgSouo_YU1O3OY1SpKY3jrewBppODBtkNzd0vVjBGnCRkvIBiYRCoGlyMAHiwlWBU1zVgcXjvH5IEJq6lXkrama_K2c-ln5rYOFySu6G4byzTqCTuIgWKFsD8wG7uswPXuoYIAA/s400/logo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082990511453374610" border="0" /></a>The group whose name I cannot mention here. No, that's not quite true. It's just that the club, for whatever reason seems to operate under a "Fight Club" method of survival, which is "<span style="font-style: italic;">the first rule of MOMS Club is there IS no MOMS Club</span>." At least not out on the Internet, besides their official site. I've run into a few stories out there of people being asked to remove links to their site, or being asked to delete any <span style="font-style: italic;">mention</span> of them. They're a little defensive, officially, and their literature and statement of intent reflect a rather dated, 1980s defensiveness about the choice to stay home with the kids. I have to say, the club, or at least our local chapter, has worked out well for me. For the first time as an adult, I have a fairly steady social life and have even made a couple of real, true friends here in town, friendships that don't hinge on the fact that we're also mothers. A bizarre turn of events for me, the former Official Loner of the world, and also, that girl who didn't get along with women, much. That part still seems true sometimes -- but for a group of over 50 very different women, we get along pretty well. (It probably helps that it's awfully rare to have all 50 together at any point.) As for the fact that I served as Co-President for this group for the last 12 months, all I can say is that my volunteering for the job should stand as proof of what a terrible sucker I am for flattery.<br /><br />Today, and the rest of the week, will feature more SPF 50 sunscreen for the kids, more splashing in sprinklers and water slides in the backyards of friends, more coming inside at twilight to get washed up from the hot, sweaty day. More June bugs at my front door in the dark, and more clear and starry summer night skies. Ah, we're in the swing of it all.<br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-81362866754959872512007-06-20T15:31:00.000-07:002007-06-20T22:38:21.120-07:00Happy New Year<span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It feels like a brand-new year. I'm so relieved be on the other side of the past one. Last week was heavy on emotions and ruminations about time passing, children, our life together and gratitude for good health.<br /><br />First, on Tuesday, as mentioned in the previous post, Lily had her Preschool Graduation. I know it's just preschool, and there'll be so many other major milestones on her road, but still, this felt big. An end to being a preschooler, a little kid, and the start of being an Official Big Kid, of having so many expectations placed upon you, by your peers, your teachers, your parents. Sometimes, it's hard to remember that 5 years old is just...</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >5 years old</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. So little, still. So open and innocent and so full of questions and wonder. Let's not change that part anytime soon.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwifisx3DRJUxg1NDhxLz7swctu9PSoh76TLmojJS-lRaBJrPO64eh3DiBCCKyQjJ6KK4I1GcY3AIYq-4vEr0KjLaUL5MBmYo6Omke3lZeAYPtkv73ESjsf4jpHR5keprtdc5UQ/s1600-h/IMG_5129.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwifisx3DRJUxg1NDhxLz7swctu9PSoh76TLmojJS-lRaBJrPO64eh3DiBCCKyQjJ6KK4I1GcY3AIYq-4vEr0KjLaUL5MBmYo6Omke3lZeAYPtkv73ESjsf4jpHR5keprtdc5UQ/s400/IMG_5129.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078379883685312018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">And then, on Wednesday, was our much-planned family picnic, to celebrate life and love and the good health of our sweet boy. Because Wednesday, June 13, was the one-year anniversary of Tucker's admission into the pediatric ICU at Children's Hospital Orange County. A year ago that day, we'd hurried up the freeway and driven an hour away, on the advice of our pediatrician, who'd taken one look at his overall condition and one listen to his lungs and told us to get him to an ER. (There is a closer ER, but not a better one.) You can read more about it <a href="http://myapronstrings.blogspot.com/2006/09/fevers-and-manifesto-of-sorts.html">here</a>. I don't want to go into those details again.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv40o4kl2yGHmxiEKc96C2G4fmCIMIdrAKvB8rqo-TlqW9R258nSP0y8rScWzTU46knVhqjTfizvk9m2WL2CJ8ZL1Xb0MQIasiuNu3UF2wjJ17sGeTjszn0hm0Yk2Qc7ATUKMpYQ/s1600-h/IMG_5150.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv40o4kl2yGHmxiEKc96C2G4fmCIMIdrAKvB8rqo-TlqW9R258nSP0y8rScWzTU46knVhqjTfizvk9m2WL2CJ8ZL1Xb0MQIasiuNu3UF2wjJ17sGeTjszn0hm0Yk2Qc7ATUKMpYQ/s400/IMG_5150.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078381739111183922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">June 13, 2007 was a much, much better day. Sunshine and the smell of the scrubby oak trees, homemade brownies and fizzy orange sodas. Forget that I couldn't set out my pretty new picnic blanket, because there was no grass and the park's ground was all dirt and leaves. Forget that Tucker was being a 2-and-a-half year old pain in the ass earlier that morning, practicing his Toddler Tyrant moves on us all. It was just good to be out, together, and blessed with good health and the good fortune to all be together in the middle of a busy weekday.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP85mwAOIpVAw5ZFlUCC-CVLu5lb0bXO1auTF7ZZ6wOOJ_KyEUbHovf_NWNY099NkEwtM4oKIesahyphenhyphen-WbbNg70-Fjlq0WxDdqHxlHGvK5nRFgrWUJxUZGY1GyGn261ZBrdiSVCqw/s1600-h/IMG_5146.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP85mwAOIpVAw5ZFlUCC-CVLu5lb0bXO1auTF7ZZ6wOOJ_KyEUbHovf_NWNY099NkEwtM4oKIesahyphenhyphen-WbbNg70-Fjlq0WxDdqHxlHGvK5nRFgrWUJxUZGY1GyGn261ZBrdiSVCqw/s400/IMG_5146.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078381223715108386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">If I take into account all that has transpired in the last year, from June to June, I can only say that it's been one hell of a year. Sickness and death and way too much time spent in hospitals seeing my dearest loved ones hooked up to scary, beeping machines. Not that it was all bad. But then, it never really is, is it? Even during the worst of times, there is humor, and the grace of family and friends who care, and the solace of the wide blue yonder, the starry night skies.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><br />Sometimes when I look back upon the year, and all the scary, heart-clenching moments, I think about that ubiquitous and cheesy religious poem, "Footprints." You know, the one about how there are 2 sets of footprints in the sand, representing how during the course of your life (the metaphor is the long walk along the beach) you have God (or is it Jesus?) walking beside you all the way. Except for the times when there are only one set of prints, and that -- as the final line of the poems reveals -- that shows how God carried you through your toughest times.<br /><br />Huh. Well, when I think of that poem, I think that on <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> beach, there's one set of footprints, and then 2 long, deep furrows behind them -- representing how I was dragged, kicking and squirming and protesting the whole time, behind God (or is it Jesus?) and His plan for me this year. I'm not a Christian, in the strict sense of the word, but I'm not a non-believer, either. I realize my rather wimpy wavering on this is immature and exasperating to both camps, whether full-bore Christian or atheist. I have plenty of doubts, and on the worst days, and even on some so-so days, it would be easy to topple over into non-belief, yet I can't do that. I've prayed plenty in the last year. I've always prayed, since I was a teenager and infused with a real desire to experience the holy. There was something very specific that I prayed hard for in my dad's last days, and it was answered. But during Tucker's illness, there was no room for prayer, no possibility of <span style="font-style: italic;">asking </span>for something to happen. Not when the stakes were so high. I couldn't ask. I think any parent who's been in a situation where your child is gravely ill knows the feeling. There can be no prayer, when every breath and every step you take is already begging <span style="font-style: italic;">please</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Please, please, please</span>.<br /><br />And Tucker got better. Whether through fate or divine intervention or the care of his great doctors, or all of the above, he recovered and has been quite healthy during the last year, save for a few colds. (Furious knocking of wood, at that line.) And all year long, I've felt gratitude, the kind you feel when you've been to the brink and peeked into the other side, and felt that chill, that fear. I think I spent the first few months out of the hospital overcome with all of it -- gratitude, fear, worry -- the kind that made me bolt awake at the slightest cough or noise coming from his room late at night.<br /><br />Now that the year is over, I'm feeling more of the flip-side of that gratitude and relief, and for me, the flip-side is anger. Anger and resentment. I catch myself lately, on bad days when Tucker is being a screaming, naughty beast of a 2-year-old, feeling guilty for my anger and frustration. My gratitude has turned into a nagging voice, that doesn't let me feel anything BUT gratitude, 24/7. But to be honest? I'm not <span style="font-style: italic;">cherishing every moment</span>. I'm not <span style="font-style: italic;">living for today</span>. I'm really not <span style="font-style: italic;">loving every minute of it</span>. I'm a stay-at-home mom with two very bright, active, intense children, and Gratitude won't let me give myself a break.<br /><br />So for the record, Gratitude, or God, or anyone else who can pull strings and might be listening: Look, I'm so, so thankful for my beautiful children and my good life, for being blessed to spend my days watching them grow and change. But Gratitude? I could really use a break right about now. It's time to let me off the hook, to stop dragging me behind you in the sand. I want to get up from this past year, and walk all by myself on that beach, and if you want to come along, that's cool, as long as there are also two other very small sets of footprints in the sand beside mine the whole way, along with my husband's big size 11 1/2 boats, even though every time we go to the coast, he swears I'm really just trying to kill him with all of that damp, cold ocean air.<br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-21441147673505347522007-06-11T15:09:00.000-07:002007-06-11T15:57:20.317-07:00Another Ending, So Soon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Msd1hzc5_Yh6bxjv8BfIpIact0PAvdIy9rqdvfhh5SuCU3uqfQwF66g2sUpY7tfuy1qnxcWsLIZxad6jYZq2yeFSDPPnhIks191giVt5emI_pFTtwK0139ETAj51uw7tFs2PmA/s1600-h/DSCF0010.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Msd1hzc5_Yh6bxjv8BfIpIact0PAvdIy9rqdvfhh5SuCU3uqfQwF66g2sUpY7tfuy1qnxcWsLIZxad6jYZq2yeFSDPPnhIks191giVt5emI_pFTtwK0139ETAj51uw7tFs2PmA/s400/DSCF0010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074937098030380530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The title of this post sounds rather ominous, but really I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed and emotional over the fact that Lily is graduating from preschool tomorrow, at noon. Before I was a parent, it was hard to see and gauge the effects of time speeding past. Three years was just....3 years. A little hard to measure, except perhaps by what job I had, or what haircut, or where we went for vacation that year. (Vegas, probably. Back when we lived like adults and could do things like go to Vegas.)<br /><br />But now I see all that the passing of 3 years (or really, two and half) can bring about. My little tiny muffin of a girl in this picture is now 5, and getting herself all grown up and graduated and ready to join a summer soccer/t-ball class. (She has a whole lot more hair now, too.) What really blows my mind is that Lily in this picture is just about the same age at that Tucker is right now, about two and a half. He still seems like my baby. And yet, with my first child, I was so ready to kick her out the door for preschool -- and granted, she started off slow, at only 2 half days a week. But look at how that backpack (filled with an extra change of clothes and some Pull-Ups, as she wasn't potty-trained yet) seems to almost dwarf the child. Well, I wisely knew that I would need just that little bit of time, even six hours a week at first, to be alone with her baby brother in the house, and to maybe, just maybe, catch a little bit of solitary down-time for myself.<br /><br />Now she goes to school 3 full days a week, and I'm so thankful for the great time she's had, getting paint and frosting in her hair, tracking home enough sand to practically fill our own sandbox, and even maybe learning a thing or two.<br /><br />And I almost, almost don't feel too guilty anymore, looking at this picture taken at the end of her first 3 hour day: clutching a tissue, because she was crying and missed her mommy:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPhpcqVD0CNROQ6AiRWSY1ABPJieLs5ywQHaU5IhjLSX3ucReoh3KgJLjeNojLmoLtFzUCvedAO0PLrgVlUB_8_Lxu84J1lF8QS5yjj4u5jz5wOCiqnV2NEAFgJeQ1UIsFFfE2Hg/s1600-h/DSCF0016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPhpcqVD0CNROQ6AiRWSY1ABPJieLs5ywQHaU5IhjLSX3ucReoh3KgJLjeNojLmoLtFzUCvedAO0PLrgVlUB_8_Lxu84J1lF8QS5yjj4u5jz5wOCiqnV2NEAFgJeQ1UIsFFfE2Hg/s400/DSCF0016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074937411562993154" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Oh, who am I kidding? It tears me up, still. The mommy-guilt. It's a deep well, people, and I'm pretty sure it'll never go dry.<br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-27082416922886405862007-06-06T15:17:00.000-07:002007-08-23T20:02:17.186-07:00Heartbreak in the Aisles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruKCCJodUJdVnC2uEgTo5ngoYRy2McC9uw0PWrPU7lSxNLFCHyXgb7zMa3wZfk_iWQf3mVwQO0wSDds1oXBS6aRrZO09n-PoEDF69ISmihu6X4fjZpZNum6AzaDXT6nWxACzwIw/s1600-h/IMG_5025.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruKCCJodUJdVnC2uEgTo5ngoYRy2McC9uw0PWrPU7lSxNLFCHyXgb7zMa3wZfk_iWQf3mVwQO0wSDds1oXBS6aRrZO09n-PoEDF69ISmihu6X4fjZpZNum6AzaDXT6nWxACzwIw/s400/IMG_5025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073097761105999330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The aisles of Target, that is. Back when things were just a little weird and typically crazy, before they got seriously weird and bad, I <a href="http://myapronstrings.blogspot.com/2007/03/hoppy-spring.html">posted</a> about my giddy love for the blue bunny Easter plates, and my fondness for trolling for interesting design at Target.<br /><br />Last night I was back there again (honestly, I only go 2 or 3 times a month), in the children's book section, just randomly looking around. While I didn't feel very moody and touchy when I left the house after dinner, I found myself feeling awfully moody and weepy once I got there. I think it was because I stopped in the card aisle, looking for Father's Day cards for Myk from the kids and me. But of course, I couldn't help but see all the other Father's Day cards, the ones I'd normally be perusing for my own dad. Then there were also all the "Papa" cards, that I won't be buying for the kids to give to their great-grandpa this year, either. And then I felt rather silly, for getting upset at such a rather...<span style="font-style: italic;">obvious</span> situation. I didn't imagine that Father's Day, or at least Father's Day cookie-cutter-sentiment greeting cards, would provoke me, but yet there I was, getting all misty under the fluorescents.<br /><br />Anyway, later in the trip, after the dipes/wipes/vitamins, etc. had been checked off the list, I was in the children's book aisle, and I casually opened up a hardbound book for older kids, called, <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.amazon.com/Miraculous-Journey-Edward-Tulane/dp/0763625892">The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane</a>. I didn't read the jacket to see what it was about; instead, my fingers just rifled through it and ended up on the dedication page, where there was this quote from a poem by Stanley Kunitz:<br /><blockquote>"The heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking.<br />It is necessary to go through the dark and deeper dark<br />and not to turn."</blockquote><br />Yes. Yes. So, this time -- no surprising modern design. Just a bit of truth and poetry, at a big-box retail store on a Tuesday night in the late spring. I don't think Lily, despite her advanced reading, is quite ready for the story of Edward Tulane, yet. Evidently it's about a cold and arrogant toy bunny who finds love after being very lost. All I know is that I'm grateful for the sentiment from Mr. Kunitz ( a late poet of great renown in the literature world), and I hope to be reading more of him -- and more poetry, in general, very soon. Wild emotion, tamed and distilled into perfect words and stanzas, is exactly what is called for, these days.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*Aisle of tall trees, taken in Oregon. </span><br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-33293871548950854512007-06-04T22:36:00.000-07:002007-06-11T16:04:09.643-07:00Back from Up North<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8GWTYsKlJwarFwlNzAwvJJRRFVpzybSJ6IkNNZHxiBEQlkJx_tlL0Ozo2jtyVdttYEzDrvZmQfyot77irDnZJJ7E4pmIODpMee9wyjcmi5i32ybhf9q_9zjUrimYe03wxJjf6A/s1600-h/IMG_4883.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8GWTYsKlJwarFwlNzAwvJJRRFVpzybSJ6IkNNZHxiBEQlkJx_tlL0Ozo2jtyVdttYEzDrvZmQfyot77irDnZJJ7E4pmIODpMee9wyjcmi5i32ybhf9q_9zjUrimYe03wxJjf6A/s400/IMG_4883.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072454551098717586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">We've been back for a while now. 2 weeks? 3? It's so hard for me to pick up the blogging ball again after I put it down. More than once, I've thought about officially quitting or deleting it all. Maybe I'm just meant to be a Constant Lurker, like Dorothy Parker's Constant Reader. It's hard for me to hone in on what to talk about. I need to remember that my favorite blogs often just focus on one small, good thing at at time. Like <a href="http://rosylittlethings.typepad.com/posie_gets_cozy/2007/06/pillowcase_trot.html">Alicia's pillowcases</a> or porch blinds, or <a href="http://theblackapple.typepad.com/inside_a_black_apple/2007/05/avian_chapter_t.html">Emily's pretty bluebird teacup</a>.<br /><br />Oregon was...green. So very green. And the moisture, and change of scenery, were a really good change. And I finally got to see the very beautiful Multnomah Falls, seen above. However, it was not so much a true vacation, at least for me. My in-laws live and thrive in an atmosphere that feels very foreign to me -- one devoid of much emotion or opinion, or much joy, either, for that matter. It all felt so stiff and forced, and I felt often like such a stranger in their midst. They treated me like a very volatile stick of dynamite, even though I've never exploded or even sizzled much in their presence, ever.<br /><br />Also. The cats. My mother-in-law loves her some cats. It used to be a bit of a joke, but she seemed a little more defensive about her crazy cat love, this time around. There are roughly about 10 cats living inside the house, and at least a dozen or so more on the property. And I, I am a little allergic to cats. Not instant-hives allergic, but mildly allergic, if put in a house with one or two long-hairs. But a house with 10? It was rough. At night, sleeping with my family in the cat-free guest room, I could here a very tiny but distinct wheeze coming from my lungs. And though I went up there with that cold or sinus infection, it quickly morphed into this terrible, rumbling, hacking cough. Consumption? No -- CATsumption. This week I got low on sleep and the catsumption made a reappearance. I wouldn't be surprised to find some fur balls on my pillow, really.<br /><br />But the trip is over, and good God, June is off and running in full swing. I'm a bit in shock at that, staring at the calendar and watching the days fill up with places to go and people to see. One thing I could see about that rural life in Oregon, versus this busy one in exurban Temecula -- life is much slower and less frantic. It even felt that way in downtown Portland. I've been thinking a lot about how to slow things down, just a tad. I'd like to focus more on some smaller moments, and not the big, sweeping life-changing ones that have been the norm for the last year. More on that soon, I hope.<br /><br />Anyway. This is why we went to Oregon -- so the kids could get to know their other set of grandparents better:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4eVx2MjfsVKH8BA_RMKAPxmHyBuJD0TLZxrLGLcQJmMcei36PvyLf-d26wBBn4Ky-he7VscsDaUkH5R_OL3UT6T0ay36IMtv_BNerJgCCyOe1XwlPleOZK2Y8XmQepeunYE7Cg/s1600-h/IMG_4864.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4eVx2MjfsVKH8BA_RMKAPxmHyBuJD0TLZxrLGLcQJmMcei36PvyLf-d26wBBn4Ky-he7VscsDaUkH5R_OL3UT6T0ay36IMtv_BNerJgCCyOe1XwlPleOZK2Y8XmQepeunYE7Cg/s400/IMG_4864.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072455633430476194" border="0" /></a>Which I think they really enjoyed doing. Even if it meant that for the course of the week, I felt like the cranky, hacking, touchy Bad Witch of the South.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCK6nAM0fwKqqUJJkWqKxtvoS04pQPWpUJGioYybAmQXm1FSXAg-KmfOjo0p40zr5qkfcXfY4htOl83Ziyv8JdYC1-b4st2M73F1elOeLOnafK-cbvbff6hfTz6l9FNyLIfQCJqQ/s1600-h/IMG_4958.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCK6nAM0fwKqqUJJkWqKxtvoS04pQPWpUJGioYybAmQXm1FSXAg-KmfOjo0p40zr5qkfcXfY4htOl83Ziyv8JdYC1-b4st2M73F1elOeLOnafK-cbvbff6hfTz6l9FNyLIfQCJqQ/s400/IMG_4958.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072458021432292802" border="0" /></a>(Above taken at the <a href="http://www.enchantedforest.com/enchanted_forest.html">Enchanted Forest</a> theme park in Salem, OR.)<br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-33347479923963901392007-05-09T21:37:00.000-07:002007-06-11T16:04:09.643-07:00Heading for Some Moisture<span style="font-family:times new roman;">Let's be frank for a moment: I feel like shit. I feel like a tired and wadded up piece of Kleenex, one of the dozens I've used up in the last few days since I came down with my cold that immediately turned into a sinus infection. A sinus infection that makes me sound like I'm setting myself for a joke when I moan aloud that my face hurts. <span style="font-style: italic;">(Yeah? Cuz it's killin' me!)</span><br /><br />These last few months have just been a bit...<span style="font-style: italic;">much</span>. The death of my grandpa, the roller-coaster of worry and optimism with my dad's hospital stay, and then his death, and everything in between has left me just....tired. And dry. It is the great thing about daily life with small children, yet also the very brutal thing about daily life with small children. Yes, you can lose your grief and laugh and smile at their darling ways and the cute things that pop out of their mouths, but you also are forced into forgetting your grief, or at least putting it on indefinite hold, while you meet their never-ending demands for juice, kisses for boo-boos, trips to the park, juice, bedtime stories, breakfast, lunch and dinner and always, always, more juice.<br /><br />I feel very dry, both inside and out. Nothing left for tears, and not enough lotion to cure this tightness in my face. Yes, I have a cold, and yes it's that time of the month, too, which brings with it yet another zit on my once-nice complexion, and then there are the near-constant twinges of back pain from either my lower back or my shoulder blade (they take turns), and that thing that happens when I'm rushed or anxious with the kids (and really, when am I NOT?), feeling like I need to gasp for air like a fish out of water -- pant, pant, pant. Oh, and today my right eyelid has a very relaxing and attractive twitch, too, which has lasted for about the last 12 hours.<br /><br />God, what an old lady! I was thinking today, that yes, I finally feel my age. At <span style="font-style: italic;">least </span>my age. All those years of laughing with girlfriends: "oh, I'm 34, but I feel exactly the same as always!" "36? Last time I checked I was still 27!" But today, ladies? Today, I feel every second of my 38 years. And then some. I'm feeling about, oh, 43. And it is not good.<br /><br />I know that all this aridity of the soul is not because I live in a very dry near-desert climate. But I'm hoping, hoping, that when we arrive in the Portland area in a few days, that some of that greenness and wetness and moisture will have some effect. It has to. Traveling from the land of record-low rainfall to the land where they've had record-high rainfall this winter has got to be good. And we have plans to go to this place:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9JitDuOiy87Hk6RKjLVQAn684VhWMUePutXJjP8lFqkN59NYV-FE-69P15TAGtBZi2cOnHoTszx6vtyhCMNm23WGWlV16qrvS4xehv2u9z0tAxiQACSKqy1SA1P5SXPhSmS-Bw/s1600-h/800px-April_17_2005_Multnomah_Falls_Oregon_United_States.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9JitDuOiy87Hk6RKjLVQAn684VhWMUePutXJjP8lFqkN59NYV-FE-69P15TAGtBZi2cOnHoTszx6vtyhCMNm23WGWlV16qrvS4xehv2u9z0tAxiQACSKqy1SA1P5SXPhSmS-Bw/s400/800px-April_17_2005_Multnomah_Falls_Oregon_United_States.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062796315543401026" border="0" /></a>Nice, huh? That's Multnomah Falls, in Oregon. Yes, there are in-laws waiting there too, but I like my in-laws and now is not the time or place to mention that my first-ever panic attack happened when visiting their home for the first time. I need a change of scenery so badly, so badly. I hope this little jaunt up to the Pacific Northwest does the trick, at least for a while. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-4719787708188761552007-05-08T17:34:00.000-07:002007-05-08T20:07:54.836-07:00Like, Wow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzO6WCUBA0Q-PWgs-E5N2J5MxTGqCPkagEQyoHsIUxsxfl4cBIoeC1H3uN4bxpMxvysj11X40qJB-0h2byOVXa0fo3Ffe4Yd7aCsS5xQK0sYiFTGah8n78Wj17DRgxuwCQ5rOsGQ/s1600-h/Littlebig.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzO6WCUBA0Q-PWgs-E5N2J5MxTGqCPkagEQyoHsIUxsxfl4cBIoeC1H3uN4bxpMxvysj11X40qJB-0h2byOVXa0fo3Ffe4Yd7aCsS5xQK0sYiFTGah8n78Wj17DRgxuwCQ5rOsGQ/s400/Littlebig.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062362652695523890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">So I finally got my hands on a copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">Little, Big</span>, and finally finished reading it this weekend. What a long book. I felt like I've lived a few lifetimes since I started it, sometime back in early April. It was a world and a landscape unto itself and excuse me if I blush just a little bit when I say that its main plot is about a family who seem to be related to, or at least are very close to um, the wee folk. As in fairies (faeries?).<br /><br />But the book and it's many subplots and tone are about so much more than just the fairy-folk, and the reader is given only passing, sly glimpses of them throughout most of the story. Since I have a nasty sinus infection and my head feels too stuffed with cotton to create a single, lucid sentence, let me just give you some of the critiques and credentials listed on my copy: Let's see...the book and it's author, John Crowley, won the World Fantasy Award for Best Novel back in 1980. The Washington Post writes that it's "the greatest fantasy ever written by an American." And finally, the esteemed and very crotchety academic and critic, Harold Bloom, says, "It is literally the most enchanting twentieth-century book I know."<br /><br />So there. Let me not spin my wheels any longer justifying my reading of this 538-page work that concerns a very old and powerful deck of tarot cards, a grandfather trout who lives in a deep, cold pond and surfaces when summoned by members of the Drinkwater family, or a very old and powerful wizard of a woman who turns into a stork in the book's final chapters. Or the fiesty Puerto Rican girl who lives in the City and has a Destiny, which turns out to be turning into a fairy princess and sailing upon a craft made of spiderwebs and acorns.<br /><br />Forgetting the plot entirely, I was enchanted early on by the gorgeous prose and lovely, crafted sentences, and also the humor and intelligence that guided my way. I smiled and leaked a happy little tear onto my pillow when I saw that I was in the care of someone who could write:<br /><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">"The gregarious weeds that frequent roadsides, dusty, thick and blowsy, friends to man and traffic, nodded from fence and ditch by the way. Less and less often he would hear the hum of a car; the hum would grow intermittently, as the car went up and down hills, and then suddenly it would be on him very loud and roar past surprised, potent, fast, leaving the weeds blown and chuckling furiously for a moment; then the roar would just as quickly subside to a far hum again, and then gone, and the only sounds the insect orchestra and his own feet striking."</span> </blockquote><br /><br />Yes, exactly -- the weeds blown and chuckling furiously. For some reason, this mix of high intellect and lowbrow, sort of slapstick humor reminds me of Annie Dillard in her nature essays -- abstract, obtuse and terribly brainy, and then she throws in a knock-knock joke to prove a point. I'm such a sucker for that sort of thing, and I suppose that's why Dillard is high on my list of all-time favorites.<br /><br />But I digress. <span style="font-style: italic;">Little, Big</span> was a great read, a good companion for a lot of late and troubled nights of late. I only wish I'd read it first in darkest December, for it's mysterious big house of Edgewood that the story revolves around reminded me of winter nights and crackling fires. But I hear that many people, Harold Bloom included, reread this book often to uncover further meanings and discover new things, so I suppose a winter reading isn't out of the question.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-77378708213925796872007-04-27T15:33:00.000-07:002007-06-11T16:04:09.643-07:00A Little Like Peggy Lee<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqIPBf3x7gHIkIue7xlFTA0mJg4hgc59_-P632Db49o6Q9Iwz4UHDEyqPHOo0YBRrkxaLCJt4Ef_www2IANh-wxxkvWFNIoguJwT2SfXulQkhE9YMubtLPvoVABYH5STKrp60bZg/s1600-h/016+Peggy+Lee.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqIPBf3x7gHIkIue7xlFTA0mJg4hgc59_-P632Db49o6Q9Iwz4UHDEyqPHOo0YBRrkxaLCJt4Ef_www2IANh-wxxkvWFNIoguJwT2SfXulQkhE9YMubtLPvoVABYH5STKrp60bZg/s400/016+Peggy+Lee.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5058247283751973410" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Look, I'm here, after a month of not-posting. My last little frivolous post was all about my excitement over buying some cute Easter-themed paper plates & napkins at Target. As it happened, I never even got to bust out those supplies, because Easter was hosted by my aunt this year, instead. My dad was in the hospital at the time of the holiday, and no one, especially my mother, felt like driving 80 miles away to my house for ham and chocolate.<br /><br />So -- well, I don't know how to say this, so I'll just lay it out plainly -- my dad passed away, two weeks ago today. About two weeks and two hours ago, as I write this. It was painful and terrible -- for all involved, but especially him, and so there we were, mouthing all those cliches at the end, that turned out to be true: "he's not in pain anymore," "he's at peace," etc.<br /><br />As for me -- his favorite (really, I can say that now without feeling guilty, right?), his eulogy speech writer & deliverer -- I'm left sort of numb and reeling, and feeling a little like Peggy Lee: "<span style="font-style: italic;">Is that all there is to your daddy dying?" </span> Let's break out the booze and have a ball. Well, I could go for the first part at least, and my dad would approve, too.<br /><br />I feel it coming, the pain and disbelief, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon (cliches, again!), but for now -- Eh. Sometimes I walk through the house late at night, after the lights are out, and this very surreal feeling slices through me and makes me feel like I'm breathing in the atmosphere of some entirely new planet -- a planet that does not find my father walking and talking upon it -- but then it passes, and I go to bed and lie there and replay again some of the events at the hospital, and I think for some reason of the lines from Shakespeare's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Tempest</span>, "Full fathom five my father lies, what once were blah blah pearls that were his eyes blah blah...." Although really, my father doesn't lie anywhere now except in a pile of dust, collected into a very handsome wooden box, on his own bookshelf, amongst his beloved books on the photography & history of the West. (Someday in the future we'll take him out to the desert and deliver him to the wind and big sky of his favorite landscape.)<br /><br />Well, anyway. That is where I have been, lo these many weeks since my last gushings on the cuteness of blue bunny rabbits. But regardless, spring is truly here, and April is the cruelest month and all, but I don't find it terrible, those roses bursting open in the backyard, those bees drunk on the waving lavender. It's just -- life, as usual, going on, as it tends to do.<br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-41589861037969572042007-03-24T12:47:00.001-07:002007-06-11T16:00:55.571-07:00Hoppy Spring<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wBGaR-XIg3gDxUFOdoAZMV0RwWd2FZ7MTec-lLdfNkcrlsE_WJBRX_2hpZG-_ZWierWmvKVCMVi8BpLq8SYbxxvZztbTuKfP5xYpFqYnI8hujKrOkeDsQWidxmw_m8-asFtJQA/s1600-h/Eastertarget.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wBGaR-XIg3gDxUFOdoAZMV0RwWd2FZ7MTec-lLdfNkcrlsE_WJBRX_2hpZG-_ZWierWmvKVCMVi8BpLq8SYbxxvZztbTuKfP5xYpFqYnI8hujKrOkeDsQWidxmw_m8-asFtJQA/s400/Eastertarget.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045583089909101122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">When I found out earlier this week that I'd snagged the "hosting Easter for the extended family" duties this year, I hightailed it over to Target to get these adorable plates & napkins before they sold out. In fact, now that I reflect on it, I think the chance to buy & display these cuties was maybe the chief motivating factor in volunteering to host. Yes, I could've bought them "just because" when I first saw them a while back, but I get weird & cheap sometimes. Especially when my Target basket is already filling up fast with those necessary packs of diapers and wipes and toilet paper, etc.<br /><br />Anyway. I LOVE these bright colors, and the over-the-top cute graphics of all the fuzzy little animals. I couldn't resist, at the dollar bins at the front of the store, the cute little erasers either. So now Lily's preschool class will get treated with erasers at her Easter party in a couple weeks (and whatever else I can manage to scrape together to put into the treat bags....I'm thinking....pencils?)<br /><br />On the receipt, I noticed that these were listed as "Fiona tablewear," so when doing the web search to grab these images, I continued my search and discovered that all this eye-popping loveliness was designed by English graphic artist <a href="http://www.laundrypr.co.uk/index.htm">Fiona Hewitt</a>. I've seen her work before at boutiques that sell her line of "Miso Pretty" bath products with the pretty Asian graphics. This is why I love to go shopping at Target: because amid the toothpaste, diapers and snack foods, there's always the fun of discovering some cool, modern or just plain purty designs to fluff the nest with. There are a lot more items in this collection not featured on the Target web site...like little 3-D place card figurines, candles, wooden nesting eggs and big tin buckets. I'm thinking one of the buckets, filled with a cluster of silk blue hydrangeas & yellow daffodils, will be a great centerpiece for the Easter buffet table. Eventually I'll get around to actually planning what my dear family will actually <span style="font-style: italic;">eat</span> at this Easter shindig, but for now...I've got my plates. <br /><br />Happy Spring to you....</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEitM0LSScK1_inkxNRK-r_qNxnzjOA5PpkZCqkmBKqDVYk5gbwv0Qyxsk-ce113JLOdfQXYdwPe6BQvrS8Nt6hF35T9nRLTgiZQaTcpzOcaaIrfJQMPj12Cx9CTHAWZ8nPjAPw/s1600-h/TargetEaster2.jpg"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEitM0LSScK1_inkxNRK-r_qNxnzjOA5PpkZCqkmBKqDVYk5gbwv0Qyxsk-ce113JLOdfQXYdwPe6BQvrS8Nt6hF35T9nRLTgiZQaTcpzOcaaIrfJQMPj12Cx9CTHAWZ8nPjAPw/s1600-h/TargetEaster2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEitM0LSScK1_inkxNRK-r_qNxnzjOA5PpkZCqkmBKqDVYk5gbwv0Qyxsk-ce113JLOdfQXYdwPe6BQvrS8Nt6hF35T9nRLTgiZQaTcpzOcaaIrfJQMPj12Cx9CTHAWZ8nPjAPw/s400/TargetEaster2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045587633984500306" border="0" /></a></span></a>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-1173849523783244422007-03-13T22:51:00.000-07:002007-06-11T15:35:39.067-07:00Queen of My Heart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/1600/665021/Lilyxmasgrin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/400/917879/Lilyxmasgrin.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">My baby turned 5 on Saturday. Five years old? How did that happen?<br /><br />It's a cliche that time flies quicker when you have children, but it's a cliche for a good reason. Five years old means that she has officially left the land of babyhood and toddlerhood and even preschooler-hood for good. In five months she'll be starting kindergarten and beginning her long odyssey of public school life. No wonder my heart is filled with such dread. I quake with my dark imaginings of what peer pressure and standardized testing pressure and fit-in-the-box pressure will do this brilliant, funny, fearless, imaginative, confident beauty.<br /><br />But I guess I'll save that post and more of those musing for later in the year. For now...I present to you my girl, my wonder, my first born, my only daughter. "Mommy, you're the queen of my heart," she told me frequently this past year.<br /><br />I once had the thought that Lily was born in Technicolor. How I love to look at old movies and musicals from the '50s, if only to admire the lipstick reds and intense, vibrant hues of the costumes and sets. "Why can't real life be in Technicolor?" I've thought more than once. At yet when I look at this girl, its seems that she is indeed made of all those larger and truer-than-life colors. She seems to pop against the background of our everyday lives.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/1600/148394/IMG_4177.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/400/852667/IMG_4177.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>How I love to rest my eyes upon this child, and marvel that she is my own. Happy Birthday, sweet Lily. I know that you spent a lot of time when you were four telling us about how you're tired of being a human, and that you're ready <span style="font-style: italic;">right now</span> to turn into a mermaid OR a pixie, but you should know that we're quite pleased with the form you've taken in this life's incarnation -- magical little girl -- and hope you stay this way for a good while longer.<br /><br />Love,<br />Your Mommy<br /><br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-1173335265768512242007-03-07T21:56:00.000-08:002007-06-11T16:04:09.644-07:00...Followed by a Weird, Long Week<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/1600/282521/Half%20Dome%20from%20Meadow%20in%20morning.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/400/296011/Half%20Dome%20from%20Meadow%20in%20morning.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Funny now to think about my last post and the good, long day I had with the kids. That day will be 2 weeks ago tomorrow, and what an eon ago it feels like, now. The day after, I got one of those calls we all dread. When your mother calls before 7am in tears, you know to brace yourself, even in that half-second before she begins to speak. And so that's how I came to find out that my dear grandpa had passed away earlier that Friday morning. He was 88 and died at home, after a bad week, which was really more like another episode in a long, bad year of slow decline and increasing frailty and complications. "He was so tired," we all said, which was true, but that still stopped short of offering much in the way of comfort.<br /><br />And so my good, long day was followed by a weird, long week that involved a few drives out to L.A. county and the home my grandparents shared for over forty years, for the better part of their nearly seventy years of married life. It also involved having to have the "death" conversation with Lily, who has never had to deal with anything like that before -- not even with a more simple lifeform, like a goldfish or hamster. (She had far fewer questions than I anticipated, even after the open-casket funeral.) It also involved me, getting up in front of all those I hold my dear, every single member of my immediate and not-so immediate family, and giving my grandfather's eulogy last Thursday morning at the memorial chapel in <a href="http://www.rosehills.com/">Rose Hills</a>. My family kept calling it a "family memory" to make me feel a little less stressed about the duty I'd been charged with, but whatever you want to call it -- it was stressful. I was convinced I'd either have a panic attack or faint clear away, but I did neither . People said they liked it, that it was good. I hope so. All I know is that it was immensely draining and took a lot more brain power than I typically use these days to write. At least I've got this blog, so the writing gears up in my noggin hadn't completely rusted over from disuse.<br /><br />In my eulogy/family tribute, I used Yosemite as something of a metaphor for what my grandfather was to me, and to my family -- an ever-present, seemingly permanent feature on the landscape of our lives. I said it better then, and I don't want to rehash it here, but you get the gist.<br /><br />I'm glad my children got to know him, and even more glad that he got to know my children, whom he adored. I could say that life has returned to normal around here, but that's not entirely true, either. Perhaps for Myk and the children, but for me, there is still that loss. It surprises me daily, a missing tooth that stuns my tongue and jolts my routine, even for that second. Outwardly, life keeps trucking on, as it always does, and especially with two small children in the house. No time to reflect, no time to even mourn, somehow, it feels. Miss Thing is turning 5 on Saturday, so there's a party to plan and gifts and cake to buy, for a different and better kind of celebration of a life this coming weekend.<br /><br />The picture above is of Yosemite's famous Half Dome, covered in April snow. It was taken the last time I visited Yosemite, during spring break from grad school, in 2001. What a long time ago that feels, yet it's barely a half a blink in the long, enduring lifespan of Yosemite valley. I can't wait to go back and introduce my children to this beautiful place, someday.<br /><br /><br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-1172212641982810512007-02-22T22:03:00.000-08:002007-06-11T16:03:51.438-07:00A Good, Long Day<span style="font-family:times new roman;">Today was a good day, for some odd reason. Even though, or perhaps, it was dark and gloomy outside, and I had errands to run and Lily was home, too. She only goes to preschool three days a week and I am sometimes made to feel -- albeit very subtly -- from mom acquaintances that I'm not quite fulfilling the terms of the stay-at-home mom agreement because I've put my child in school for 3 full days out of the work week. I have gotten looks. And comments. And it isn't cheap either, 3 full preschool days on a one-worker income. But, what price sanity, eh? Having Lily at home is not a bad thing in itself, but it does make it harder to get dressed and out of the house before noon.<br /><br />But it was a good day. We hit Starbucks for a gift card errand, but also sat and shared some chocolate milk and watched the big trucks go by in the rain. And then we hit the new, pretty <a href="http://www.cityoftemecula.org/Temecula/Residents/Libraries/TemeculaPublicLibrary/">library</a>, with it's still nearly-empty shelves in the children's section (and probably in all the adult aisles too, although I couldn't tell you). What books they do have are all so new and crisp and the jackets are so shiny, though, which is nice. And then we came home for lunch and I made canned chicken soup with leftover breadsticks and the kids were literally rubbing their tummies and declaring, "<span style="font-style: italic;">this is soooo good, mommy!</span>"<br /><br />While Tucker napped with his stuffed kitty beside him, Lily perused her new books and let me get almost fifteen minutes of alone time on the bed with my new issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Domino</span>. Then we went downstairs and made white chocolate & oatmeal cookies together, which is always a patience-trying endeavor, and this session too was not without tears, and yet I didn't actually lose my temper in a bad way, and Lily was being legitimately naughty and stubborn and deserved the scolding she got. (Read: no bad-mommy guilt on my end.)<br /><br />Part of the reason I made cookies was because I wanted to test out my newfound information on how to avoid flat cookies. I won't bore you with the details, but for years I baked cookies just fine, without too much thought. Yet recently, all my cookies are coming out much too flat and crisp, with the bottoms sort of concave and full of airholes. I may blog further about it tomorrow, if I take some pictures, and share the results. Basically, the first batch was just as bad as ever, the second was much improved but a little overdone, and the third came pretty close, but not quite. (They all taste pretty good, though.)<br /><br />So it was a good day, but a little long. A fourteen hour day, beginning at 7am with the sound of my personal, shouting alarm clock down the hall, and ending at nearly nine -- the children were in bed, yet both were still yelling out their final comments and demands of the day, making sure they used up those last few drops of patience going to waste in mom's reserve tank. <br /><br />The other reason I made cookies is because I have a friend coming over tomorrow, just for coffee and talk. She is a mom and will bring her little guy along with her, but thank goodness, she is a real friend, and not one of the moms who would ever make innocent-yet-snide comments about the fact that my daughter has gone to preschool for the last two years, and so I'm busting out my favorite pretty cups, with the best batch of cookies, and hopefully, it'll be another good day. Only maybe just not quite as long.<br /><br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-1172042005277914852007-02-20T22:37:00.000-08:002007-02-21T01:11:14.206-08:00And now a word about Neko Case.....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/1600/956370/NekoCase_VictoriaRenard_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/400/394832/NekoCase_VictoriaRenard_2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">It's shocking now to think that just a couple of months ago, I had no real idea of who <a href="http://www.nekocase.com/">Neko Case</a> was. Because I like alt-country and indie rock, I'd heard her name in the background for quite a while, but never connected it to anything. What's even more surprising is that my husband was the one who turned me on to her. I sometimes tease Myk that he has the musical taste of a 14-year-old boy. That's not really true -- he likes a broad range of stuff -- but he does seem to be a sucker for bands who make videos of themselves running through the woods wearing scary masks. Bands like Mushroomhead and SlipKnot, those love children of Marilyn Manson.<br /><br />But</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> Myk would play her CD for me in the car, and at night, on those long drives home from L.A. or Orange County, I found myself wide awake and listening hard to each song, and then wanting to hear it again. And again.</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> My first introduction was with her latest album, F<span style="font-style: italic;">ox Confessor Brings the Flood</span>, which was released in 2006, and made many critics lists as one of the best albums of the year. Even <span style="font-style: italic;">Rolling Stone</span> had it listed among its Top 50. </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Now I wonder, how did I ever live without her?</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /><br />At the beginning of this year, I made a resolution to see her perform live, so you bet we were thrilled to get tickets for her February 17 show at the Henry Fonda theater in Hollywood. And I was thrilled when, before her set began, Neko came out and introduced a Very Special Guest, who turned out to be country legend Porter Wagoner. Now, I admit that I couldn't name you one of his songs off the top of my head, but still I knew all about his TV show and how he helped make Dolly Parton a star, and of course those swanky, glittery Nudie suits. He was there with Marty Stewart, who produced his latest album (on the same small label that Neko records for), and then Dwight Yoakum and Billy Bob Thornton came onstage, too, and I nearly froze to death from the freakin' coolness in the room. And then they were done and we had to wait some more and it was almost 10:30 and my feet in their narrow black flats were killing me, standing there on the hard concrete for two hours. But then Neko came out with her band and opened her mouth and sang, "Oh, lie, I thought you were golden/I thought you were wild...." and our hair blew back from the force of her voice and the walls seemed to tremble when she hit the highest notes and I think I heard something about how the back wall of the place was blown out, too. And it occured to me halfway through the show that I'd never been at a concert before where I'd heard my favorite kind of music played so loud and so well....all that sweet ache of the slide guitar and power of the guitars right there in my chest, finally, after thirty-eight years on the planet.<br /><br />It was a good show.<br /><br />I don't know what to say about Neko's voice that hasn't already been said better and more eloquently elsewhere, but I'll try. She has a huge, huge voice, a physical force of a voice. It's been compared to Patsy Cline's voice many times, and I agree -- Patsy at her most hurt or fiesty, like in "She's Got You," or "Seven Lonely Days." She's not a singer, so much as a <span style="font-style: italic;">belter</span>. Neko is often put into the alt-country or "noir-country" (whatever that means) genre, but really, she doesn't quite fit there, even though her music is full of banjos and slide guitar and deep, plucky bass notes. Highbrow honky-tonk, maybe.<br /><br />Here's a comparison that I haven't read elsewhere: not so much in the earlier, twangier CDs, but in her last few albums like <span style="font-style: italic;">Fox Confessor</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Blacklisted</span>, the evocative mood and sound of her music reminds me very much of the intrumental tracks by Angelo Badalamenti on David Lynch's <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wild-At-Heart-Original-Soundtrack/dp/B000001FXD">Wild At Heart</a> </span>soundtrack. Retro-edged, dark, spooky sounds to play on your car radio while driving very late at night. Also, a more literary comparison: the feel of <span style="font-style: italic;">Fox Confessor</span> makes me think of Richard Ford's story collection <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rock-Springs-Richard-Ford/dp/0394757009/sr=8-2/qid=1172042985/ref=pd_bbs_2/102-4256520-9821754?ie=UTF8&s=books"><span style="font-style: italic;">Rock Springs</span></a>, the cold, windswept, near-empty streets of his rural Montana in the 50s, and the ever-present dive bars that his characters (even the children) always seem to end up in at some point. And speaking of cold and windswept: I'm not the only one who finds <span style="font-style: italic;">Fox Confessor</span> to be very much a winter album. The tone and texture of the songs remind me of bare trees, empty, steel-gray skies and a stripped-down landscape.<br /><br />(Sigh. This is why I never became a music writer -- it's all comparison and similes, and nothing you can write can really evoke or come close to touching the work -- unless maybe you're Lester Bangs. And even then...).<br /><br />But before I sign off on this love letter, I need to touch on the other element that makes Neko so amazing, which is her songwriting. Even if you ignored that voice, much of what keeps me coming back over & over to the songs is the power of her writing. I've already used the words evocative and moody and haunting way too many times in the post, and I'm really, really hesitant to use the word poetry unless we're talking about Bob Dylan, but....man. The best songs on <span style="font-style: italic;">Fox Confessor</span> are no simple, catchy love jingles, but tricky and complicated narratives that tell stories, yet leave a lot of wide open spaces between the lines to fill in on your own. At first, I thought my favorite song on the album was "Hold On, Hold On," if only for this line:<br /><br />"The most tender place in my heart is for strangers/<br />I know its unkind but my own blood's much too dangerous."<br /><br />And then there's the pure storytelling in "Margaret vs. Pauline," about two girls from opposite sides of the tracks:<br /><br />"Two girls ride the blue line/Two girls walk down the same street/<br />One left a sweater sittin' on the train and the other lost three fingers at the cannery...."<br /><br />But in the end I think my favorite song on the album is "Star Witness," and it's dark tale of life and death among the lower-class. The sheer imagery in the song takes my breath away and reminds me, more than any book I've read lately, of the power words have to create whole worlds in just a few precise, brushstroking lines:<br /><br />"Trees break the sidewalk/And the sidewalk skins my knees<br />There's glass in the thermos and blood on my jeans/<br />Nickels and dimes of the Fourth of July roll off in a crooked line/<br />To the chain-link lots where the red-tails dive/<br />Oh, how I forgot what it's like...."<br /><br />My. Goodness.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Lately when I go out at night by myself, finally away from the demands of the children and the care and keeping of this house, I find myself driving effortlessly down the long streets of town, listening hard to Neko, and alone, alone, in the most perfect and empty way. I feel like I could keep on driving all night, across the freeway and hundreds of miles of open road, and not get tired with that voice in the car with me. Since Myk recently made me a big mix CD with four of her albums on it, all I can say is -- honey, consider yourself warned. Next time it's a really bad day, I might just get in the car, fill up the tank and keep on going until I'm at that surfboard shop in Mexico.<br /><br />And finally -- finally! Let me just say this, which is true for all of my favorite writers and artists, the ultimate compliment, because it means I'm so deeply inspired:<br /><br />She makes me want to write, to get it all out, and not stop until the story is told.<br /><br />"And I said, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Amen</span>..."<br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34491286.post-1171669463228546792007-02-16T15:23:00.000-08:002007-02-16T15:51:53.786-08:00A Very Vintage Valentine...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/1600/645005/IMG_4023.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/400/817060/IMG_4023.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">...to you. <span style="font-family:times new roman;">Yes, I know it's belated. That's just how things go around here these days. But I loved these Vintage Valentines a whole lot, so I had to share. Lily (okay, I) punched them out and we gave them to her playgroup friends earlier this week. (Although now that I look at this cover a little more, it seems a bit creepy to me, with Howdy Doody boy coming after Miss Apple Cheeks with those extra-long shears.)<br /><br />Some parents force their tastes and attitudes on their kids by making them wear "Punk Rocker" baby onesies or Sex Pistols t-shirts. Me, I just make Lily give out retro Valentines. Cute, cute. As in, I wish I could tape one to my forehead-cute, if I could only pick which one.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/1600/184476/IMG_4024.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/400/214666/IMG_4024.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/1600/476383/IMG_4025.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/400/763248/IMG_4025.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/1600/127285/IMG_4027.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6516/3801/400/499102/IMG_4027.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>We have quite a few left over. Maybe I'll save them and be on the ball enough to send them out next year. Ha! Good one. So instead, here are my Valentines to you out there in blogger-land. Along with my sincere wishes for love and sweet dreams and cherry-filled chocolates.<br /><br />My own real Valentine's date was deferred until tomorrow night -- grandma is watching the kids while we go out to dinner and then <a href="http://www.henryfondatheater.com/2007/index.html">here</a>, to see <a href="http://www.nekocase.com/">her</a>, my new musical love & obsession. Nearly every morning lately, I wake with one of her songs playing in my head, which is not a bad way at all to greet the day. With any luck I'll write a longer post on the subject very, very soon. Like in a few hours. But if not, you can at least bet that I'll be back with a post-show review.<br /></span></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14000400260579054708noreply@blogger.com0