The Painted Man

The Black Apple

I'm newly obsessed with this Portland artist and especially her "Lost on the Midway" series. It reminds me of one of my favorite books, Geek Love, and it fills me with the warm fuzzies. I'm not sure how many unframed prints one infant girl needs for her nursery, but one more can't hurt, right?

In other news, Ceci had an epic meltdown tonight. The girl was very tired after a long day with no nap. I continue to be baffled by this child that fights tooth and nail against napping during the day. If someone was cooing to me, reading to me, and cuddling me all day I would sure as shit be happily sleeping all the livelong day. I love sleeping. I love sleeping so much that I believe the sleep deprivation is the hardest part of parenting. Even when Ceci is a hormonal teenage girl attempting to stab me with a shiv, I will be thinking -
"This teenage homicidal angst IS challenging, but really, that sleepless screaming baby was INSANE"*.

I'll have a triple espresso, please.

Inspiration

Well, there's no theme behind this post except that I am deeply moved by this guy's panache. I saw this gentleman in Venice Beach a few years ago while I was vacationing in LA with friends. Really, who could be more beautiful and inspiring than this man? He's obviously highly committed to physical fitness, and he's not afraid to show off his chiseled bod. He is patriotic, and doesn't let his limited clothing prevent him from toting the essentials around. Please note the mysterious tube of pepper spray or possibly sunscreen wedged between the fanny packs. I'm going to go ahead and assume it's sunscreen, because although he is gifted with ample melanin I can tell he is sun-savvy. 

I admire self confidence, and he has it in spades. Cheers my man! Next time we cross paths I will buy you a protein shake. Until then stay awesome.

Weekend Bling

Rachel Pfeffer Design

A great big thanks to Studio 30+ for adding my blog to today's Saturday Spotlight! I think they included everyone who emailed them, but I'm just going to go ahead and pretend I've just won a really prestigious award. It's good for my self-esteem, ok?

Martha, You Sassy Wench

If you told me ten years ago I would be reading Martha Stewart's website and cooking her recipes, I would have laughed hard enough to choke on my bong. But here I am, thirty-four years old, happily cooking Martha's food while my husband tickles the baby in the next room. And this sausage tomato risotto is good. Like, really really good. It's good enough that Matthew reluctantly admitted that Martha has some tricks up her sleeve.

Frankly, I'm not sure why he has a grudge against Martha, because I cooked Martha- inspired fish tacos for him on our second date, and he loved that shit. I just tried to find that recipe on her site, but it wasn't there so here's my copy-

And yes, it is written on a beer-stained bar coaster. So what.
I like Martha, she inspires people who don't craft or cook to craft and cook, and that is cool. Maybe someday there will be a "Julie and Julia" type movie about her. Except it would have to be a bit freaky just like Martha. And I'm not talking about tax evasion or whatever. I read an article about her after she was released from prison, and she told the reporter that everything in her country house is black and white, including her animals. She admitted that she never let her black horses out in the light of day, because the sun might bleach their coats to red, and then THEY WOULD NOT MATCH HER HOUSE. Holy Moses. It's hard not to picture wine-drunk Martha, riding her horse through the dark Connecticut night, laughing as her mom hair blows in the wind.

Nervous Anticipation

Sometimes I look at my daughter's face and I catch myself in a terrible thought- 

"No one has hurt her yet".

No one has ever hurt this girl with their words, hands, actions, or even indifference. It's funny but sometimes indifference hurts the worst of all. 

She lives in a world made entirely of love and security. This moment, it feels so fleeting and fragile that it scares me to death. When I look at her I feel a great nervous heartbeat in my stomach. It's like a bird's frantic wings are beating in there. 

I don't want these great, heaving bouts of anticipation to floor me. But they do almost every day. It has everything to do with me and who I am. I want to trust the world to treat her gently, but I know it won't. It upsets me, and I'm not sure what to do about it, because I want her to love the world, in all it's painful glory. I want her to love it all.