"Like most guard dogs, komondors* are very lethargic and seem docile -- until they're not. You would be wise not to fuck with a dog that is bred to protect sheep from bears.
* The fancy Hungarian plural is 'komondorok.' Dog people prefer this, while Webster's Dictionary opts for 'komondors.'"
-- Josh Dean, Show Dog: the Charmed Life and Trying Times of a Near-Perfect Purebred.
I spent most of yesterday waiting for various people to get back to me* with information I needed before I could move forward on about six different projects, which meant that I couldn't really leave my desk, just in case. And, so, pictures of various things snapped while at my desk.
The other night, the Boy came down after bedtime and handed us a picture he'd drawn. "What's this?" I asked. "It's me in the style of Pablo Picasso."
Indeed it is, my son. Indeed.
While we were away over the weekend, I was handed a pair of mittens by one-half of the couple we were staying with. More, she says, are coming. To which I say, Woot!**
Finally, this is what I decided to do while waiting:
I picked up stitches for my Blumchen*** while watching Supersizers. As one does.
* None of them did. That's just how this week is going to go. *lesigh*
** (If you want to know why mittens, click here.)
*** That extra bright light in the upper left is almost enough for me to see all of the stitches with. Almost.
Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective days mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch - either in illustration or word form - and the other would make a companion sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise might make both minds more nimble. Hopefully.
It ought not work. Sticking needles in your body ought to have a negative effect. Skin punctures are bad. And yet.
Yes, granted, I smell like exotic and potentially illegal herbs of various sorts. I’ve been told about damp spleens and dry tongues and wind. I’ve been rubbed with unguents and oils like a prime cut of beef bound for a hot grill. Any yet.
I can turn my head to the left again. And to the right, which is a nice change. My shoulders don’t feel like cement blocks. My brain refuses to race or even, in fact, move to the starting line. All good things.
But I still resist the idea that it works, despite all of the evidence to the contrary.
Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.
We're back from a long weekend away and I'm in my "cleaning the Augean stables" mode. Here - have some links while I shovel:
* I might resemble this remark.
* I know -- let's eat them.
* The Harry Potter pilgrimmage.
* The History of Cheap Fashion.
* It's like he lives in my house. (Especially with the first two.)
* If you need a new umbrella....
But the most valuable lesson I’ve learned in the past couple of years is that all opinions are not created equal. Not everyone’s opinion matters. We’ve all got different voices yelling at us—real ones, and ones inside our head—and we get to choose whose voices get through. Choose wisely. Ignore the voices that don’t matter. You know whose they are."
-- From Another Mother Runner's interview with Jennifer Graham, whose book I'm going to have to buy.
Those of you who've read Hillbilly Gothic know that I am a fan/friend of musician Scott Miller.* Miller's been working on a new album and needs your help. Throw him a couple of bucks if you can. Not only will you get some great music, you could also get a cow ear tag or a river rock.
In other news, on a whim last fall I bought a Paper Source calendar,*** one that has projects printed on the back of each sheet so that you can make something out of each month when it's done. I thought it was pretty and had only the smallest desire to do the project part. As it turns out...
... folding paper is fun. And if I have any smallish gifts to give, I now have plenty of boxes to choose from.
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* Someone once asked if Scott Miller was the Scott I am married to. I just laughed and laughed because the only way that relationship could possibly end is with one of us throwing empty** Jack Daniels bottles at the other with a side helping of stabbing and rue. Or so I'd imagine.
** (while the full ones would hurt more, it would be a shame to waste the liquor.)
*** It's not on their site anymore. Sorry.
Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective days mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch - either in illustration or word form - and the other would make a companion sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise might make both minds more nimble. Hopefully.
Even on the rainiest days, Gilbert works on his head-balancing skills. Champions never rest.
The haystack is the hardest; no matter how tightly he gathers the pile, bits of it poke him in the ears and prickle down his shirt. His mom complained about the bits of hay left in the shag, which is why he’d been banished outside. In the rain.
Once the hay is in place, though, the bird and the bunny are easy, even if this particular bunny -- the only one the feed store had left -- is a bit of a butthead. The umbrella was all his idea and he kept wiggling it around to get Gilbert to drop his stack.
But the boy has drive. He has focus. Now he just needs to find the competition.
Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.
* Failures fill out The Forms.
* I want to go there.
* In case you've wondered about the term "Pittsburgh Rare."
* Doula K sent some info about the Prague marathon, including this picture from the paper. I'm told the caption is "Not all competitors possessed an athletic figure." Ouch, Prague newspaper. But you have a point.
* I have been to two of these.
* Dear American Consumer.
* Two local girls doing good.
* Turns out that Harry S Truman and I had the exact same question while traveling through Pittsburgh.
We spent this past weekend in my hometown celebrating my father's birthday, which was actually in March but we couldn't all get together then. Before we went to the festivities, the Husband and I took the kids to the Zoo, where I snapped plenty of pictures of the children posing awkwardly in front of stuff.
(Before anyone becomes alarmed, the turtle wasn't hot.)
After the Zoo, we went to the party at the Hofbrauhaus, which turned into an hours-long feast with an ever rotating cast of characters, all of whom were full of cheer.* We had to leave in the early evening because the kids were getting antsy, despite the number of times we walked them along the river.**
We were able, however, to hook up with some of the assembled for brunch on our way out of town. On the way, I took the kids on a driving tour of the old neighborhood. It looks about the same, really, but it's good to go back every now and again to remind yourself where you came from.
I forced them to listen to stories like "this is where I almost totalled my mom's car" and "five laps around this parking lot is a mile." Good times.
After brunch, we took the long way back home *** and stopped at our Alma Mater for an al fresco snack and to force the kids to get some sunshine. And to pose awkwardly in front of things.
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* and beer. But that was expected.
** Tip of the hat to my hometown: you are doing an awesome job with all of the cool new things. Now if you could do something about the traffic... but I understand that that is your way to keep out the riff-raff who do really, really want to love you. It's like self-sabotage, yes?
*** After years of careful study, I've determined that there is no good way to get to Pittsburgh from Oneonta. Every route is indirect. And the round trip times only vary by 15 minutes or so.
"Being middle-aged is no great accomplishment in itself; you just have to make it through your 20s without getting hit by a bus then wait a bit from there. There it is: Your forties."
-- John Scalzi.
And I heartily agree with all he says re: Your forties. Although I did find that whole not getting hit by a bus in your 20s thing harder than one might think.