Making Sock Puppets With Cute Kids

"I like the things puppets allow you to do."

-- Julie Taymor

Sophia and her sock puppets Larry and Sally 3-31-14

"Children are more willing to learn when they are having fun,

and puppets are a gateway to opening up the mind and

inviting knowledge in."

--Christie Belfiore, 

"Puppets Talk, Children Listen: 

How Puppets are Effective Teaching Aids for Kids," 

TEACH Magazine

Guido, my sock puppet 3-31-14

I'm bending the rules a teensy bit and borrowing a good thing from my weekend for today. But it was a thing too good to pass up.

I brought sock-puppet supplies to a family gathering in my childhood home over the weekend. I have a cute little niece, Sophia, and two cute nephews, Marco and Matteo, and I thought it might be fun. And it was. We all spent part of the afternoon gluing eyes and ears and everything else onto fabric socks.  My super-big-kid Leo even joined his younger cousins and built a puppet of his own.

It was interesting how each puppet had a distinct personality that reflected the essence of the imagination of its maker. We all had a blast building our puppets. Sophia, however, was the only one who got to have fun playing with her puppets. It turns out that the littlest kid was the smartest puppet maker of us all.

While the rest of us tried to outdo and out-clever one another with how elaborate or outlandish we could make our puppets, while the rest of us glued on more and more accessories and discussed the hilarious puppet show we were going to stage later on, while my nephews competed for who-go-which hat, or lips, or mustache or who had the glue last, Sophia kept things simple and quiet.

As a result, Sophia's puppets were the only ones that dried fast enough to be played with. By the end of the day, while the rest of us were still waiting for the glue to dry, Sophia was having a ball with her imagination and her adorable new sock puppets "Larry" and "Sally." With just eyes and teeth and a single foam flower, Larry and Sally were loaded with personality. Sophia proved that elaborate does not equal artistic, that less is often more.

The puppet show never happened. Sad face.

My puppet wasn't fully dry until the next day (I had to re-glue some parts that fell off.) I made a little purse-snatching, wrench-wielding thug puppet named "Guido." 

I like my puppet, but what I'd have really liked was the chance to play with it, with Sophia.

But hey, I learned an important lesson from this wise, quiet little artist. 

Everyone talks about how much kids can learn from puppets. Maybe we should discuss how much we can learn from the kids who make the puppets. That'd be a good thing.

A Change In Scenery

"The really happy person is the one who can enjoy the scenery,

even when they have to take a detour."

-- James Jeans

Red truck 3-30-14

"My mother said I should have a 'change of scenery.'

The word scenery made me think of a play.

And as we were driving around, it made sense that way.

Because no matter how much the scenery changed,

we were still on the same stage."

-- David Levithan, Every You, Every Me

White barn 3-30-14

"Sometimes a change in scenery is good,

sometimes time runs out in a certain spot.

It did for me here."

-- Phil Nevin

Tanker under red sky 3-30-14

We had to take a car trip to my hometown yesterday for a family thing.

It's a drive we've made hundreds of times. We take the Ohio Turnpike and interstate highways, and the view out the car window at this time of year is drab and gray and dismal and grim, with a guardrail slicing through everything. It is, as my 10-year-old nephew Marco would say, "Bo-ring!"

When we go anyplace with Leo in the car, I get relegated to the back seat because he needs the room up front for his giraffe legs. Plus, he wanted to drive.

I didn't feel like reading. I didn't feel like napping. I couldn't get into the music Leo was listening to.

So I started fiddling with some of the unused settings on my camera.

I had the most fun with the color swap feature. With a couple of clicks I could change the flat grays and boring beiges into vibrant reds, vivid golds and deep blues. The ho-hum view out my window became a kind of neutral canvas that I could color in however I wanted, turning the monochromatic unimaginative winter landscape into something far more ethereal and interesting.

Much better.

Sometimes you need a change of scenery.

But when the scenery is stubborn and won't change for you, go ahead and take matters into your own hands and change it yourself. It's a good way to pass the time -- at least until you get carsick from riding in the backseat and looking through a viewfinder with a teen boy at the wheel who is changing lanes, and radio stations, abruptly and often.

Then it's time to take a nap before you puke.

Being In A Really Weird Mood

"I'm in a weird-ass mood today, Doc. 

Wired up, mind all over the place, looking for answers, 

reasons, something solid to cling to, something real, 

but just when I think I've got it figured out and neatly filed under fixed instead of fucked, 

turns out I'm still shattered, scattered and battered."

-- Chevy Stevens, Still Missing

Self portrait 3-29-14

"I may be weird, but creative-wise I have the knowledge to know and believe in my heart 

that my weirdness makes me unique. 

It is also in my so-called  weird that I am also able to know the difference 

and then stop my complaining and go out and make something somebody has never seen before."

-- Henri Matisse

"When you're strange

Faces come out of the rain

When you're strange

No one remembers your name

When you're strange ..."

-- The Doors, "People Are Strange"

Yesterday I felt unfocused, unbalanced, jumpy, unpredictable, impulsive and volatile.

Nothing was wrong, necessarily. I was just in a really weird mood.

Being in a weird mood isn't necessarily a good thing in and of itself. But it can be if you tap into the weird and create something artistically strange out of it.

In my weird little world, strange art is better than no art.

So that's what I did.

In the morning I was exercising and saw a mental image of me with my hands over my face and my eyes peering right through my hands. Not, like, peeking between my fingers, but looking right through my hands. Hmmm, I thought, that's strange. But I went with it anyway and translated my weird mental image photographically into a strange little self portrait.

I can't say for sure if I think it's a good thing. But I am fairly certain it's a little bit strange.

Weird, huh?

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Which brings us to the One Good Thing "Get Your Weird On" creative challenge. Here's how it works:

Next time you're having one of those weird days like I just did, don't let the strangeness pass unnoticed into the rear view of your life.

Document that shit. Take its picture. Write it down.

Whatever your chosen craft, use it to make yourself a weird souvenir, a memento, a post-card of sorts to remember it by. Nobody else has to see it, unless you want them to. It's meant for you and you alone, so tap into your weird-ass dreamscape and let it flow. My only rule is that there are no rules -- the weirder the better.

If you're a writer, write a strange little poem or story, without the annoying, discouraging voices of critics and editors or your mother telling you "You can't do that, it's too weird." You know what? Fuck 'em.

If you're a painter -- well, you're probably already a frequent traveler to the island of weird, so you can really push the envelope of strangeness here. Paint on the kitchen floor with the expensive unused condiments crowded into your fridge door. Call it "Tapenade on Tile with Sriracha."

If your medium is cakes and pastries, experiment with some strange new ingredients and whip up some kind of savory Geoduck and Daikon tartlets. (If you aren't familiar with these ingredients, it's probably because they're pretty weird. They also both look strangely like gigantic penises, which is a fun bonus.)

Anyway, you get the picture. Just make it weird.

You can go back to "normal" later on. For now, enjoy playing with some of the other less-used  settings on your dial.

Just remember --

Weird is good.

A Day At The Museum

"... that's how I felt at the art museum,

both safe and elevated."

-- Janet Fitch, White Oleander

Solidarity, Georges Minne (marble) 1898

"I believe in walking out of a museum

before the paintings you've seen begin to run together.

How else can you carry anything away with you in your mind's eye?"

-- Elizabeth Kostova, The Swan Thieves

Leo is on Spring break this week. Spring, sadly, seems not to have heard about this arrangement and is vacationing elsewhere in some far-flung, idyllic locale.

Hey Spring, could you at least send us a postcard? Tweet us a picture? Do something to let us know you're OK and weren't eaten by sharks?

No? Nothing? (sigh of despair)

So while Spring is busy coming in like a lion and going out like a goddamned sonofabitch, we decided to head to the Cleveland Museum of Art.

Before going any further, I want to apologize for the quality of today's photo. I had to shoot it with a cell phone because I was a big stupid head and forgot to put the memory card in my damn camera, which dangled, useless, around my neck all afternoon. This shot was the best I could do under the circumstances. The circumstances being that I am a fucking idiot.

Of course, it being a museum and all, we looked at a lot of art that cut across genres and eras and styles and time. There was a special exhibition of Van Gogh's "repetitions," which I didn't love, but didn't hate. It was interesting, but wasn't necessarily my cup of decaf.

There was also a traveling exhibition of Japanese art from the Tokyo National Museum which was also not my favorite.

I was bummed that the contemporary gallery was temporary closed, and the photography exhibit was still being installed. Grr.

In the permanent galleries I stopped in to visit a couple of my favorite pieces -- Picasso's La Vie, Degas' Frieze of Dancers, Modigliani's Portrait of a Woman, Church's Twilight in the Wilderness. (A few years ago I drove all the way to Cleveland just to see Twilight in the Wilderness when it was first installed. I couldn't find it, so I asked three different helpful museum guides "Where is Twilight in the Wilderness?" They all directed me to the bottom of the basement stairs, where the restrooms are. I finally figured it out. They thought I was asking for toilet in the wilderness. Some of their English is a little shaky.)

I found it interesting how certain pieces always grab my attention -- after multiple viewings they still pull me across a gallery for a closer look -- while others don't speak to me at all. And some, well some just stop me in my tracks and leave me speechless.

That's how I felt when I saw this marble sculpture of two nude boys standing in a little boat, holding onto one another for balance. It's called Solidarity and is the work of Belgian sculptor George Minne. Before reading more about the piece hours later, I allowed my imagination free rein to ask questions and fill in the blanks. (I like to form my own ideas and first impressions before letting the art historians and experts tell me what to think. Call me a rebel.) 

These two skinny boys -- all sharp knees and elbows, ribs, hip bones and scapulas,  holding on tight to one another while their little boat bobs and rocks on the waves --  made me feel something deep inside. Simultaneously they look delicate yet strong, their hold on each other certain, yet tentative. Who is steadying who? Are they lovers? Friends? Brothers? Are they afraid? They seem anxious, yet unusually calm and secure -- protected -- in each other's grasp aboard their storm-tossed boat.

I lingered a long time on this one before reluctantly leaving it behind until my next visit.

At dinner afterwards, I asked Leo if there was anything he'd seen in particular that stuck with him, that he was still thinking about. His phone was full of pictures -- paintings, helmets from the armor room, a bronze eagle from the Japanese exhibit. He said his favorite, though, was Self Portrait With Hat by Karl Schmidt-Rotluff. For my husband, it was a vase with peonies and butterflies.

But for me, it was those two skinny naked boys, who, it turns out, are brothers.

Art for me is like wine. Either I like it or I don't. 

And I liked this one. I hope to visit it again and again. That's the good thing about museums. The art stays there and waits for you to come back, hopefully next time with the memory card in your camera.

Fresh New Art Supplies

"Life is about using the whole box of crayons."

-- RuPaul

A well-used lemon yellow crayon 3-27-14

"A box of new crayons! 

Now they're all pointy, lined up in order, bright and perfect.

Soon they'll be a bunch of ground down, rounded, indistinguishable stumps,

missing their wrappers and smudged with other colors.

Sometimes life seems unbearably tragic."

-- Bill Watterson

What is it about fresh, virgin art supplies that makes me so giddy?

I think it is the vastness of the untapped potential and possibility that lies within them -- in each box of new crayons and pencils, in each tube of paint, in each pristine tablet of paper, in every straight edged brick of fresh, untouched clay.

New art supplies still hold the unsullied hope and promise of perfection, of wild and ambitious visions that haven't been dashed by mistakes or blunders or disappointment. They could still become anything I can dream of.

Leo and I went to the art supply store yesterday to re-stock. He needed a couple of tubes of oil paint, and I needed some acrylics. We also bought brushes and I picked up a fresh linoleum block and some Super Sculpey. I got a huge roll of black paper to use as a photo backdrop, and I also grabbed a box of little markers with points like brushes. I always try to find something new to experiment with and they looked interesting.

I don't have any particular plans for my new stuff. But they'll get their chance. Inspiration will strike. It usually does.

My love affair with new art supplies goes way, way back.

My dad was a high school guidance counselor, and when I was little he was also the Santa Claus at the annual high school employees Christmas party. (I was clueless. The suit and beard totally fooled me.)  The teachers and office staff all filled his bag with pre-wrapped gifts for their own kids, and then my dad distributed them as if he'd brought the stuff all the way from the North Pole.

Every year I got a box of new crayons. Not just a regular box, but this HUGE flat of 124 (and not the fat, little kid ones, but the slim, pointy big kid kind) all laid out in a single layer, each crayon resting snugly in it's own little space in the specially-molded plastic tray. 

I have three sisters, and the rest of the year we had to share our crayons, which were all dumped into a jumbled grubby mess in common ratty shoe box. As far as I was concerned, having my very own pristine box of 124 crayons was the true Christmas miracle. 

I was always just a little afraid to start using my new crayons. I didn't want to break the spell. There were colors in there I'd never even seen.

I distinctly remember finding the silver crayon for the first time, with its sparkly metallic flecks embedded right into the wax. I took it to the kitchen to show my mother, cradling it gently in my cupped palms like an injured baby bird.

Me: (breathless) "What is this?"  (I still too young to read the words on the wrapper).

Her: (bored) Silver. (Her unspoken "duh!" rang loudly in the subtext.)

I carried Silver back to the family room floor where I was coloring, and began.

The only word I knew how to spell at the time, besides my own name, was "love," which I wrote in sky blue on a piece of blank paper. Then I colored all around the letters with my new silver crayon. I soon discovered that the harder I pressed, the more metallic glitter it released. So I colored feverishly until "love" was surrounded by a solid sea of silver shimmer -- until my beautiful crayon was a ground down stump in my hot, sweaty little hand.

Resting back in the tray, Silver looked oddly shortened and rounded next to her slim and pointy friends. 

I loved her all the more for that.

Which ... Ding! Ding! Ding!

Brings us to the first ever "One Good Thing Coloring Page!"

I made this special picture of fresh new crayons just for you, so you can print it out and color it in however you like. You can use crayons, paint, lipstick -- whatever. You can even color it digitally on your computer if you want. You can make them any color you want to.

There are no rules, because rules suck. 

Have fun!

New crayons 3-27-14

Playing With Matches

"There's no such thing as a perfect relationship.

It's about finding someone who matches you 

and will go through everything without giving up."

-- Ziad K. Abdelnour

"She's Met Her Match"

(a tale of burning love, and loss)

by Erin Bunting

Matches in love 3-26-14

"... each of us is born with a box of matches inside us

but we can't strike them all by ourselves."

-- Laura Esquivel, Like Water for Chocolate

It never ceases to fascinate me the way inanimate objects can be arranged and photographed to communicate feelings and emotion and words.

I spent an entire afternoon striking matches, letting them burn down to my fingers, then forging little relationships between them.

It was a good thing to do while a March blizzard blustered outside.

Some might just see burnt matches in these photographs.

But I saw a tender, lovely, sad  little tale of love and heartbreak. I hope you can see it, too.

If you can't see, maybe you should light a match.

A Positive Outlook

"What's meant to be will always find a way."

-- Trisha Yearwood, "She's In Love With the Boy"

Lego mini figure birdwatcher 3-25-14

"All times are beautiful for those who maintain joy within them."

-- Rosalia de Castro

Over the weekend my boys put up two beautiful, brand new, squirrel-proof bird feeders for me, right outside my kitchen window.

Last Spring we had to have all of our backyard trees cut down due to some lawn chemical mishap that was killing them. It made me so sad. Our property was lined all the way around with tall pines that were home to countless birds that delighted me year after year. I was particularly upset about losing the crabapple tree that held the house occupied by a perennial pair of very horny finches who did the nasty on the perch every morning while I watched and drank coffee. (I think they liked an audience. Freaks.)

Anyway, the new feeders are hanging on one of those tall posts with the hooks on either side. Both of them are brimming full -- one with tiny black thistle seeds for the real little guys like nuthatches and chickadees, the other with sunflower-rich wild bird seed for the bigger guys like cardinals and robins. There's even a big fat suet cake to tempt the woodpeckers.

They put the feeders up on Saturday while I imagined how I'd write about the flocks of lovely winged things that frequented them -- how I'd wax lyrical about the beauty of feathers and colors and flight and other bird business -- how I'd record here the parade of familiar and unusual species stopping to rest outside my window during their long migratory journeys north.

I have been watching my new feeders for four days.

As of this morning, exactly zero birds have flown in for the free grub.

The seed is undisturbed. There's no telltale bird shit on the perches, no feathers on the ground. Even the squirrels are snubbing me. I figured at least the squirrels would have the decency to pull off some Mission Impossible stunts trying to break in to these supposedly them-proof contraptions.

They haven't.

I keep calling out "Hey birds! Come and get it! Free bird seed! No waiting! Step right up, you're next, no waiting! Open 24 hours! You'll love our exclusive, birds-only dining experience! If I was a bird I'd eat here!"

Stuff like that.

So far it's not working.

I was getting a little disappointed because these new feeders were going to be my "good thing." How can they be a good thing if they don't work?

Well, the thing about bird watching is the satisfaction of the payoff that comes after the wait. It's about looking up, and out, remaining patient knowing that in time the birds will come. Before long there'll be plenty of them knocking seeds all over the ground and shitting all over everything. Squirrels will be swinging from the feeders, very likely knocking them right off the pole. Once one of them Tweets about the new restaurant in town, they'll all want to try it.

Also, the feeders are beautiful and it was so much fun watching my son and my husband working together to put them up.

So I'll stay positive. I'll keep looking. I'll keep watching and hoping.

If we built it, they will come.

And when they do, they'll be hungry. So it's a good thing there is plenty of free food to go around.

Fresh Ink

"Inking is meditation in liquid form ..."

-- J.H. Everett,

Izzy and the Candy Palace

Self portrait 3-24-14

"I plan on leaving my mark on this world, in ink,

with a pen spill that'll make all the oil spills combined

look like literature."

-- Jarod Kintz

The Days of Yay are Here! Wake Me Up When They're Over

My new tattoo of my favorite quote, from Groucho Marx.

Alphabet Soup

"The easiest way to get from point A to point B 

is with a vehicle that runs on alphabet soup."

-- Jarod Kintz, Great Listener Seeks Mute Woman

Alphabet soup 3-23-14

"Ever wonder if illiterate people get the full effect of alphabet soup?"

-- John Mendoza

While their piping hot soup cooled, Leo and my husband excavated their bowls and spelled out words with the alphabet pasta.

So I decided to get in on the fun.

Wholesome, comforting, delicious homemade vegetable soup is one good thing.

Being able to say good things with homemade vegetable soup is an extra-tasty bonus.

And to think, I almost used barley instead.

Good thing I didn't.

Cinnamon In My Coffee

"I can't tell you enough about cinnamon.

Cinnamon is an awesome spice to use ..."

-- Emeril Lagasse

Coffee with cinnamon sticks in a handmade cup 3-22-14

"Cinnamon may help reduce chronic inflammation, 

which is linked with neurological disorders such as

Alzheimer's Disease, Parkinson's Disease, Multiple Sclerosis and Meningitis."

-- Deepak Chopra, What Are You Hungry For?

You know how you fall in love with something --  you get hooked, you become obsessed -- and then the bastards who make that certain something coldly, cruelly discontinue it and just rip it away from you.

That's what happened to me and my beloved Starbucks cinnamon roast coffee.

When I finished my last bag of it, I penciled it on the grocery list so my husband would pick me up some more.

He said he couldn't find it.

He checked another store. Still, nothing.

So I went to actual Starbucks and checked there. Stymied again. I asked the barista if there might be some in the back that just hadn't made it out onto the shelves yet.

Nope.

And then those dreaded words:  "I don't think we make that one anymore."

I searched online. My husband searched online. Nobody carried it. I did find a few in "limited quantities order now" from a third party seller on Amazon -- with a 2011 expiration date. I may be desperate, but I definitely ain't about that life. Every real coffee drinker knows that freshness is everything.

So yesterday in a last-ditch effort I tried an experiment.

I use one of those Keurig one-cup brewers with the refillable filter, and I filled the little mesh basket with my usual decaf espresso dark roast but sprinkled about a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon powder on top the grounds.

I could tell by the aroma that I was onto something good.

Maybe it's because I'd gone without for so so long, but this black magic tasted even more delicious than the pre-flavored stuff.

I typically don't go for flavored coffees. I find them cloying and overpowering. I just want to taste the coffee.

And that's what's so great about cinnamon. It doesn't really make the coffee taste like cinnamon, it somehow makes the coffee taste even more like coffee.

By day's end, I'd greedily consumed five or six cups of it -- enough that I had to pencil "cinnamon" onto the grocery list so my husband will pick me up some more. Enough that I Googled "health risks of too much cinnamon" just to make sure I wasn't poisoning myself with hot deliciousness.

Turns out there are way more health benefits to cinnamon than there are potential dangers.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Which brings us to the "One Good Thing Spice Up Your Life" list of cinnamon's health benefits. Did you know doctors actually prescribe cinnamon for certain patients, particularly people with diabetes, high cholesterol and arthritis because it:

• regulates/lowers blood sugar
• reduces LDL cholesterol
• is effective against ulcer-causing H. pylori bacteria
• reduces pain linked to arthritis
• is a natural anti-inflammatory
• may reduce the proliferation of cancer cells
• is effective for menstrual pain and fertility
• is a natural food preservative
• contains fiber, calcium, iron and manganese

Did I already mention that it is also super tasty in coffee? Oh right, I did.

Did I also mention that I need a refill?

Sometimes you've just gotta get it yourself.

Re-Emerging

"This world is clearly emerging before our eyes.

The shifts ahead, the opportunities ahead are massive."

-- Carly Fiorina

Tulip sprouts 3-21-14

"We all hope for breakthrough rebirth moments."

-- Dane Cook

Tulip sprouts (2) 3-21-14

"You raze the old to raise the new."

-- Justina Chen, North of Beautiful

Tulip sprouts (3) 3-21-14

A year ago at this time I was in a dark and scary place.

I'd kind of dropped out of my life. I'd gone underground, buried beneath the pressing weights of insomnia, anxiety and depression.

I'd stopped doing some things that, until then, had been very important parts of who I am. Most notably, I'd stopped acting.

In addition to my 365 days projects, I am also an actor. Theater mostly. But performing on stage and auditioning for roles, in my then-current condition, was out of the question.

In the last show I did, I was so exhausted and sleep deprived that I forgot my lines onstage more than once, which is definitely not something I am used to. During a scene in the show before that, my persistent facial spasm went apeshit and the other actor zeroed in on it, and it totally threw him off his game. In the green room afterwards, he teased me about it and I tried to play along with the joking, but it hurt. A lot.

I do most of my work an hour away in Cleveland, and there were nights I drove to and from rehearsals after 36 hour stretches of zero sleep, nights when I had no fucking business being behind the wheel of a car.

It all scared the shit out of me. It left me snake bit, gun shy, and super skittish about wanting to try again too soon, if at all.

The thing that scared me most, though, was how easily I was able to let go. I was growing ever more lackadaisical and apathetic about something that had once been a driving force and a passion. I didn't give a fuck. And even if I wanted to give a fuck, I didn't have a fuck to give. The passion, the drive, the hunger, the need -- vanished.

I was honestly starting to doubt whether I'd ever get back on the horse.

But yesterday I got a sensation that something was stirring again -- struggling to break the surface and re-emerge after its long, hard, dark dormancy.

I went on my first audition in almost a year and a half.

I think I did OK. I felt good about it. I was rested, calm, confident. The atmosphere felt familiar and right. My facial spasm was wonderfully obedient.

And whether I get the job or not is beside the point. The important thing is that I did it. I showed up. I went. I tried. I pushed back up through the packed earth and peeked out at a world I feared I'd never see again.

Guess what? It's still there.

So am I.

Words To Live By

"Art is not optional."

-- Nathan Sawaya

Self portrait in the best t-shirt ever 3-20-14

Some things are non-negotiable.

One of those things, in my life anyway, is art.

That's why I love 365 days projects like this one, because I am committed to pursuing art every single day.

Aside from this daily blog, however, my artwork doesn't reach beyond my own four walls much. In the grand scheme of things, my work doesn't make much of a difference in anyone else's life but my own. And that's OK.

But there are artists out there with much grander vision and far greater reach than mine who make it their mission to change the world with their art. People like Nathan Sawaya, a New York artist who sculpts awe-inspiring life-sized creations from LEGO bricks, and whose words adorn the t-shirt that I'm wearing in today's self portrait.

I bought this t-shirt because obviously, it's awesome as fuck. But also because of the cause behind it.

"Yellow," by Nathan Sawaya

Nathan is contributing funds from his t-shirt designs to a cause called Art Revolution to raise funds to help put art supplies in kids' hands, and arts education back into America's schools. The foundation's mission is to advocate the importance of art in everyday life, and is driven by their stand against the "alarming devaluation of the arts in today's schools and communities."

In a scary time when art is falling victim to budget cuts and state mandates, when our children's creativity is being starved out, artists like Nathan Sawaya and others are trying to turn the tide a t-shirt at a time.

Buying a t-shirt may not seem like a super revolutionary act, but if enough of us each does a little bit, maybe it will make a difference and change a life somehow, somewhere.

And if that's not a good thing, then I don't know what is.



(Special thanks to my friend Kelly for turning me on to this t-shirt and its inspiring mission. Pass it on!)

Licking The Beaters

"Good moms let you lick the beaters.

Great moms turn them off first."

-- Unknown

Mixing beaters with brownie batter 3-19-14

"I love that when I breathe you in you smell like cake batter."

-- "Johnny," Because I Said So

I don't care what your mother said about the raw eggs giving you salmonella, or worms, or that a whole cake would grow in your stomach. Licking the beaters (and the spoons, and the bowl) is one of the simplest, purest pleasures in life.

And if your mother did recite these warnings, I'll bet you dollars to donuts she was just trying to get you the fuck out of her kitchen so she could lick 'em herself.

In my ongoing quest to bake gluten free brownies that are as good as the regular kind, I mixed up a new recipe. 

On my personal raw dough/batter spectrum, brownie is a biggie. In fact, if I get really honest, I'd have to admit that the impetus for yesterday's baking wasn't so much my craving for brownies as it was my craving for brownie batter. The actual baking part was just a cover and a strategy to keep me from slurping up the whole recipe raw with a spoon.

Brownie batter is also the safest, in my opinion. Not from a food-borne illness standpoint, but because it carries the least risk for overdoing it. 

Here's my theory: 

Because brownie batter is thin, more of it actually gets into the baking pan, leaving less of the dangerous residue clinging to the bowl and the beaters. Also, since all of the brownie batter goes into the oven at once, when it's gone, it's gone. Out of sight, out of mind. That's why cookie dough is the most dangerous. Because cookies bake in individual batches, you use the dough a little at a time, so there are repeated opportunities to go back in. It's a continuing binge-threat, which I personally think is the greater danger compared to food-borne illness. I've never rolled around on the couch gripping my gut and moaning because I'm bloated and in pain due to salmonella poisoning. I have, however, made myself all kinds of miserable from eating way too much cookie dough. But brownie batter? Never once.  

So yes, I licked the beaters, and it was good, and I didn't eat too much and I didn't die. The brownies were pretty good too.

I did a little digging, and it turns out that eating raw batter is unlikely to cause salmonella and your mother's raw-dough preaching was probably overblown. 

So go ahead. Lick 'em. You probably already do it anyway. But now you can do it without your mother's nagging warnings ringing in your head and without her greedy hidden motives shunting you away from her kitchen. 

And if she tries her old tricks, don't back down. 

Stand up to her. 

Tell that bitch swerve. 

Tell her you know what she's up to. 

Tell her she's wrong and that you've got proof and that you won't be bullied anymore. 

Take that, beyotch.

Something Green

"Our green valleys will be greener once we 

fully grasp the infinite vitality of the green!"

-- Mehmet Murat ildan

Shamrock flowers 3-18-14

 "She turned back to inspect a bank of greens:

olive, jade, leaf, kiwi, lime, 

a silver-green like the back of birch leaves,

a bright pistachio."

-- Anne Bartlett, Knitting

If push comes to shove and Spring refuses to come to me, then I guess I'll just hafta go out and buy it.

Which I did, sort of.

As I drove past our local garden center, the light-up sign was blinking "Come in and buy a shamrock!" It was St. Patrick's Day, after all, so I thought "what the Hell" and went in.

It was nearly closing time, and except for a couple of workers winding up hoses and cautioning me not to slip on the wet floor, I was the only person there. It's more of an outdoor/landscaping kind of establishment, but they do have a little bit of a greenhouse. They'd just watered the hanging baskets, so water was draining and dripping down from overhead as I walked underneath. 

Even though it was only 29 degrees outside, the late afternoon sun warmed the greenhouse air, making it dewy and heavy. It smelled sweet, vital and alive, like dirt and moisture and growing things and flowers and well, Spring. Even though outside was still hard, cold and monochromatic, in here it was all green and hopeful.

There was a 3-shelf cart by the window full of shamrock plants in full flower. The blooms were all turned toward the glass, straining their little white faces to catch the last light of the waning sun. I couldn't help wondering who, if anyone, would buy all of these little beauties once St. Patrick's Day was over. What is the market for shamrocks after March 17?

At $10 a piece I couldn't adopt them all. But I brought home one, watered it and put it in my kitchen window.

Everybody knows about shamrock leaves. This time of year every other house in the neighborhood has a tacky glittery one hanging on the front door. But shamrock flowers get short shrift. I thought the tiny, tender, trumpet-shaped blooms were delicately lovely.

With a name like Erin you might think I'd go whole hog for all the St. Patrick's Day schtick. Heck, I didn't drink anything green. I didn't even wear anything green. I did beer-braise a corned beef and boil some potatoes and carrots, but that's about it. 

And I adopted a shamrock. I guess that's my "something green."

It's still sitting in the kitchen window looking out, patiently watching Winter dig her stubborn heels in, wishing and waiting, like me, for Spring to show up.

Who knows? Maybe having a shamrock in the house will shift the luck of the Irish in our favor and we'll finally get our wish.

That'd be a good thing. 

Planning A-Head

"Always plan ahead.

It wasn't raining when Noah built the ark."

-- Richard Cushing

A quart jar of Barbie heads 3-17-14

I am neither a planner nor a prepar-er by nature.

My husband is in charge of our retirement planning, which is absolutely a good thing because for me, planning for the future means making sure the DVR is set to record Ink Master, and somehow I usually manage to fuck that up.

But every now and then I get crazy efficient and responsible and plan ahead. Like when I stock the freezer with homemade soup. Or when I preserve strawberry jam or applesauce.

Or Barbie heads.

Cuz you never know when you're gonna need extra Barbie heads. So it's a good idea to have some on hand.

We've gotten into a bit of a Sunday afternoon at the movies routine around here, but sometimes a later matinee makes it difficult to get supper on the table at a reasonable hour.

I mean, we can't eat Chipotle every time we go to a movie can we?

So yesterday I got smart and prepared all of the essentials ahead of time. We were having tacos (take that Chipotle), so I did all of the slicing and dicing in the early afternoon and had everything waiting on a shelf in the fridge for when we got home. It was a good thing, because all I had to do in order to get supper on the table was turn on the rice cooker, warm the tortillas and re-heat the meat.

Fifteen minutes later, presto!

It looked like I'd spent a lot of time preparing the meal -- which I had. I'd just spent it earlier in the day. And thanks to my strategic pre-planning, I got to spend the afternoon hanging out at the movies with my boyz.

As a fun bonus, while the rice was steaming, I had time to can a quart of Barbie heads and shoot this photo. I was going to do a lame picture of some industrious ants, but the Barbies-in-a-jar idea hit me on the way out the door to go to the movie. And because of my super-smart pre-planning, I had just enough time to get supper on the table and create the shot all at once.

Yep. I photograph Barbie heads in canning jars.

Now do you see why I'm not the one in charge of our retirement?

A Walk Outside

"No one saves us but ourselves.

No one can and no one may.

We ourselves must walk the path."

-- Guatama Buddha, Sayings of Buddha

Self portrait 3-16-14

"When I'm in turmoil, when I can't think, when I'm exhausted

and afraid and feeling very, very alone, I go for walks ...

I walk and I walk and sooner or later something comes to me,

something to make me feel less like jumping off a building."

-- Jim Butcher, Storm Front

The snow and ice on the sidewalks finally melted, the impassable puddles finally receded, and the Sun finally warmed the air enough for me to take my first walk of the year through my neighborhood. 

Birds were chirping and singing, little boys were bouncing basketballs in driveways, mothers were pushing bundled-up babies in strollers. 

It felt really good.

An Ordinary Lunch On Fine China

"Life's short. Use the fine china."

-- Colin Wright, exilelifestyle.com

PB&J on white, on Royal Stafford  3-15-14

"My mother's a genius. 

She just kept feeding me art on whatever we had;

paper plates, silver platter, didn't matter.

You know, she just kept feeding it to me."

-- Jill Scott

I try not to eat lunch over the kitchen sink.

Usually I sit at the table like a big girl.

On Fridays, though, I like to eat lunch sitting in my husband's recliner, with my feet up, watching a recorded episode of my favorite TV show. It's one of my little indulgences. 

I kicked the indulgence up a notch yesterday and plated my lunch (egg white omelet with zucchini, bell pepper and micro-watercress) on the good china. We have nine place settings of Noritake "Brook Hollow" gold-rimmed Japanese bone china that we got as wedding gifts. It lives hidden away in the back of a dark cupboard, zipped up in quilted, padded protective cases. We use in once in a blue moon -- maybe a total of 10 times (a generous estimate) in our 25 years of marriage.

I cook omelets exactly like this one all the time, but I thought this omelet looked so lovely -- way too lovely for scarfing over the sink -- that I broke out one of the pretty plates. I even used a fancy fork. I still sat in the recliner and watched Thursday night's recorded episode of Project Runway: Under the Gunn. But you know what? With a fancier plate and a fancier fork, my usual Friday lunch tasted even better somehow. Maybe it's because I slowed down and actually tasted it for a change.

Pretty as my omelet was on it's pretty plate, it didn't really photograph that well. So the sandwich in today's photograph was actually Leo's after school snack, peanut butter and jelly on a plate of antique Royal Stafford "Garland" hand-painted English bone china. He usually gobbles a protein bar right from the wrapper, or extra crunchy Jif on Ritz crackers on a paper plate. I was still in my post-fancy-lunch afterglow, so I thought why not let him in on it. This delicate little blue plate is one I got from my grandma. (It's a saucer, actually, with a matching teacup that also lives in a dark cupboard.) His sandwich may not look very tough on it's prim, dainty plate. But after eating it, Leo went to football weightlifting and squatted a personal best 405 pounds. Just sayin'.

The reasons I don't reach for the good china more often have nothing to do with whether I like it or not. I do. I chose it for my wedding gift registry, after all. My reason is practical. Simply put, bone china can't go in the dishwasher, and hand-washing all those breakable dishes is a real bitch. 

But washing a single plate is no sweat. It was a pleasure, actually. And after I washed it, I stacked it with its mates, zipped it into it's little quilted sleeping bag and tucked it away back in its dark cupboard. Except this time I rearranged things slightly, moving the plates from the back to the front of the cupboard, just in case I want to use one again next Friday. 

Who knows? This could become a regular thing. A regular good thing.

Making Something Of Myself

"Everything is a self-portrait. A diary. Your whole drug history's in a strand of your hair.

Your fingernails. The forensic details. The lining of your stomach is a document.

The calluses on your hand tell all your secrets. Your teeth give you away. Your accent.

The wrinkles around your mouth and eyes. Everything you do shows your hand."

-- Chuck Palahniuk, Diary

Self portrait with self portrait (acrylic and spray paint on paper) 3-14-14

Of all the genres that I dabble in, self portrait is, by far, the one I turn to most.

Volumes have been written about why artists through history have incorporated themselves, or made themselves the primary subject of, their own drawings, paintings, photographs and sculptures.

There are lots of dark and thorny psychological and artistic theories about why artists choose their own faces as subject matter. And I've definitely used this art form to explore both the dark and the thorny. But I've also followed its path toward the humorous and the whimsical. But behind all those theories lies a more practical consideration that I think the historians sometimes overlook. When there is no other subject available, the good thing is that an artist can always turn the brush or the camera or the pencil or the clay on his or her own face.

This particular self-portrait took me a few days to finish. It was a process that incorporated photography, drawing, painting and sculpture (if you consider a large hand-cut paper stencil a kind of sculpture, which I do.)

I think I like this piece particularly because of how the paint on the eyes bled around the stencil and made them look like the mysterious ink blots of a Rorschach test. (You'll have to look into them yourself to determine if there's something dark, thorny, or humorous behind them.)

Self portrait is an unforgiving medium. It's definitely not for everyone. It requires brutal honesty and a strong stomach. I've created literally hundreds and hundreds of self portraits, using myriad media, some straightforward, some convoluted and complex. Self portrait has given me a way to explore unfamiliar techniques, to experiment and try new things, to stretch myself artistically, to learn and grow. And even though the portraits are literally of my exterior, each one is more accurately a glimpse (or a long, hard look) at what's happening on my inside.

Doing Nothing

"Who can take a nothing day,
and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?
Well it's you girl, and you should know it."

-- theme song, The Mary Tyler Moore Show

Doing nothing 3-13-14

"Anything can happen in life, especially nothing."

-- Michael Houellebecq

Snowbound. 

Stuck inside. 

Bored. 

Wandering the house not sure what to do with myself. 

Starting and abandoning projects. 

Dreaming of warmer days. 

I made this photograph to help pass the time. 

It worked, for a little bit anyway.

So, I guess doing nothing was a good thing.

Tick, tock.

Mad Navigational Skillz

"I may not have gone where I intended to go,

but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."

-- Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

Toy car and map 3-12-14

"The ability to tell a good route from a terrible one

is a valuable skill when leading an expedition.

Unfortunately for us all, it was a skill I did not possess."

-- Tahir Shah, 

House of the Tiger King: The Quest for a Lost City

I'm no Amerigo Vespucci, but I was pretty darn proud of myself yesterday for navigating my way home after my dinosaur of a GPS finally kicked the bucket.

I was on a little road trip to an unfamiliar town, and was about an hour and 45 minutes from home when the gizmo conked out. Luckily, my atrophied navigational skills kicked in. I relied on road signs and instinct, and even though I missed my exit for the toll road, I didn't panic. I just kept following the signs, heading North and West, until I was back on track. I didn't mind the detour either. The scenery was better on this alternate route. I drove past a big pink candy factory.

Also, I knew that if the situation got dire I had a map in my glove box -- the real, accordion-folded paper kind. Remember those?

I remember car trips with my parents. Some of their best bickering happened with Dad at the wheel and Mom with her feet propped up on the dash, a road Atlas across her knees. He'd bark "Damn it! Marilyn, what do I do?" And she'd casually enumerate his potential options, pointing with her pinkie fingernail at possibilities he had to choose from, discussing what he could do as the exit loomed fast and hard. Then she'd say "Here!" He'd yell "Son of a pup!" and swerve our big yellow Colony Park station wagon across three lanes of traffic, barely catching the off-ramp.

Instead of the "navigator" he called her the "aggravator."

Even though GPS has undoubtedly saved some marriages and prevented some collisions, it's startling how completely we've come to rely on and trust electronic navigational tools. In days of yore, I used to map out a trip beforehand by looking at an actual map. I'd write directions on a notepad. I used my brain and my innate abilities, such as they were.

Now, even though I head out with a destination in mind, I often have no real understanding of the route between point A and point B. I don't pay much attention to where I am, or where I'm going. Even though I'm technically in the driver's seat, with cruise control and GPS I feel like a non-participant in the journey. It's like being spoon-fed. I just blindly trust the robot voice inside the magical whatchamacallit to faithfully deliver me from here to there. I have no backup plan because time after time the whatchamacallit gets me there without fail. 

Until it failed.

Granted, it wasn't a very complicated route home, and as I said, I did fuck it up a little. Nevertheless, I was glad to have my skills tested and to find out that I actually do still have some, even if they are a bit rusty. And frankly, it was kind of nice not having the bossy GPS bitch riding my ass the whole time.