Mystery mail

I've begun getting this in the mail:

Which begs the question - drunk purchase or secret admirer (with my address)?

I could check my credit card statement, but I'm kinda liking the mystery.

Garden 2013!!!

The ground around here is still a tad frozen, but that hasn't stopped me from daydreaming about my 2013 garden plot....

Nefarious castor of yesteryear

These are a must:  beets, arugula, brussel sprouts, herbs galore, red cabbage, jalapeño peppers, radishes, cauliflower, pretty flowers, and what else? I know, I know, I know what you're thinking - TOMATOES. I'm hopeless with tomatoes and my CSA is not so I leave the tomatoes to them. 

But what else??? So far I haven't listed anything new. Spinach and banana peppers are calling my name. Fennel would be nice. Kale I adore. I'm open to suggestions (for hardiness zone 5A).

Majestic beauties

Somehow or another I became aware of the Liberty of London department store and their penchant for fabulous prints.

Their silk scarf squares cause me lust, appetence, lechery, prurience, and all the other synonyms for desire. They're almost too good to wear. So why not buy one and frame it?

Because they're hundreds of dollars, that's why. But wait - so is much art. And that's what we're talking about - art. The art of color and pattern and luxury.

Behold...

Majestic beauties from here. Which one is your favorite? Mine is the black tree of life (top right).

To nuzzle

Every day of every year I'm in a book. Sometimes they go fast, sometimes I put them down for a month, but there's always a book. Right now it's about the Bataan Death March.

The war (of the world, part 2) in the Pacific is mostly new to me, save Pearl Harbor. Sometimes I think I should have a coin to flip. One side says "Catholic school education" and the other side says "wasn't paying attention". Maybe there's a third side, "too horrific - blocked".

Somewhere in the middle of reading this I read a first hand account from a man enduring 25 years (and forever counting) of solitary confinement, and it opened my mind to a whole new level of torture. Before reading this I ignorantly thought I'd be pretty good at solitary confinement. I have mental fortitude. I experience sensory overload. I can daydream entire new worlds. Maybe I'd write that screenplay or those short stories. Maybe it'd be kinda nice for a while.

For a while, in comfort, with nature, maybe. In reality? Torture.

My sense that would most cry out in pain is touch. To never again hug a loved one. You know, those hugs that bear love and connection and meaning. Like a string connects your heart centers. To never again tumble a blade a grass between my fingers. To never again bury my face in someone or somecat's neck. To endure this day after day with no end.

Plush on plush

Unthinkable.

Getting grounded

Who doesn't love pottery? Seriously, tell me who they are so that I can avoid them. Mugs, bowls, pitchers, trays, pots, sculptures, mother fucking spoon rests... I love it all. Correction - I love some of it all. I love looking at it, making it, and most of all, using it on a daily basis.

Pottery grounds me. Playing with clay I forget much else. It's a lot like gardening. Getting dirty with actual dirt (and clay). Nurturing, coaxing, whispering sweet nothings to a little life form that will please you or feed you. 

Perfection need not apply. 

Here are a votive holder and salt pig I made last year when my pottery studio (AKA local high school art room) had the following glaze colors: light brown, dark brown, red wine poop, bile, dead tree, and liver spot.

If salt pigs are "in" or come "in", I'm taking all the credit.

And here are some much more professional selections from Etsy - which has a HUGE selection of affordable, awesome pottery.

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve

The yellow mug and its matching soup bowl will be mine. Oh yes. They will be mine. Someone please come over and break one of my non-handmade mugs.

No necklace required

In my continuation of lauding SATC accessories, I bring you these earrings:

Welcome, Charlotte York, to my blog! In this episode Charlotte tells the girls she is considering converting to Judaism. To Miranda: "I can feel you reacting!" This is also the episode where Office Space and SATC sexually collide. More importantly, this is the episode that brought Smith Jerrod to the attention of my young loins. Yessssssss please (past tense).

The earrings are of the popular "chandelier" variety and to me, they're perfection. Not too heavy, not too huge, not too dense, lots of movement. No necklace required. I'll pretend they are not dripping in blood diamonds, but this being Charlotte York, I'm positive they are (but then again this is fiction, you fixated weirdo, get a friggin life).

Crème brûlée acquired

Ever since I saw Amélie and her passion for cracking the top of crème brûlée with a teaspoon some ten odd years ago, I knew I had a new food for my bucket list. Sure bucket lists are supposed to be for BIG things, but orgasmic vanilla custards are big things. This was an odd compulsion for me, as I'm known more for my salt tooth than sweet tooth. But the promise of texture, the allure of the single serving, and my firm stance that vanilla conquers chocolate only in the realm of pudding, all pointed to this being a dessert worthy of fixation.

Fast forward to last Thursday and not one but TWO bucket items were crossed off my list - I attended a culture-filled book reading/signing and then ate this divine dessert. Truth be told I may have eaten crème brûlée once before at a wedding, but wedding desserts don't count and the recollection is so faint I can't be sure it even happened. I was probably high on white zin at the time. Pure class.

So back to last Thursday, I was that geek at a restaurant taking a picture of her food. My first instinct was to say, why isn't this in a round dish? And then I cracked it. And now I need to go buy a blow torch.

Oval heaven

Treacherously beautiful

If we were on the Pyramid game show, 'treacherously beautiful' is enough to get me to say snow.

The dreaded month

I guess it depends where you live (this gripe is less likely to be heard in the southern hemisphere), but March, to me, is the dreaded month. Thirty-one more days of closed windows. Thirty-one more days of scraping ice off my car. Thirty-one more days of choosing, yet again, to wear snow shoes instead of my new suede booties.

Sure the days are getting longer and I'll soon leave work while there's still a shred of light. Sure I hear birds chirping when I wake up and I continue to wake up in a safe warm bed. But March... ahh March. How I hate you.

So let's brainstorm some natural highs that keep up chugging through the end of winter. I can't drink ALL THE ALCOHOL and unfortunately looking at the smile of your child doesn't apply to me so you're going to have to think more broadly. Here's what I've come up with: petting animals, learning new things, making art, looking at art, reading books for pleasure, gift-giving, receiving personal mail, and swings. 

It might still be too cold for swings, but it's not too soon to daydream about having one indoors.

And in the meantime, there are braid crowns:

Braid crown day two -- bedhead and all.
If long hair is not used for braid crowns, what's the point of having it?
And yes, my winter skin is that reflective.