Floor D├ęcor

Casey and I made a deal when we first moved into our “new” house. (I say it like that because it’s almost two years here, and still I’m calling it our new house.) The deal was that we’d remodel the kitchen when the floor tiles started coming off. Strange to you, perhaps, but after moving from our newly remodeled “old” kitchen into the “new” outdated kitchen, I was a little sad. (And still most of our Tupperware remains in boxes in the basement because there is no room in the inn.) This also mattered because the floor in our new kitchen was exactly like the old kitchen floor (before remodeling) in our old house. It was like going back in time. We consoled ourselves with phrases like, “But this house is way better than the money pit dung heap we miraculously inhabited before.” And, “When we remodel, this will be our dream kitchen.” (Instead of being simply tolerable and out of necessity as before.)
We lived in our new house for a month when floor tiles began dislodging and corners lifted and crunched when you stepped on them leaving a crumble of tile and powdery glue bits. “Well,” we shrugged “the house is still way better than the mold-infested rat trap we left.”
Now, the decrepit floor tiles in my “new” kitchen are peeling off at an alarming rate. We ignored this for awhile, even leaving the dislodged tiles in their places in hopes of faking out all the rest – or something. I finally embraced the degeneration about a week ago and inspected every tile. If it was loose, I pried it off. It’s funny that it’s mostly the white tiles that come off or break and the black ones remain adhered and whole. So the floor is still a patchwork; it’s just beige and black instead of white and black. Anyway, we’re in no position to remodel yet, so with deep affection for my crumbling kitchen, I’ve decided to cover it’s blemishes until we can afford the full overhaul.
Tonight’s makeup included a quote from Kerouac’s On The Road: The Original Scroll and my crayon interpretation of van Gogh’s Starry Night.
And David desperately needing to whine while I create.

Out of Hand

This obsession with Polyvore is getting out of control. I have made two more cheesy valentines that I haven’t even posted on here (yet). I fear for my sanity and everyone else’s aesthetic sense.
On the other hand, it’s the easiest tool (analog or digital) I’ve ever used to help create something. So it’s cathartic in that “I have things in my brain that need to come out” kind of way and it’s immediately gratifying and it’s not messy. All favorable.
Side Effects: May become habit forming. May induce cheesy, greeting card style “prose.” May lead to incompletion of meals, homework, housework, and sleep.
Disclaimer: Check with your loved ones to find out if Polyvore is right for you.

We Be Crafty

Jessicais following a craft-a-long to this effect, and now I shall as well. Comment, agree to the stipulations, and let me make you something!
The first six people to respond to this post will get something made by me! My choice. For you.
This offer does have some restrictions and limitations:
– I make no guarantees that you will like what I make!
– What I create will be just for you.
– It’ll be done this year.
– You have no clue what it’s going to be. It may be wood. Possibly metal. Perhaps a picture. Or, I may bake you something and mail it to you. Who knows? Not you, that’s for sure!
– I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.
The catch? Oh, the catch is that you have to put this in your journal as well. We all can make stuff!

Happy Inauguration Day

I am startled by my level of emotion in response to this inauguration day. I’m making my kids watch the coverage of this because of its historical significance. I want them to associate their childhood with a black president. And not just because he’s black but because of the way it changes our mindsets and expectations to have a significant minority represented in such a major way. It makes the world feel conquerable.
To quote Steven Spielberg who was just briefly interviewed in DC, “I want my kids to rub up against history.” So do I. My kids are still young, and providing Obama remains in office for two terms, they will be nearly old enough to appreciate the significance of being part of the youngest generation ushering in our first black president.
I realize I have friends and family who are less than enthusiastic about today’s events, but I hope despite differing politics (or ambivalence) we can all recognize that perhaps our country is growing up a bit and that’s demonstrated through our election of Barack Obama. I certainly don’t look at Obama like the second coming of Christ the way some people have, nevertheless, this is a momentous occasion and I’m excited.

A Six-year-old’s Existentialism

Today Evelina has been wandering around the house moaning and whimpering. It is supremely annoying and mostly I ignore her. Then I walked into the living room and found her curled up in a blanket on a chair by the bookshelf. She was reading a space non-fiction book (cuz that’s how she rolls) and sporting a dripping wet wash cloth on the top of her head.
“What’s going on Evelina? You’re melting everywhere.”
In her most pathetic unintelligible groaning, “I feel like everything I’m doing is in a dream.”
“Nothing is real. Ever since I was four I feel like everything I’m doing is in a dream. I even splashed water on my face.”
“That explains your melting everywhere. Why is there a sopping wet rag on your head?”
“Because I thought if I was dreaming it would wake me up. But I’m just wet.”
So I walked away to try and soothe the hateful knives behind my eyeballs and left Evelina to deal with her crisis since I was getting nowhere. In a little while she pulled herself together enough to dry off and put a hood over her head and cuddle with me on the couch.
Then she decided to work on the crochet scarf we started a few days ago. She’s learning chains and single crochets and doing a great job; she’s excited by the prospect that her friends at school will see her glorious pink creation and beg to know where it came from at which time she will exclaim that she herself formed and molded it with her very own precious hands and of course she’d be glad to crochet one for you too since she’s so gifted at scarf making; she’ll even let you pick the color.
She had crocheted several rows on her own with minimal intervention on my part when she made the declaration of the ages:
“I’m so glad I’m getting the hang of this. It makes me feel so alive!”
The lesson folks is that fiber arts will cure your existential crisis.