The ultimate fate of the matronly jacket threads… not quite Bohemian Opera (whatever that is…)
Remember the jacket, pictured on my dining room table a few entries ago? The jacket that I indicted as matronly and sentenced to dismemberment (“off with its arms! and its collar too!”). And then abandoned while I soliloquized about opera. Which was fun for me, but probably did nothing for the jacket.
Well, eventually, I left off music and philosophy, and picked up the threads of my thrift store jacket project. I did cut off the arms and collar. The seamstress version of demolition. Extreme measures, and I have to admit that once they were taken, I experienced momentary remorse and panic. But I got past it. I realized that really, I had nothing to lose. Nothing to lose, what an adventure, and I was still in a chopping mood. So I cut up an old pair of my husband’s jeans, making long strips (most of them unnecessarily biased), still trying to come up with a coherent strategy. Inspired by the ruffles and roses and raw, frayed edges I’d seen when I ventured into an Anthropologie recently, I experimented. I foraged. I made messes. I worked sporadically, bemusedly, sometimes wretchedly, sometimes with tentative delight. [continue reading…]
Groundhog Day today. My daughter Meisha came home from school full of anticipation for spring. We’re all full of anticipation for spring. It’s a February thing, which started in January (when it was a January thing). But Meisha’s optimism, because of the groundhog ritual (and despite its outcome), can embrace and then look beyond whatever is left of winter—however long it might linger—because she is that certain of the eventuality of spring. She wanted to celebrate. So we picked up Chinese, watched Groundhog Day, and nibbled on the remnants of my most recent Pear Danish attempt (this time, the pears were swimming in sauce made with lemon, lime, and pineapple juice infused with lavender. Promising). 
I shouldn’t say eleventh hour. It’s more like the ten and a half-th hour. I can write that, because it’s my blog and for some reason, no one ever writes or calls to say Hey! You spelled something wrong! Or Hey! What are you? A grammatical deviant? I fear no repercussion.
I am re-inventing my January strategies and traditions. Because while January seems to me to be a series of dreary, cold low notes, I still hope to see many, many more Januarys; it would be ridiculous to simply endure them all, as if they were punishment. If I send optimistic, hopeful thoughts out into the universe, maybe they will come back to me as a dozen healthy, happy Januarys. I wish I’d thought of this strategy sooner.
Returning from a wonderful choir concert, Michaelyn and I passed our favorite local gas station/convenience store. We’ve bonded with this place for several reasons, the most important of which is its sign out front. The sign bears the name of the establishment (“Hoagies”), a philanthropic greeting to the masses of motorists that pass by, its fare du jour, and the price of that fare. Today the sign read “Drive Safe Corn dogs 49 cents”. Other days the sign admonishes Pizza Stix to Drive Safe. Or it worries about the vehicular safety of Burritos (79 cents). In the summer, it is preoccupied with Frazil hazards, and more expensive about it too (somewhere over a dollar). One day last spring Maurya and I were beyond entertained to read “Drive Safe corndogs 49 cents”, just as a man pulling out of the gas station casually turned his face towards us and stuffed an entire corn dog in his mouth.
and you…I’ve grown tired of the grind