Time Travelers

B and I traveled back to 1979, and we have photographic proof! The pants, the hair, the lighting! No, actually our good buddies Mia and Aidan played hooky and came for a visit. Mia took the above retro-tastic snapshot on our walk through the park. I love it so much, I swear there are pictures of my mom looking just like that.We had such a good time. These two boys are over a year apart and have always been more interested in each other's toys than in each other. This time they went nuts, though. Especially when the pants came off. I'm telling you, let the Bare-Legged Wild Rumpus Start!

That's Just Ranunculus

There are certain simple things that just really turn me on. Moths, driving, cold sheets, old windows, etc. And the ranunculus. I know, I know, I wrote about them last year too, but given that I'm not fond of primroses (or February, for that matter) these bright and oh so tactile early bloomers are like my secret anti-murk weapon.

Just look at them! Sexy, right? So sexy, in fact, that even as I spent the morning hugging the toilet bowl, I couldn't wait to rally and get my hands dirty on the roof.

I'd like to be able to tell you that when I was younger, single-r and more childless, I was also cooler, but that would be a raging lie. I've never been cool, I'm finally able to admit, and these silly overreactions to mundane things are straight out of the Claire operation manual. I think they've made upgrades to the 2.0 version, I hear she's more into underground music and giant sunglasses.

All in the Family

If you couldn't tell, Zion and I get way into the Olympics. And we like to have silly nicknames for each of the athletes. We've been calling Norwegian alpine Superman, Aksel Lund Svindal, "Cousin Aksel" as Svindal is a family name on my Norwegian side.

This morning I got official confirmation through my mom from my family in Oslo that the silver and gold medalist is in fact my distant cousin. Such radness! Such complete radness! As if the Norwegian curling pants weren't enough to make me root for the motherland.

My Birdman

This song is doing funny things to me, as is its video. To the point where I had to double check with a credible musically savvy friend that it was legitimately moving and that I wasn't just having a hormonal overreaction (I do that - there's a now infamous incident where a Keanu Reeves movie brought me to tears. Fo Reals.)

I'm not a big fan of Sigur Ros, or maybe I'm not a fan of the hype surrounding them, but I'm definitely a fan of this solo song from their front man. Is it weird that I'm also such a fan of his oh-so-Scandinavian teeth? No, don't answer that.

The birdman has long been my favorite character, I think he and his plight deserve all the same romanticism and fantasy that the vampire gets. But that's just me. (Yes, Shirley, I am most definitely thinking story again.)

And speaking of men and monsters, this little birdman in my belly is getting epic. My ribs feel like they're undergoing a classic werewolf transformation. Raar!

Solid Gold Headache

I gave myself a raging tension headache watching the men's free skate last night and it's carried over to this morning. So intense! My heart was in my throat most of the show (which we were fortunate enough to watch live and Bob Costas free on CTV.) It was an amazing, high drama night of pitfalls and professionalism, and though the new points system doesn't adequately reward pure artistry (i.e. Johnny Weir), neither did it reward pure mechanics (i.e. Darth Vader).
Well done, Evs, (as you're lovingly known in the Brewer house) you and your Jack Skellington wingspan were flawless.

The only other sport I can recall watching with such passionate investment is Formula 1. Which happily starts up right after the Games, and runs right up until the figure skating Grand Prix season. What can I say? I'm apparently the kind of girl that likes her athletes in either fire proof racing suits, or lycra and feathers. Go figure.

Beckett's Potting Bench

Our crazy mild winter has had me itching to start planting. Today, Beckett and I started some seeds inside, which was so gratifying, and we needed some simple tags for our pots. The leftover Totoro and walrus cupcake picks weren't quite going to cut it. So, while B was in his bath, I sketched some.Is it too late for a New Year's resolution? I think I should resolve to draw daily. I used to draw daily. Now I just plan out large scale projects and other such impossibilities and then feel like unproductive crap when I don't complete (or start) them. I always seem to forget the simple act of sketching. In my defense, it's a damn intimidating thing to start when you're so out of practice.

The truth is, I've had a request for some custom owl ex libris plates, and I've been too chicken to start. These simple little botanical drawings were just the right kick in the pants to get me ready to take on a more elegant design. Now I just have to make up for all the time I've lost to cowardice... and sleep... and walruses, of course.

Raw Materials

For all of my sewing life, I've been afraid of knits, of the way they pull and stretch and otherwise behave improperly. Equal to this terror, however, has been my infatuation with unfinished edges with their softness and movement. I learned early on that making a (decent- looking) garment with raw edges out of a woven is much more time consuming than just hemming it anyway. Lame and lame. But somehow in all these years nobody had ever told me that raw edges and knits are kind of BFFs. I mean seriously, have I been living under a rock, or what? Well, I'm in the know now, and here's what I did with this new tidbit.It's just a little black thing, meant to be couch friendly - public approved. It has a ruffle around the neckline and at the hem, and an elastic empire waist, and not one single edge is finished!
Another awesome knit-note, making ruffles is like butter with this stuff. Cut a strip, turn your tension dial way up, set your stitch length to as long as it'll go, and watch ruffles happen. Fo reals, no basting or pinning, just butter. I've also been under the impression that without a serger, knits are hopeless. But my little P.O.S. machine handled this with aplomb. Not that I still wouldn't commit countless crimes and sins to get my hands on a serger.