Sunday, July 11, 2010
There but for the grace of you go I
Summer always makes me helpless to resist the music I grew up listening to: Fleetwood Mac, Elton John, Simon & Garfunkel, Boston. Harvey, for some reason, has become fixated on ABBA, which he listens to via tiny yellow headphones that Jeff found at the Bins. Every morning, when I put him in the car, he demands his ABBA, so I programmed an ABBA Pandora channel, which is basically late-'70s disco—besides ABBA, there's Blondie, Sister Sledge, Nick Gilder. Odds are he'll magically know the Hustle after another week or two of this.
Anyway. This Simon & Garfunkel lyric got stuck on repeat in my head, as did another one, from the Carpenters' "Superstar." I started a different piece using that one. It looked good in my sketchbook. Once I transferred it onto fabric, though, it promptly resembled something you might see in a hippie kindergarten circa 1975, surrounded by woolen-yarn God's eyes and bowls of hummus. Yeah, so. This one will have to do.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Original Dog
Last week, I presented a paper at a conference on TV and Feminism called Console-ing Passions. Let me say first that this was an awesome conference that was also sort of insane simply because of the level of obsession with television and the sheer magnitude of the words (many of them arguably made-up words, like "informationalize") collectively used to justify that obsession. There were at least six papers presented just on Mad Men. I attended one presentation on the TV show Hoarders called "Between Clutter and Catastrophe: Traumatic Economies of Dirt and Disorder on Hoarders." I was convinced by another paper that I need to start watching Kimora: Life in the Fab Lane as soon as possible.
Anyway. The point of mentioning this conference is that the person who introduced me for some reason read my entire biography from the Bitch website, a bio that includes a statement about embroidering in my free time. What the bio says is that I embroider portraits of dogs, but the moderator announced, "In her free time, she embroiders portraits of her dog." Now, there's a difference between embroidering portraits of dogs and embroidering only portraits of my dog, and I believe it is a profound one. I got a mental picture of myself sitting on a series of doilies in a small room, the walls behind me completely obscured by embroidered portraits of my dog. My dog eating. My dog frolicking with a small red ball. My dog wearing a bonnet. My dog playing poker. You get the picture.
I guess the lesson here is that I need to get a little more professional with my professional bio, and leave embroidery out of it entirely. That said, at the conference reception, the woman who presented the Hoarders paper approached me over the cheese tray and was like, "I have a German Shepard! Do you embroider other dogs?" So the upside here is that I might get a commission out of this embarrassment.
The day after I came home from the conference, I had to say goodbye to my dog, Oscar. I'm not going to say much more about it, but it was sad and awful and totally necessary. His was the first portrait I ever did, and probably still my favorite.
Anyway. The point of mentioning this conference is that the person who introduced me for some reason read my entire biography from the Bitch website, a bio that includes a statement about embroidering in my free time. What the bio says is that I embroider portraits of dogs, but the moderator announced, "In her free time, she embroiders portraits of her dog." Now, there's a difference between embroidering portraits of dogs and embroidering only portraits of my dog, and I believe it is a profound one. I got a mental picture of myself sitting on a series of doilies in a small room, the walls behind me completely obscured by embroidered portraits of my dog. My dog eating. My dog frolicking with a small red ball. My dog wearing a bonnet. My dog playing poker. You get the picture.
I guess the lesson here is that I need to get a little more professional with my professional bio, and leave embroidery out of it entirely. That said, at the conference reception, the woman who presented the Hoarders paper approached me over the cheese tray and was like, "I have a German Shepard! Do you embroider other dogs?" So the upside here is that I might get a commission out of this embarrassment.
The day after I came home from the conference, I had to say goodbye to my dog, Oscar. I'm not going to say much more about it, but it was sad and awful and totally necessary. His was the first portrait I ever did, and probably still my favorite.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I'm the one who took your rug
Anyway. Speaking of really tying a room together, I am disturbingly excited about the premiere of Bravo's new reality show 9 By Design, about the gigantic Novogratz family, these stylish New York house-flippers with seven kids who are already being vilified as the Hipster Gosselins. Do you think that's going to make me not watch, Curbed? Think again. I have been fascinated by these people since reading a profile of them in the recently departed Cookie magazine, it of the $300 fur-lined toddler moccasin photos.
First of all: As already noted, they have seven kids, a concept which I find compelling on regular mega-family shows, but even more so on shows that are aimed at a demographic less overtly prone to talking about how every little life is a miracle fart straight from the backside of Baby Jesus. Oh, and also, those seven kids are named things like Holleder and Five and Major. I mean, it's no Pilot Inspektor, but it's admirably weird (and, in the case of Five, somewhat underachieving).
Second: They regularly build basketball courts into their five-story gut-renovated Meatpacking district houses. Third: They appear to be desperate to leverage their story into some kind of brand, and you know that's a recipe for amazing drama and possible douchebaggery, particularly when Bravo is involved.
And finally? (Small voice) I think their houses are really beautiful, secretly covet them, and hope to pick up some tips on keeping one's house looking sharp despite the presence of tiny, clumsy people wielding crayons and sippy cups. (/small voice.)
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Hank
Every year around this time, Jeff and I look at each other and are like, “I wonder what Hank’s doing?”
Back when we lived in Oakland, it was in a neighborhood that our realtor gently referred to as “transitional.” (Should you ever be faced with this bit of real-estate lingo, know that it is code for “semi-regular drive-by shootings.”) Anyway, we loved our house and lived there for a few years before coming to realize that falling asleep to the sound of muffler whistles and waking up to the neighbor’s rooster was losing some of its charm. It was around the time we began discussing moving to Portland that Hank came into our lives.
I was sitting at our dining-room table on a rainy April afternoon after work when I heard a car pull up, a couple of doors slam, and, just as quickly, the same car peel out. And all of a sudden, tied to the utility pole at the side of the house was a very large, extremely skinny, epically sad-looking dog.
I like dogs. I go to dog shows, I accost strangers on the street to pet their dogs; I have a kind of dog-specific Tourette syndrome that involves yelling “Cuuuute!” in the general direction of dogs I drive past. It’s a problem. I once spent five minutes cooing over a grumpy-looking English bulldog in Greenwich Village before even noticing that Adriana from The Sopranos was holding its leash. So, naturally, my first instinct with this dog was to run up and hug it. My second was to call Animal Care and Control and report an extremely big pit bull on my property. I mean, cute, yeah. But what was stopping this adorable creature from biting my face off with one snap of its giant, James Caan-esque jaws?
So I spent the next several hours on the phone. Animal Care and Control was closed for the weekend and the department's outgoing message instructed me to call 911 for any stray animals who could be considered dangerous or potentially dangerous. Speaking of potentially dangerous, you know who’s got much bigger fish to fry in Oakland on a Friday afternoon? 911. They told me to call the SPCA. Who told me to call private rescue agencies. And so on. The rescue places told me they were at capacity with pit bulls and pit mixes; the SPCA told me that the pit bull situation was so out of control in the city that if this dog didn’t pass Animal Care’s screening he would be destroyed immediately. And 911 more or less told me to jump up my own ass.
Meanwhile, people passing by my house yelled at me about how wrong it was that I had my dog leashed to a pole in the rain. And this dog was looking both sadder and sweeter by the minute. Jeff and I finally decided that we could move him into our basement for the night, give him some food, and see if he got along with Oscar. And that’s how Hank came to be our dog for a whole, semi-blissful week.
He was, indeed, a really sweet dog who, I like to think, was abandoned because of a Ferdinand the Bull–type refusal to fight. Or maybe his family just couldn’t afford to feed him. That wouldn’t surprise me, because frankly neither could we. This dog was never, ever full. Jeff once came into the basement to say hi, and found Hank kicking back, calmly eating a mirror, like, “Oh, hey. Mmm. Tasty. Got any more of these, perhaps in a Cool Ranch flavor?”
We named Hank and fattened him up and took him to get neutered so he’d be more adoptable, but we couldn’t keep him. Our own dog was not down with the interloper and had begun stonewalling us. Plus, he was too expensive. Plus, we were now definitely considering moving to a place where people would be less likely to abandon dogs on our lawn. So our adoption search began. We made him a MySpace page and listed his interests as “Getting adopted” and his turnoffs as “Not getting adopted.” Anyone who remembers how freaking insane MySpace was in 2006 won’t be surprised to hear that we were contacted almost immediately by two Mills college students. They showed up to meet him with a collar that I actually think was already personalized with his name, and all 110 pounds of him waggled and yipped and was like, Yes, hi, hey, I like you, do you have mirrors at your place?
So he left with them, and we haven’t seen him since. It’s actually a little weird that I spent more time embroidering his portrait than I actually spent with him. Hank’s two moms, if by some crazy chance you’re out there, let me know how my old pal is doing.
Back when we lived in Oakland, it was in a neighborhood that our realtor gently referred to as “transitional.” (Should you ever be faced with this bit of real-estate lingo, know that it is code for “semi-regular drive-by shootings.”) Anyway, we loved our house and lived there for a few years before coming to realize that falling asleep to the sound of muffler whistles and waking up to the neighbor’s rooster was losing some of its charm. It was around the time we began discussing moving to Portland that Hank came into our lives.
I was sitting at our dining-room table on a rainy April afternoon after work when I heard a car pull up, a couple of doors slam, and, just as quickly, the same car peel out. And all of a sudden, tied to the utility pole at the side of the house was a very large, extremely skinny, epically sad-looking dog.
I like dogs. I go to dog shows, I accost strangers on the street to pet their dogs; I have a kind of dog-specific Tourette syndrome that involves yelling “Cuuuute!” in the general direction of dogs I drive past. It’s a problem. I once spent five minutes cooing over a grumpy-looking English bulldog in Greenwich Village before even noticing that Adriana from The Sopranos was holding its leash. So, naturally, my first instinct with this dog was to run up and hug it. My second was to call Animal Care and Control and report an extremely big pit bull on my property. I mean, cute, yeah. But what was stopping this adorable creature from biting my face off with one snap of its giant, James Caan-esque jaws?
So I spent the next several hours on the phone. Animal Care and Control was closed for the weekend and the department's outgoing message instructed me to call 911 for any stray animals who could be considered dangerous or potentially dangerous. Speaking of potentially dangerous, you know who’s got much bigger fish to fry in Oakland on a Friday afternoon? 911. They told me to call the SPCA. Who told me to call private rescue agencies. And so on. The rescue places told me they were at capacity with pit bulls and pit mixes; the SPCA told me that the pit bull situation was so out of control in the city that if this dog didn’t pass Animal Care’s screening he would be destroyed immediately. And 911 more or less told me to jump up my own ass.
Meanwhile, people passing by my house yelled at me about how wrong it was that I had my dog leashed to a pole in the rain. And this dog was looking both sadder and sweeter by the minute. Jeff and I finally decided that we could move him into our basement for the night, give him some food, and see if he got along with Oscar. And that’s how Hank came to be our dog for a whole, semi-blissful week.
He was, indeed, a really sweet dog who, I like to think, was abandoned because of a Ferdinand the Bull–type refusal to fight. Or maybe his family just couldn’t afford to feed him. That wouldn’t surprise me, because frankly neither could we. This dog was never, ever full. Jeff once came into the basement to say hi, and found Hank kicking back, calmly eating a mirror, like, “Oh, hey. Mmm. Tasty. Got any more of these, perhaps in a Cool Ranch flavor?”
We named Hank and fattened him up and took him to get neutered so he’d be more adoptable, but we couldn’t keep him. Our own dog was not down with the interloper and had begun stonewalling us. Plus, he was too expensive. Plus, we were now definitely considering moving to a place where people would be less likely to abandon dogs on our lawn. So our adoption search began. We made him a MySpace page and listed his interests as “Getting adopted” and his turnoffs as “Not getting adopted.” Anyone who remembers how freaking insane MySpace was in 2006 won’t be surprised to hear that we were contacted almost immediately by two Mills college students. They showed up to meet him with a collar that I actually think was already personalized with his name, and all 110 pounds of him waggled and yipped and was like, Yes, hi, hey, I like you, do you have mirrors at your place?
So he left with them, and we haven’t seen him since. It’s actually a little weird that I spent more time embroidering his portrait than I actually spent with him. Hank’s two moms, if by some crazy chance you’re out there, let me know how my old pal is doing.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Boob Tube: The Weaning
As of a few weeks ago, I am no longer a nursing mother. I've heard quite a few woman say that ceasing to breastfeed their sprouts was a source of great sadness and melancholy; they miss the quiet bond, the togetherness. Harvey's daycare provider told me she cried the day her younger son decided he was done.
I'm sad for a different reason — now that I'm not awake for an hour or so every night, I have no idea how to manage all the television shows I've recorded on the old TiFaux. I've lost seven-plus hours of weekly TV that I either have to make up during waking hours (which, no) or just do without. Hence, my own weaning process as I go through the backlog of series recordings. What stays? What goes? I'm saying, it's an issue. And with two female-centric favorites starting back up tomorrow — Nurse Jackie and The United States of Tara — I've got to decide fast. So, on to the list.
Kell on Earth: Stays, obviously. I look forward to this show every week, and it has yet to disappoint. Where else am I going to watch a crazy woman freak out on her employees and then lean across her desk to say, "Let's not be afraid of the abundance we've created"? I mean, apart from going back in time 10 years and hanging out with my old boss?
House: It's become formulaic enough that it's begun mocking its own formula, but I don't care. Stays.
Parenthood: This is a tough one. I like family dramas about quirky people with pressing first-world problems as much as the next thirtysomething white lady (see also: Grey's Anatomy), but so far I'm underwhelmed. The main thing that's kept me watching so far is the fact that it's set in Berkeley and Oakland, so there's sometimes a glimpse of recognizable scenery, like Oscar's in the first episode. That's not really enough. Goes.
Life Unexpected: Same deal as Parenthood, except this one is set in Portland and is supposedly kind of Gilmore Girls-esque. Honestly, I don't remember anything about either episode I watched, so there's my answer.
Shear Genius: Project Runway, but with hair, in case you're unfamiliar with the premise. This is one of those shows that I started watching sometime during the delirium of a multi-month stretch where the kid was waking up to eat an average of twice a night, and I would wake up in the morning never quite sure if I had maybe just hallucinated the whole show. Did the contestants really have to style hair inspired by food? Did someone really just make reference to a cock ring? Why is everyone wearing leather pants? Who watches this? Yeah, it goes.
FlashForward: The first few episodes of this were so gripping that I was totally cool with being awakened twice in one night by a hungry, squalling baby. And then it had some sort of hiatus and I forgot about it and I watched a little bit the other night and one of the Hobbits was murdering Ricky Jay. Clearly, I've missed a lot. So bye, FlashForward; I'll catch up with you later on Netflix.
Modern Family: Stays, especially as I feel that I have much to learn from the parenting stylings of Mitchell and Cameron. I'm not even done relating to the whole Ferberizing episode.
Cougar Town: Surprisingly, stays, although I have convinced myself that I'm watching it "for work" and have yet to write about any aspect of it.
Parks and Recreation, 30 Rock: Usually the highlight of my week, and I'm not even talking about just the TV aspect of my week. I should probably be a lot more embarrassed by this.
Project Runway: Stays. Models of the Runway: Goes.
Grey's Anatomy: Feh. Goes.
The Late Show with Craig Ferguson: Sigh. The problem here is that is just doesn't feel right to watch this show during any time of day that doesn't qualify as wee hours. I haven't been following the whole late-night debacle lately, but I'd be psyched if they put Craig where Jay Leno used to be. I don't think he'll tank. Not with those hand puppets.
Any TLC or A&E show about compulsive hoarders: Should probably go, as it's time to own up to the fact that my guilty pleasure is not any of the shows previously listed. No, my most furtive hours of TV-watching involve people who cannot stop filling their homes with crap, sometimes literally. I decided I'd had enough when one episode of Hoarders featured a woman who watched as a cleanup crew wearing Hazmat gear unearthed one squashed, flat cat after another, and was all, "Huh, how did that get there?" And yet I've continued to record them. Maybe it's aversion therapy: The more I watch people reduced to cooking their dinners in the two square feet not taken up by wads of tinfoil and mountains of empty detergent containers, the more compelled I am to actually recycle my own piles of magazines.
(Not my house.)
Keeping Up With the Kardashians: Wait, really? How did that get there? Now I am embarrassed.
I'm sad for a different reason — now that I'm not awake for an hour or so every night, I have no idea how to manage all the television shows I've recorded on the old TiFaux. I've lost seven-plus hours of weekly TV that I either have to make up during waking hours (which, no) or just do without. Hence, my own weaning process as I go through the backlog of series recordings. What stays? What goes? I'm saying, it's an issue. And with two female-centric favorites starting back up tomorrow — Nurse Jackie and The United States of Tara — I've got to decide fast. So, on to the list.
Kell on Earth: Stays, obviously. I look forward to this show every week, and it has yet to disappoint. Where else am I going to watch a crazy woman freak out on her employees and then lean across her desk to say, "Let's not be afraid of the abundance we've created"? I mean, apart from going back in time 10 years and hanging out with my old boss?
House: It's become formulaic enough that it's begun mocking its own formula, but I don't care. Stays.
Parenthood: This is a tough one. I like family dramas about quirky people with pressing first-world problems as much as the next thirtysomething white lady (see also: Grey's Anatomy), but so far I'm underwhelmed. The main thing that's kept me watching so far is the fact that it's set in Berkeley and Oakland, so there's sometimes a glimpse of recognizable scenery, like Oscar's in the first episode. That's not really enough. Goes.
Life Unexpected: Same deal as Parenthood, except this one is set in Portland and is supposedly kind of Gilmore Girls-esque. Honestly, I don't remember anything about either episode I watched, so there's my answer.
Shear Genius: Project Runway, but with hair, in case you're unfamiliar with the premise. This is one of those shows that I started watching sometime during the delirium of a multi-month stretch where the kid was waking up to eat an average of twice a night, and I would wake up in the morning never quite sure if I had maybe just hallucinated the whole show. Did the contestants really have to style hair inspired by food? Did someone really just make reference to a cock ring? Why is everyone wearing leather pants? Who watches this? Yeah, it goes.
FlashForward: The first few episodes of this were so gripping that I was totally cool with being awakened twice in one night by a hungry, squalling baby. And then it had some sort of hiatus and I forgot about it and I watched a little bit the other night and one of the Hobbits was murdering Ricky Jay. Clearly, I've missed a lot. So bye, FlashForward; I'll catch up with you later on Netflix.
Modern Family: Stays, especially as I feel that I have much to learn from the parenting stylings of Mitchell and Cameron. I'm not even done relating to the whole Ferberizing episode.
Cougar Town: Surprisingly, stays, although I have convinced myself that I'm watching it "for work" and have yet to write about any aspect of it.
Parks and Recreation, 30 Rock: Usually the highlight of my week, and I'm not even talking about just the TV aspect of my week. I should probably be a lot more embarrassed by this.
Project Runway: Stays. Models of the Runway: Goes.
Grey's Anatomy: Feh. Goes.
The Late Show with Craig Ferguson: Sigh. The problem here is that is just doesn't feel right to watch this show during any time of day that doesn't qualify as wee hours. I haven't been following the whole late-night debacle lately, but I'd be psyched if they put Craig where Jay Leno used to be. I don't think he'll tank. Not with those hand puppets.
Any TLC or A&E show about compulsive hoarders: Should probably go, as it's time to own up to the fact that my guilty pleasure is not any of the shows previously listed. No, my most furtive hours of TV-watching involve people who cannot stop filling their homes with crap, sometimes literally. I decided I'd had enough when one episode of Hoarders featured a woman who watched as a cleanup crew wearing Hazmat gear unearthed one squashed, flat cat after another, and was all, "Huh, how did that get there?" And yet I've continued to record them. Maybe it's aversion therapy: The more I watch people reduced to cooking their dinners in the two square feet not taken up by wads of tinfoil and mountains of empty detergent containers, the more compelled I am to actually recycle my own piles of magazines.
(Not my house.)
Keeping Up With the Kardashians: Wait, really? How did that get there? Now I am embarrassed.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Jellyfish are the new owls
So I've been working on this theory that, in terms of the hot new indie-craft animal mascot, jellyfish are poised to knock owls off their twee little branches. I love owls as much as anyone else raised on Tootsie Pop advertising and "Give a Hoot, Don't Pollute" environmentalism, but there's a saturation point for everything and owls may have reached it.
Anyway, I wanted to be on the early side of what I'm predicting will be a jellyfish explosion, craft-wise. (I just looked on Etsy, and found 44 pages of results for "jellyfish," while "owl" yields 842 pages.) I've been embroidering some baby t-shirts:
I'm not super happy with either, which probably has to do with the fact that the t-shirts themselves were bought secondhand and most of the composition is a result of trying to cover up various mysterious stains. (People whose babies I may be giving these shirts to, please know that they are, in fact, washed and clean. I'm trying to avoid buying new t-shirts from American Apparel for myriad reasons — shady labor practices, sleazy-ass CEO, vomitously sexist advertising, etc.) — but no one else seems to sell blank t-shirts.)
I actually don't think jellyfish will ever outpace the owl as far as craft iconitude, for the same reason the octopus (Etsy page count: 190) won't: jellyfish are fucking terrifying. Have you ever seen one? Even the dead ones I've seen give me the shivers. Even the baby dead ones. And if you've ever read Starring Sally J. Freeman As Herself...well, the Man O' War scene is like the prepubescent girl's Jaws. (Unless you also saw Jaws as a prepubescent girl, in which case you, like me, probably haven't been a fan of oceans since.) That's why these jellyfish are smiling. And, you know, made of thread.
Anyway, I wanted to be on the early side of what I'm predicting will be a jellyfish explosion, craft-wise. (I just looked on Etsy, and found 44 pages of results for "jellyfish," while "owl" yields 842 pages.) I've been embroidering some baby t-shirts:
I'm not super happy with either, which probably has to do with the fact that the t-shirts themselves were bought secondhand and most of the composition is a result of trying to cover up various mysterious stains. (People whose babies I may be giving these shirts to, please know that they are, in fact, washed and clean. I'm trying to avoid buying new t-shirts from American Apparel for myriad reasons — shady labor practices, sleazy-ass CEO, vomitously sexist advertising, etc.) — but no one else seems to sell blank t-shirts.)
I actually don't think jellyfish will ever outpace the owl as far as craft iconitude, for the same reason the octopus (Etsy page count: 190) won't: jellyfish are fucking terrifying. Have you ever seen one? Even the dead ones I've seen give me the shivers. Even the baby dead ones. And if you've ever read Starring Sally J. Freeman As Herself...well, the Man O' War scene is like the prepubescent girl's Jaws. (Unless you also saw Jaws as a prepubescent girl, in which case you, like me, probably haven't been a fan of oceans since.) That's why these jellyfish are smiling. And, you know, made of thread.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Grandparents!
I finally finished my portrait of Briar's grandparents. How cute are these people? I really hope I did them justice in the portrait.
There really are few things cuter than a.) elderly people who are clearly in love, b.) elderly people wearing jeans or pocket protectors, and c.) elderly people riding bicycles. I couldn't really get bicycles (or jeans, really) into this portrait because I had to be true to the subjects, but lucky me, Briar's grandfather was rocking not one but TWO pocket protectors in the source photo she gave me. Cute squared.
Jeff did some fancy-schmancy selective-focus close-ups. I definitely had the most fun doing the trees, probably because I could chill out, watch my Project Runway, and not worry about whether I was getting the likeness right or putting too much cleavage on Nonna.
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