Pink Prickly Pear

In which I stop being judgmental about your kid's graffiti.

My boy loves to vacuum. I've also caught him in the act of cleaning up his spills (he prefers to drink from a regular cup all by himself).  He opens the bottom drawer, pulls out a dishtowel and goes to town mopping up.  All I have to say is...SCORE.

That said, I've become one of those moms.  Without a doubt, ours has become one of those houses with stickers and crayon markings on the furniture and walls.  I have to confess that on more than one occasion I've glanced over at his hijinks and sighed, "Well at least he's occupied and I know where he is for five minutes.  I can always wipe that wall down later."  

And then I breathe.  Nice and slow.

Not the Sweet Pickles of my childhood.

When I wasn't pulling weeds, or coaxing the boy, I got a bit lost in this lovely site.  Their yarn looks scrumptious (yes, scrumptious) and hey, lots and lots of free patterns too!

I think I want to make a Puff Daddy first.

Book Review Haiku

Doris Lessing is

so depressing.  It's a shame

'bout Mara and Dann.

Speaking of hot property...

What can I get for these motorcycle frames someone dumped in my driveway?

All I weekend I thought they belonged to my neighbor's boyfriend (we share the driveway) and was wondering why he'd been such an (uncharacteristic) ass, moving them right in front of our garage door.

This morning, I bumped into him outside and he asked what those things were in the drive.  He'd wondered why we'd been such (uncharacteristic) asses, leaving them right in front of the gate he uses to access the backyard.

So the question remains, who dumped these motorcycle frames in my driveway?  They are clearly stolen, as someone took the trouble to sand off what must be the motorcycle VIN number (or equivalent).

Mondays are...

trying.

How many times can I make a little snack for the boy, only to have him either spit it out, throw it on the floor, humor me with one bite, or turn resolutely away from it?  I don't know, but the boy's got to eat, hasn't he?  I should mention that the majority of the time these are little snacks he has gestured towards emphatically.  He has grasped my hand in his and yanked on the fridge door, or attempted to scale the kitchen drawers in an effort to reach a container on the counter.  He has wailed impatiently while I unwrapped, or washed, or sliced, or heated up...and then...

Breathing.  Breathing is good.  As is not thinking about waste.

Naptime is for de-cluttering.

We had a roof leak - I won't complain, because that would be pretty gauche, considering many of you are practically experiencing avalanche conditions - but it did mean I had to move a bunch of stuff out of the wet zone.  I detest moving stuff.  I always feel slightly suffocated by my belongings, but even more so when I have to actively confront the heft of them.

I'm chipping away.  Last week, a box of books donated to the library.  Yesterday, gently used baby clothes passed along to expectant mama friend.  Two boxes set aside for an AMVets pick-up on Monday.  

I never think to look through our art supplies (with an eye towards culling anything), but the other day, I noticed that more than a few of my brushes were all stiff (pesky kids!).  I chucked a couple of brushes, but then got side tracked by the discovery of all my old intaglio etching plates.  There must be somewhere to recycle these, but the internet will not reveal this information to me.  Maybe just a scrap metal dealer?  Aren't the junkies always looking for copper to hawk?

Age is a state of mind

It's pretty darn inspiring to see a trio of svelte and strong middle aged women stride down the middle of my road, well worn surfboards under their arms, in bare feet and wet suits.

It's overcast and the sea is grey.  These ladies are hardcore.

Valentine's sweatshop

 

I love, love, love (or should I say "luv") how these turned out!  I think I love the big printed sheet even more than the individual Valentines.  If I weren't renting, I might insist on a stamped wall of hearts somewhere.

We had to shut the door on a certain someone in order to complete the project unmolested.  It didn't stop him from scampering in this morning and attempting to put my little press bed through its paces. "Monkey see, monkey do".   D'anjou cannot resist tools of any kind.  

 

How cool would a family print shop be?

Put 'em on the glass!

 

It's an artsy-fartsy evening at Chez Pear.  Actually, it's artsy-fartsy downstairs.  Upstairs, I think there's some operation involving the removal of all the bath water.  

Not down the drain. That would be too easy.

Min-Pear is going into mass production for her Valentines this year.  She created a design to cut into a linoleum block.  We only had black ink, but she worked out a creative solution with a washy red background. While we were working earlier, I realized I have been carting around the glass palette in the above photo (towards the rear of the workbench, with the brayer resting on it) since my first year in art school!  It's a piece of glass I had cut at Hechingers down the road from my mum and dad's.  I meant to reinforce the edges with duct tape, but ran out mid-way through the third side. I'm only slightly amused that in almost 20 years, I've never seen fit to finish the job. 

Check in tomorrow, for photos of the finished product;)

Disregard if hearing about my dirty dream last night holds no interest.

It was sooooo dirty!

I hired a man to come and clean our ceiling fans.  After inspecting them all from the top of a ladder, he asked where I kept our vacuum cleaner.  I brought it to him and he used it to clean off the blades.

"I could have done that myself!" I protested.

"But you didn't," he smirked.