Thursday, April 28, 2011

The Science of Description

Description is a science. There are rules.

Example: you have to get the details, which is as difficult as embroidering a bee on to lace. You have to get "beeness" across even though you are using thread, and a needle, and the base is lace, and bees are made of flesh.

Its an impossible task, really.

And so easy to make the bee look more like a polka dot.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Perfume Review: Flowerbomb

Like the bloodhound, like the male moth, I have a powerful schnozzle.

So I figured I'd perfume review, starting today, starting right now with a scent strip from the inside of InStyle Magazine that I smelled from a distance of the length of a football field.

Most reviewers identify top, middle, and bottom notes and evoke sensual comparisons, but like the male moth I have not a clue if Flowerbomb is a floral chypre mossy oak with hints of schist that reminds me of a child's yellow marble or an Oriental wet orchid hybrid that brings to mind an evening dancing at low tide in the market with someone I've just met.

Friends, all I know is that wearing it was, for me, like being in a hot delivery truck of cheese and cherry Danish.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Bum Ice

My vertebral column is not what it once was as you, dear reader, know well. I have DDD (degenerative disk disease), a herniated disk in my neck, and (but wait...there's more!!!) an ill-healed coccyx and sacral cysts.

It's the subject of sacral cysts I turn to today. They are literally a pain in the ass and therefore, since I want to have a life despite the pain, and live with a shred of dignity, I have become a bum icer.

Like other (the few, the proud) bum icers I use what I can: frozen peas, fancy ice packs from the chiropractor, frozen shredded coconut, you know, whatever. I'm omnivorous.

Wouldn't you know, I chose frozen shredded coconut as my bum ice of choice for my son's recent school picnic. The cool rectangle was perfect: so thin, so unobtrusive 'neath my mom jeans, it was almost like I was wearing nothing, no assistive devices whatsoever.

But lo, I was soon sitting in a pool of sweet, delicious, coconut milk, with a lot of explaining to do. Bum ice.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Pink Out

I've been dressing my daughter in pink since she was newborn, on cultural autopilot, without thinking. And here I thought I was a discerning adult woman, a skeptic of all things labeled "girl."

I went to Smith in the 90s, when Riot Grrrl was rampant and we were all daughters of mothers who at macrame consciousness raisers in the 70s checked out their own cervixes (cervixi?) and marched for a better, more egalitarian Eden.

At that time, when we were 19, we thought we could punk rock in an apron. Some of my friends quilted ferociously. I made Barbara Kruger-esque collages and font-nerded out making bold and sans serif the word DENTATA.

The womanhood that was waiting for us seemed rigorous, raw and lionine. Dare I name the band Hole?

Little girls today wear sparkle-plastic heels and ballet-pink nails and twirl. Pink! Pink back when I was coming of age was fuschia, gnarly, chipped.

What have I been spoon-feeding my daughter? Princesses, fairies, "prettyness" and a distinct lack of body-knowledge, I think. Without Peggy Orenstein's great book Cinderella Are My Daughter I would still have my head in the soft pink sand of modern girlhood. It's just so soft, and pink.

What happened to the righteousness and momentum of the 70s, to the 3rd wave of feminism on which I surfed? My daughter is too young to make a purchase, so why am I purchasing for her heels? Pink boas? Why are any of us? Let's stop before we slap down another dollar for Disney, and save it instead for the future which is we want our daughters to be able to think for themselves.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Art, Work, Children

Children's imaginations are expansively outside the box, where green can be the color of sky and hair. Maybe the sky has hair. It's perpetually groovy where they live.

Before I knew better I'd say, "That's our house!" And my son would look at me as if a better place for me might be the zoo. I would reconsider, remember the advice of parenting books and say, "Is that a house?"
He would continue to stare at me, dumfounded that I didn't get what he'd drawn was The Batmobile. "That red square is the bat elevator." Then he added, "That's where the inventing happens."
"What inventing?"
"You know."
"I don't know. Do bats invent?"

He'd look at me as one considers a fence post, and then he'd run off to his friends who plainly got The Batmobile, leaving me to muse on Picasso: "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up."