Lovelihood

On Fridays, when the kids are mercifully entrusted in the care of Montessori-preaching professionals, and my own crafty projects are under control if not all wrapped up, I sometimes trek up to the chinese restaurant and then to coffee shop where I might get in a spot of writing or reading or whatever. Other times, like today, it feels much cozier to just stay in and spend some quality time with the pinking shears.

Y? Because we're still working on Valentines, of course. I'd started with the intention of completely eradicating all trace of the berry red paint from the type (maybe brushing it ocd-style with an old toothbrush), because it seems so demeaning for something so stolid as timeworn metal type to be stained with something so petty as craft-store fabric paint. But, y'know, juxtaposition and all. I kinda like it.

We took the freshly carved block out for a spin today, first in a cheap-o stamp pad that had miraculously not gone dry in the year since I last used it, then in proper block-printing ink in an undeniable red. Even managed not to make a horrific mess. Unfortunately, either the ink went on too thick, or some of the carving ended up too fine, so remediation will be required before Valentines can go out.

I mock dismembered-doll artists. Any artist, really, who photographs or paints or makes attempts at any kind of artistic rendering of Barbies or Kewpies or "mama"-blathering droidlets. It's tired and creepy and really not all that interesting. And here I am, at nine on a Tuesday night, wandering desperately around the house trying to find the day's shot before I peter out entirely and get sucked into the couch and, for hour or two, stare into iPads and televisions. In the corner of the couch, in what is pretty much the darkest corner of our home, is where Bear has left her baby doll, and it's actually the only interesting shot on the camera this evening. Go figure.

This year's provisions for Valentine card exchanges sit waiting for fulfillment in the fancy little foil-lined box that once held a few dozen Parisian macarons.

While other members of the household were taking in sports and chicken (it's not that I have no interest in football, it's just that this particular match-up held no interest for me), I holed myself up in the workroom and started carving up a block. It's something that greatly pleases me, despite the pain it embeds in my shoulders and neck, and also despite the nagging feeling that the linoleum particles I'm introducing to my immediate atmosphere will one day give me cancer, like dislodging asbestos flakes from the ceiling by repeatedly tossing a throw pillow at it to achieve precisely that, which I also used to do.

The little man's looking sassy today, no? (This is the sort of photo that happens when it's late and I'm tired and I haven't picked up the camera all day.)