It's finally getting chilly. The heat in our bedroom is slow to warm, which means when we first head to bed, Jon and I are usually snuggled up like a pair of earthworms. By midnight, the covers are gone and we're both dangling off opposite sides of the bed with a white sheet desert between us.
Before that happens, I am in danger of serious scarring from Jon's toenails. Which I also like to call his steak knives.
As in: "Ow, watch the steak knives!" [Uttered verbatim last night.]
The steak knives are so sharp I fear waking with permanent, unsightly gouges on my calves, should Jon have a particularly violent karate nightmare. I'm also considering giving up shaving the bottom half of my legs altogether, as it no longer appears necessary. That one's a plus.
Anticipating the long, cold winters here, I've now added rubber legwarmers to my Christmas list.
This morning Jon told me:
I grow them out as a weapon. They are a form of protection.
I have no words.
Wednesday
Tuesday
Upcoming
An amuse bouche, if you will, of the Badger/Purdue game a few weeks back . . .
Chilling at the bar before the game at 10:30 AM . . .
The Badger mascot got in on the fun, dressed as a ghost.
More on Camp Randall and the Big Ten game later.
Have a great day!
Monday
Early Bird Special
Here's a taste of our daily schedule in good ole 'Sconsin:
5:15 AM: Get up, Jon showers, I feed Houston and myself and diddle around 'til he's ready.
I did. I went and wrote diddle.
5:50 AM: Drive Jon to work.
6:00 AM: Get back into bed. Sleep diagonally and on 6 pillows. Because I can.
7:45 AM: Get up again. Dress, etc. and head out for work on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Get ready for chiropractor appointments and errands on Wednesdays and Fridays.
9:00 - 5:30 PM: Work and stuff.
5:45 PM:
Jon: I'm hungry. What's for dinner?
Moi: Takeout.
Jon: Hilarious, pauper.
Moi: Fine. I will cook for you, but I can promise you it won't be as tasty as Izumi's sushi!
Jon: Nice try. I'll do the dishes.
Moi: God. Fine.
Jon: (Sigh.) I can't wait 'til Friday.
Moi: Why? Because we eat out on the weekends?
Jon: No.
Bus-ted.
In an effort to keep our bodies in line with this very rigorous schedule, we eat out at 6:00 PM on the weekends. On the plus side we hit the happy hour dinner special nine times out of ten. On the down side, by 7:30, our stomachs are full, we've exhausted whatever peoplewatching is available and we're usually getting pushed out by the teenage waitress.
If we're really on a bender and decide to try a new place for a beer, we might make it to 9:30 PM.
At which point Jon starts yawning and I remind myself we are cool on the inside.
And more importantly, that sleep keeps wrinkles at bay.
Botox shmotox. I'm practically de-aging at this point.
5:15 AM: Get up, Jon showers, I feed Houston and myself and diddle around 'til he's ready.
I did. I went and wrote diddle.
5:50 AM: Drive Jon to work.
6:00 AM: Get back into bed. Sleep diagonally and on 6 pillows. Because I can.
7:45 AM: Get up again. Dress, etc. and head out for work on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Get ready for chiropractor appointments and errands on Wednesdays and Fridays.
9:00 - 5:30 PM: Work and stuff.
5:45 PM:
Jon: I'm hungry. What's for dinner?
Moi: Takeout.
Jon: Hilarious, pauper.
Moi: Fine. I will cook for you, but I can promise you it won't be as tasty as Izumi's sushi!
Jon: Nice try. I'll do the dishes.
Moi: God. Fine.
Jon: (Sigh.) I can't wait 'til Friday.
Moi: Why? Because we eat out on the weekends?
Jon: No.
Bus-ted.
In an effort to keep our bodies in line with this very rigorous schedule, we eat out at 6:00 PM on the weekends. On the plus side we hit the happy hour dinner special nine times out of ten. On the down side, by 7:30, our stomachs are full, we've exhausted whatever peoplewatching is available and we're usually getting pushed out by the teenage waitress.
If we're really on a bender and decide to try a new place for a beer, we might make it to 9:30 PM.
At which point Jon starts yawning and I remind myself we are cool on the inside.
And more importantly, that sleep keeps wrinkles at bay.
Botox shmotox. I'm practically de-aging at this point.
Sunday
Friday
Sharon Core
Discovered Sharon Core's "Early American" photography series via The Moment blog on NY Times.com.
Core's photographs are inspired by the paintings of American artist Raphaelle Peale (1774-1825). She grows her own heirloom fruits, flowers and vegetables and sources the vessels from auctions in order to locate the exact container or as similar food as would have been prevalent in Peale's time. Since Core does not use any digital assistance, her pieces must be timed perfectly to reflect the shadow, ripeness and bloom of the original painting.
Talk about patience.
From The Moment:
The photographs are completely traditional, involving no digital media whatsoever, so I am staging the “reality” of an early-19th-century painting in terms of lighting, subject matter and scale. This requires a lot of planning in advance of the moment of exposure. The paintings on which they are modeled were painstakingly painted to appear as real as possible, so I go to great pains to come at the image from another direction — to mirror it, so to speak.
Here's a comparison of an original Peale and Core's modern interpretation:
Raphaelle Peale: Melons and Morning Glories
Sharon Core: Melons and Morning Glories
This type of morning glory lives only one day - blooming in the morning and fading in the evening. Uh, someone likes a challenge.
More from "Early American":
I mean, this looks like a straight-up painting.
I love this one. And the berries up top.
Photos from Yancey Richardson Gallery.
I think these are simply awesome. I would love one for the house (what a way to show traditional taste with a modern twist).
Hah! That'll happen!
Check out Core's NYC exhibit at the the Hermes store gallery on Madison Avenue.
Wednesday
A Birthday Wish
A birthday wish for our dear friend Landon Schmitt, who passed away this summer.
Landon was our best friend, a groomsman in our wedding, a college roommate to each of us, an adventurer, a traveler and always, the life of the party. Boy, did he love that dance floor.
And the dance floor loved him right back.
You are always missed, Dones.
xoxo, us
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