I am utterly.
Turns out that the print I coveted below is a rendition of a painting by a famous Canadian landscape artist named Lawren Harris. I know the print is different, I know it’s an interpretation, I know that it was inspired–and fully attributed to–the original.
Still, I can’t help but feel it’s cheating. Plus, compared to the painting, the print looks like a tawdry Elvis impersonator.
Here’s the original oil:
There are so many things wrong with this post that I don’t know where to begin.
Editing a talented 7 years old writer’s stories
Date: 2005-03-08, 11:49AM PST
We are seeking a local(able to drive to Redmond) editor/writer to work with our seven years old writer who has written about 300 stories, total 150,000 words. You need to be familiar with Children literature and current market, experience in submitting material to publishers. Please send sample of your writing (if you have some writing related to children’s literature would be great), resume and cover letter. We are particularly interested in finding a writer/editor to sit down with our daughter to go over her writings to give her professional suggestions so she can improve and polish her writings. She is a very pleasant and gifted writer. If you love history, it’s a plus.
And I am lying on the couch basking in the sun and wishing I didn’t have to go to work …
Still, we’re all happy. Steve got a 7.5 percent raise yesterday. The dog got a mouthful of decaying turtle. (Yechh. He wasn’t so happy with the face scrub afterwards.) And I continue to get the satisfaction of not having killed my happily sprouting seedlings. Loofahs and tomatoes and spinach, OH MY!
This is a series of prints by an artist named Tuula Moilanen who I think MUST be a yogalite. I think they’re pretty cute, and may even get one for my mother.
Available at the Verne Gallery.
I have become a weird pug person: I have more pictures of the dog than of my boyfriend; when people ask how I am, they extend their question to the dog; I am currently worried that he is cold outside (it was sunny when I left, cold when I got to work).
Imagine my relief, therefore, when I found out that I am not alone.
Otherwise known as the bone of contention.
I just wanted to paint the walls and the floor. Steve insisted on remudding the crooked dryall. We were at a standoff for weeks. But finally, I’ve finished painting the walls a bright apple green. Then I ripped up the carpet because we’re just going to paint the floor white.
Only to find the most noxious orange. Steve insists the wall color I chose is noxious too, and with the two in conjunction, he’s right: it feels like you’re in Baskin Robbins sherbert hell.
And thus continues the slow, downward spiral into becoming my mother.
As if it’s not enough to wander around, asking, “Where are my keys? What did you do with my coffee?” Or to find myself using the same mannerisms. Or, oh horrors, bossing people around with an identical highhandedness. No, this morning found me running around the house in feverish anticipation of our new cleaning lady just like my mother used to do. “Why?” I used to ask. “She’s here to clean.” My mother would just shrug and tell me to pick up my room.
Now, of course, I know the answer: It’s too embarrassing to admit the squalor one normally lives in.
To make matters worse, Mirabella (sp?) never showed. Her husband assured us they would call around noon. No call. I was at our come-to-Jesus Mount Holyoke board meeting when Steve finally left to buy hostas (don’t ask, new obsession). And now I’m sitting on the couch, breathing in the scent of my potted hyacinths, but sorely disappointed. I was so looking forward to a professionally-scrubbed house.
Oh, well. At least it’s neat. Compliments of my mitochondrial DNA.
