I just returned from Alt Summit, a business conference for pioneering and rookie bloggers held last week in Salt Lake City. It was unlike any conference I've attended and I look forward to sharing some of the good stuff in my next post. But for now, indulge me for a moment to gush about one aspect of this conference that really stood out. The flowers! They were everywhere, used to creative effect in unexpected places and generally lending a dreamy and luscious quality to the whole event. All of the young lovelies in attendance adorned themselves with flowers and I felt like I was at a midsummer festival in Scandinavia. It was girly and wonderful.
All photos by Justin Hackworth and Brooke Dennis.
This is an all points bulletin. My finger puppets, last seen above in front of Cinderella's Castle in Orlando Florida, are AWOL.
Somewhere in the Magic Kingdom, I left them, careless mother that I am. And not the first time either. Once, years ago, I lost a human child in Disney World. Every staff member within a 2-mile radius sprang into action and George was found quicker than you could say bob's your uncle.
Not quite that reaction from the staff this time.
This is a huge issue for me but maybe you're with the staff on this one. Do you care? Have you ever cared? Have you just tolerated these puppets this whole time and now you're secretly relieved?
It's late on a Thursday night, and I've just spent a good three hours trying to track down information about Dorothy McNab, the designer of the vintage skirts above. I'm Ryan Gosling as K in Bladerunner 2049, and I know that if I keep looking, the internet will give up its secrets.
(Did you realize you have to pay a hefty fee to search the archives of old newspapers? Shouldn't that be public domain?)
The story of the designer of these skirts shall be revealed soon. But first, let's get to the owner of them.
Well, this has been coming for some time now. I'm up to my eyeballs. Overwhelmed. As I get busier with some larger long-term projects and some outside work, I need someone to assist with the day-to-day running of my blog and shop.
If you don't mind working with a perpetual procrastinator, if you have a sense of humor, if you don't shy away from smoke bombs, please consider applying. This position will be 10-15 hours / week with some hours spent in my at-home studio and some hours spent working remotely.
I am a procrastinator, and maybe you are too. We are everywhere. Did you know that Charles Darwin took twenty years to write "Origin of Species"? Experts refer to the time between his voyage on The Beagle and the publication of his masterpiece as "the incredible procrastination."
My husband Gary -- sound asleep in the photo above -- is what is known as a pre-crastinator. He finishes assignments ahead of schedule, which according to his defective internal clock, is finishing on time. He loves order, punctuality, regularity.
You are a tourist when you walk through a museum. You marvel and gawk. Standing in front of a famous statue, you know there is more to the object than its surface. You wonder how the sculptor chiseled away the marble's negative space to reveal the goddess within. Perhaps curators at museums prefer a little intellectual distance between the art and the tourist. Maybe our ignorance intensifies the mystery behind the art.
This gap between art and visitor does not exist when it comes to quilts. We are as familiar with fabric as we are with our own skin. We understand the physics of a needle and thread. We can't see the cotton batting between the front and back of the quilt but there's no mystery to it. Perhaps this is why quilting is called the democratic art.
Last week on the blog, I sponsored a contest with delicious salted caramel chocolate brownies for a prize. This week, I entered a contest myself. It's all very exciting! It is a writing contest, and my entry is due on Saturday at the stroke of midnight. Very Marty McFly, isn't it?
New Orleans is a colorful city. Not just the buildings. Not just the music. But the people. It is a stewpot jambalaya. Stay away if you can't handle a little spice.
Our trip was short but sweeeet! Our youngest son, George, is a jazz musician and we were fortunate enough to hang out with a couple of his musician friends, longtime natives Wes and Desi Anderson. Wes teaches music at Loyola University, and we loved the bulletin board (photo below) hanging outside his office. Wes and Desi steered us to many of their favorite spots. Their recommendations were so great, I thought they were worth sharing with all of you:
Over the holidays, we had a house full of people. Besides our own five grown children, we hosted five other individuals and a dog. It meant next to near constant shopping for food, cooking food, putting food away, and then starting over. Also, note to self: one can never have too many towels.
When it came to sleeping arrangements, everyone made do. Our sons' bedrooms are very little changed from their teen years. Our guests enjoyed graffitied walls, chrome hubcap collages, and polaroid picture displays.
It got me thinking about being an adult guest in a child's room. What follows are some interesting kid rooms that I rate as an adult occupant.
I love the photo of Lynne, (above) and the way she gazes steadfastly at the camera. You really loved this photo of a woman by a lake wearing a photo of a lake. There's something mysterious about her eyes, don't you think? (Click here to read the post.)
We are all drawn to people with mystery. Did you know that you readers are a great mystery to me? Every Friday, after I publish a post, my husband and I spend the evening talking about the interesting things you write or the unexpected way you interact with my content. You never fail to surprise me. it is delightful, actually, to never know what to expect from you. It keeps me on my toes.
I just moved son #3 cross-country to Washington D.C. He deeply disappointed me by taking almost none of the wonderful things I've been storing expressly for his first post-college apartment. In typical millennial fashion, he thinks he knows what's what when it comes to good stuff. That he gave a thumbs-down to the Lillian August wingback chair that I nursed him in is evidence of the contrary.
"What's the ruffly thing on it?" he asked.
"That's called a chair skirt, and if you don't like it, we can just cut it off," I said, pulling up the fabric to reveal four perfect hardwood legs underneath.
"It's grandma-y," he said. "I think I'll pass."