Rooful.

Process shots.

I finished.

Two days ago, I didn't think I would. And I cried and cried.

But I thought through my approach, made up a game plan, took a three-hour nap, then got to work.

And I finished. And it looks pretty good.

I had an interview this morning. I think it went all right. They seemed to like my stuff (my portfolio, not my paintings. Those will be assessed separately, by a blind jury.)

It's hard to tell, really.

Their faces fell when I mentioned I have a baby.

Oh, did I say I have a baby? I meant a dog. I have a dog.

Then they told me about how demanding the schedule can be sometimes, working in theatre.

Yes, well. Did you look at that resume you're holding? I've been working in theatre for eighteen years. More if you count pre-college stuff. I'm aware of the demanding schedule. Thanks, though.

I did not say any of this, fortunately. Even though I hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time for three days. While also having a baby. Amazing, huh?

But it's done. I handed over my work, with two projects I fully stand behind and one that is passable (the middle one-- turns out it's hard to jump right back into painting at a large scale, with time constraints, when I haven't done it in years. It sucks to have to turn in my learning curve, but ah well. The third one was good. And I finished it in less than half the time of the second one.)

I turned in my projects. They're theirs now. And now all I can do is wait.

So I feel somewhat relieved, in that I got all this work done, especially, since it really didn't seem possible that I would just a few days ago. But I don't get to thoroughly relax, because now they're deliberating, and I won't know how I did for some time.

But it's out of my hands. For good and for bad.

The tough part is that if I don't get in, I won't know if it's because I did a really crap verion of faux marble for their delectation, or if it's because I whiffed the interview, or if it's simply because they only need so many new members and I don't make the cut.

But I made my way back to the subway, at which point the juice that had gotten me to my appointment and seen me through my interview drained. I sat down on the train and passed into a coma. Miraculously, I woke up just in time to make my transfer, and then again to get off the train and stumble home.

I tried to sit on the couch to talk to J and spend a little time with my boy-o, but I passed out again. A few hours later, I woke up with cramps from the weird position I was in, and I made it to my bed, at which point I collapsed until midnight.

My hips hurt, from hours of sitting Indian-style to paint the last project. My back is sore. My eyes are dry. And my house is beyond messy.

Large-scale paintings, a husband working from home, and a five-month old baby, all in a New York one-bedroom... Yeah. It looks... I'll let you picture it.

But. I finished. Did I mention I finished? Yeah.

And just over two years ago, I was going to make this attempt, and I never got this far. Life and sickness intervened.

So. I accomplished something I've wanted to do for years. And even if it never goes any further than this, well. Look at my life.

A husband, working from home. And a baby. A beautiful baby boy, who likes to watch me paint. Seriously. J would set him up in his bouncy chair, and Sprog would be entertained for hours, intently watching my process.

So much better than a dog, you guys.

Crapaclysm.

Sometimes it seems like all I can do, just keeping us from being buried under an avalanche of dirty clothes and great toppling stacks of dishes.

I'm working on some art projects, due at the end of the week-- which is eating up the rest of my time, and my calm outlook. Not to mention all the free space in the apartment. Which is why keeping the tidal wave of crap at bay is especially important.

Well, and the baby. He's another reason to try to stay afloat. When it was just J and me, flotsam and debris weren't so much of a concern. We'd just grab on to a big hunk of driftwood, and watch the TV as it floated past.

better than ice cream.

The Dark Fire will not avail you! And neither will throwing out my ice cream, or tossing my bath towel on the floor!

A friend just asked a group of us if we remembered our first emails from our respective honeys.

Well, honestly, email was only just becoming a thing regular people did when J and I first met. Which makes me feel like I must have been too busy outrunning dinosaurs at the time to try newfangled things like electronic communication. But the question brought to mind this little memory nugget, that hasn't yet found a place in some larger story:

After our first date, long,long ago, J called my apartment, and one of my evil roommates decided to pretend to be me on the phone, and act like she'd never heard of him. It had been a pretty fabulous first date, so he was understandably confused and crushed. I ran into him on the street a few days later, and we figured out what had happened.

We're lucky Boston's a small town, I think. We might have missed each other.

Unless it was fate.

This same roommate tried to get me in trouble with my mom (this was third year of college) by talking about how I couldn't come to the phone because I was out all night with a different guy each time. I found out about this months later, from Mom. Apparently, she just said, "That's my girl!" and told them to tell me she'd called.

Haters gonna hate. Or whatever it is the kids are saying these days...

Snapshot.

Getting the Sprog dressed today was a bit of an endeavor.

In the same way that one manufacturer's size 10 is another's size 8, baby clothing sizes are all over the map. And the Sprog seems to be passing through some weird no-man's land, where some of our 3months onesies are still fine, but he sometimes needs 9months pants to cover his legs.

He's got his first case of the the sniffles, too, so I was looking to make him comfortable.

I should also point out that laundry hasn't happened in a while, so we were plumbing the weird hand-me-down/strange gift section of the Sprog's wardrobe.

What should you wear today? Your pastel turn-of-the-century bathing strongman ensemble? Let's see...

Hm. I dont think this fits you anymore. I can't get the singlet to stay snapped...

I got it, eventually. But the neckline was pulled below his baby nips, and the diaper looked uncomfortably bunched. Baby Borat. Sprog seemed happy enough, but,

I don't think I can do this to you. And it already smells like you need a change, so...

Hey, how about these?

I pulled out his Thanksgiving T-shirt, taupe, with long sleeves, that says "Gobble Gobble Gobble" in autumn tones, and denim overalls that claimed to be 6months but that only reached just past where his kneecaps would be if babies had kneecaps. Then I pulled on some of his beige and brown camo socks.

Wow. My baby's in shorteralls. If you had tiny Doc Martens, you'd look just like your mom did in college. Of course, I didn't have a fluffy blond mullet...

You look like a mini Martha Plimpton.

Aw! The littlest lesbian!

Don't worry. I won't take your picture.

This time.

I'll take Potpourri for $500, Alex.

I've been sitting in front of my laptop, avoiding a post I'd theoretically like to write about comments policy and my thoughts about the policing of internet speech- influenced by this post at Anil Dash, as well as recent and long-past online socializing faux-pas (mine), and a surprising but pleasing request to become a moderator at an online forum I frequent.

Thoughts. I have them.

Unfortunately, I also have a head that is mostly filled with glue. Also, my right ear seems to be occupied by a tiny gnome, who allows sounds to squeal out the stretched opening of a pink balloon at a one-second delay from the left-side input. If I were Steve Reich, I might find this off-kilter stereo effect enchanting, rather than dizzying, mildly painful, and fucking annoying. Not to mention distracting, which is why I'm still sitting here, clicking from window to window, unable to assemble anything worthwhile.

So. I've decided to tell you about the balloon-wielding gnome who lives in my right ear, instead. Crazy, right?

Speaking of, my FIL left a message on J's phone, telling him I'd sent FIL a letter, and he'd like to talk to him about it.

Not me. J. That's strange, don't you think?

Honestly, I didn't expect him to contact me. I'd put 90% odds on my MIL calling J about it. But while I can predict J's family's WASPish lateral moves when it comes to addressing internal conflict, that's different from understanding them.

So far, J's response can best be summed up by this remark: "I don't know why he's calling me-- I didn't send him a letter." And leaving it at that.

Which seems sensible. Such sensibility surely will not stand, however. Sigh.

Well. At least he's read it.

The last few days I've been cleaning and preparing a workspace-- doing what I could in the moments between taking care of my head-cold and taking care of the Sprog. I'll be doing some painting in the next few weeks-- part of a campaign to shift into a new type of work that might suit my new vision of my life a bit better. I'm a bit nervous about it, but I'm not sure how much I can discuss it while the exam's still in process-- though I imagine general discussion is fine (i.e.- I'm taking an exam with several parts, with the hope of joining a professional organization. The current part involves making some large paintings.)

Today I analyzed the sample illustrations, did niggly sort of math to figure out scale, how best to approach blowing the images up to full size. I've done this before, but it's been a while. This analytical, preparation stage-- there's an analogy for this in other creative endeavors: blocking fabric, scaling a pattern, truing up... A still point between the sometimes pleasant drudgery of cleaning and preparation and the full-on creative endeavor, a moment to approach a task on the less-intimidating left-hand-side before taking a trust fall into your right mind. Ehhh, something like that-- this sort of work that has to be done and is important to the project but that doesn't even hint at requiring virtuosity, helps me to sneak up on work I want to do that my brain might try to frighten me away from doing.

In the spirit of not requiring virtuosity, I think I'll leave it at that.

Sure he wrote a sonata when he was five. But it sucked.

" That's terrible."

" What's that hon?"

" A commercial for that Toddlers and Tiaras show."

" Oh, yeah, that show disturbs me."

" There was this little girl, like two years old, led out onto the stage in a pink tutu. And she does this total faceplant, because she's two, and her mom looks worried, but in this Will she be out of the competition? way, not Oh, no, my daughter fell and I hope she's okay."

"That is terrible! That poor little girl!"

"Mom has issues."

"Yeah, I think that's what the show is really about-- watching train-wreck pageant moms."

"When I see this poster, it makes me think the babies are the real artists."

"Heh! Exactly. Besides which, aren't two-year-olds tottering around in tutus pretty much adorable no matter what they do? Isn't that the only thing that makes those eight-hour death-march dance recitals bearable, when they bring out the little two-year-olds in tutus and they all fall over?"

"That's basically pee-wee ice hockey, too. Little kids falling over."

"Dawwwww!"

"Yeah. But that's why the games often end with no scores. The coaches literally have to carry the kids out to their positions."

"Is pee-wee hockey just ridiculous, then? I mean, are they just too young to get any benefit from it?"

"It's hard to say. Wayne Gretzky started playing when he was three, but he had kind of a Mozart dad."

"And he was Wayne Gretzky."

"Well, yeah. The only way you get to be a Mozart dad is if you have a Mozart. Otherwise you're just a dick."

Coffee in one fist, orange juice in the other.

I have a scab mustache and I can only breathe through my left nostril. Damn you nephews!

I love my nephews, don't get me wrong. But J and I get sick every time we see them.

We're hoping the Sprog hasn't caught anything.

He seems to be waking up. J is still asleep. And my right nostril has a slow, quiet drip, like the train station gutter in Once Upon A Time in the West.

Immune system showdown, itchy trigger finger...

I had PLANS, dammit. Not resolutions. But I had plans to ring in the new Year with esteem-building productivity and maybe a gentle jog or two around the park.

Now I'm sitting in the dim light of my living room, watching the Sprog practice leg swinging in his bouncy chair, while reruns of Next Generation murmur in the background.

Of course, when I put it like that, it doesn't sound so bad.

Happy New Year!

Some shots from our over-the-top New Year's celebration. J made dinner and we drank prosecco while watching the ball drop on local TV. We're two wild and crazy guys! (Well, three, if you count the cat. The baby slept through the festivities, which was fine by us.)

(This last one's a bit blurry-- we'd opened the second bottle.)

Well, we had fun. It's nice to party in your pajamas.

Anyway, hope you all enjoyed ringing in the new year. Let's make 2012 the best yet!