I have liked creme colored guazy baby-doll dresses since Courtney Love wore one on the cover of Vanity Fair in I think 1995. I'm vaguely aware that she's a certified, child-beating lunatic, and that to admit her as a style inspiration would be embarrassing. I cut that picture of her out, I think she was pregnant and heroin-chic, and used it in a collage book that I made for the teenage boy I loved, who gave me no response to my heartfelt project. I very vividly recall crying on Gram and Pa's couch for days waiting for him to call back. He still occasionally makes an appearance in my dreams, but it's more like a nightmare. I made peace with all the other young men in my life and they don't haunt my dreams anymore. Just this one. So I found him on facebook, 13 years later, hoping to chat, see what he's like now so I can replace the idealized memory of him with the actuality of a thirty something stranger, but he blew me off again. Maybe he's just a dick. He was so sweet in high school. Skinny and nerdy and so empathetic. I went on to compare every boy and man to him. My husband wins the prize by a margin the length of a football field. (the Bears are on in the other room.)
So I still like these dresses, with jeans, or heavy tights and boots. I wonder sometimes if I'm stuck in grunge like I saw 30 something ladies stuck in hair metal in the 90s. It doesn't really matter because my lifestyle/budget dictates one pair of jeans I wear all week (kind of grunge) and T-shirts, usually my husband's, usually a band. And a hoodie. More muumuu than flattering. I occasionally fantasize about ethereal palettes of grey creme and turquoise, lots of silver bangles on much skinnier arms.
I found this blog tonight of a man who photographs fashionable/beautiful/interesting women around the world, just women on the street. Of course, I first wonder how he funds this jetting around photo-ing ladies, but also slipping into the old media-driven habit of desiring to look like them. Aren't I too old for this poor sense of self?
I decided my brain was atrophying and I needed to work it out, so I bought Swann's Way by Proust and began reading it to the girls to put them to sleep. It quickly becomes sexual, so I started dropping phrases, then sentences, jumped a paragraph, then just declared - good night.

We had a much better day today. I decided before I fell asleep last night that the first thing I would do when I woke up would be to put on tea and start a load of laundry. This helped with the paralyzing "what do I do first" problem. We did laundry and math. Charlotte was so proud of herself. She ran around in circles when she finished. Eleanor was punished for laying down on the job and whining in refusal.

My mom came over for an art lesson. I put her in the bathroom for an hour to do a preliminary self-portrait. I finally made the kitchen curtains, only because the paper blinds were ripped off and I felt exposed.