Cuts of Meat on Paper

For a limited time I am selling my "Cuts of Meat" prints on Paper in my Etsy shop.  They are a simplified version of the ones I did on wood. (They don't have the lyrics to Old MacDonald's Farm set behind the meat)

At $45 for a set of three, they would make a great gift for any chef, butcher, farmer or just plain 'ole meat lover!

4 on Friday: White on White

 Found on:
1. JoJo's Room
2. John Lewis
3. House of Wentworth
4. Spearmint Baby

To Tattoo or Not to Tattoo?

The Recent Paterfamilias has found himself in a situation in which he is typically uncomfortable. The Recent Paterfamilias is curious as to what the public thinks. More specifically, the Recent Paterfamilias is curious as to what his reading public thinks about one singular issue. This is not to say that the Recent Paterfamilias does not care for the public’s opinion, or the public itself (or himself, or herself—does the “public” have a gender?), it is only that the Recent Paterfamilias, being a Master of Opinion, is often loath to seek out the opinions of others.

So…let us begin:

Tattoos.

Tattoos are commonly viewed as taboo, but really only by some (it should be noted here that the Recent Paterfamilias has tattoos of his own, so thusly he supposes that he might be referred to as the Tattooed Paterfamilias for the remainder of this column). In the opinion of the Tattooed (neé Recent) Paterfamilias, we have become a tattooed culture, and they are not all simply tribal “tramp stamps” and ankle sunflowers and gang signs and whatnot. Take half a look at any NBA team. Or the barista who serves up the morning coffee. Or most people walking on the sidewalk. Or Johnny Depp.

Alright…next:

Tattoo Superstitions.

Tattoo superstitions seem to run rampant, most notably amongst the particularly superstitious (a group in which, for better or worse, the Tattooed Paterfamilias proudly considers himself a member). Most people likely know someone who got a matching tattoo with someone else. That friend who, with her boyfriend of two weeks, got a matching Japanese symbol for poetry or purity or whatnot on her wrist, and then, what do you know, Poof! They break up. That guy who got the face of a girl he’s dating on his shoulder, and Poof! It’s done. The aforementioned Johnny Depp gets Winona Ryder’s name on his arm, and Poof! It’s over. All in all, it’s a fairly common phenomenon.

As has been mentioned in a previous Note From a Recent Paterfamilias, the Recent (also Tattooed) Paterfamilias is confident that the body art he got for his beloved dog Oscar, if not out rightly, then certainly circumstantially, caused said beloved Oscar to die an untimely death. He firmly believes this. It’s mystical. It’s supernatural. It’s uncanny. It’s unsettling. Whatever anyone may think, the tattoo was gotten, and then, two weeks later, Poof! Oscar was dead from a seemingly random, but highly debilitating condition called Thrombocytopenia. For the sensitive soul, it would give a person pause before making a similar mistake again.

So…I want to get a tattoo for my daughter. My wife says No. A definitive No. An emphatic No. Being superstitious people, we tend to worry about this sort of thing. The Tattooed Paterfamilias has even brought up this topic when in conversation with his tattoo artist (yes, the Paterfamilias has a regular guy down on the Lower East Side). He, the tattoo artist, thinks this is ridiculous. Not that he doesn’t believe in tattoo superstitions, quite the opposite, actually, it’s only that, according to him, the tattoo artist, no manner of superstition is going to cause a person not love their child, therefore, it, the tattoo, should be viewed only as a celebration of the life of the offspring. The Tattooed Paterfamilias is inclined to agree with this sentiment.

But a superstition is a superstition simply because a person is superstitious, and frankly, the Tattooed Paterfamilias is reluctant to trifle with that theory. If a baseball player puts on his left sock first or eats chicken everyday, and that works for him, then let him do it. If a law student uses a particular brand of pen, then so be it. If a bachelorette party stripper has a favorite thong, then leave it on under his police uniform. Much the same as superstitions, luck is believing you’re lucky, and if you think something is superstitious, then it is. It’s just the way of the world.

This opinion of the Tattooed Paterfamilias has been mocked, of course. “Superstitious tattoos? Tattoos that kill people, or dogs? Preposterous! If that were true, then somebody should’ve run out and gotten a picture of Stalin or Hitler or Count Dracula on their arm, and then Poof! two weeks later, they’d drop dead.”

So…the Recent Paterfamilias wishes to hear all thoughts. Is a tattoo of his daughter sure to be bad luck? Is he tempting the Fates or the Furies or whomever it is that spins the planet? Is it simply bad politics?

And in the interest of full disclosure and hopefully to illicit a more complete response, the Recent Paterfamilias will even enlighten his readers as to what tattoo he would like to get, should he ever get the ink for his infant offspring: a shiny teapot going off at the boil, because she, the baby, tends to get all hot and bothered and then make a lot of noise. (The Recent Paterfamilias is proud to say that the concept of this tattoo was pilfered nearly verbatim from Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, the only major difference being that in the book it’s a samovar and not a teapot. Pompous enough for ya?)

No Sew Window Valance

I needed a window treatment for a nursery but the colors were very specific and I was finding it hard to find something ready-made to match.  I came up with this concept which was super easy to execute and turned out even better than I imagined.  All you need is a few supplies and a bit of patience to make your own no-sew valance. 

Meet My Intern

and check out her own amazing blog: 

 

You can read more about her  inspirations and adventures at  CharlotteCheshire.com 

You can also purchase one of these resurrected Horse Pattern Prints on Etsy

4 on Friday: Au Naturel

Found on:
1. Milk Magazine
3. The Stir
2. Wee Textile
4. Kalon Studios

The Toilet from Heaven

God has a Porta-potty. It’s true. I have seen it.

In order to avoid any confusion, perhaps I should start over.

Pregnant women have to pee. This is common knowledge. It is a known fact. They have to pee. And they have to pee often. More than often. Always. It’s natural. It’s the way of things. It’s due to pressure being placed upon the bladder by certain unconcerned (see: rude) unborns, making this unpleasant condition just one more ordinary side affect of being pregnant. And my wife, let’s call her “Pregnant” (because that’s what she was at the time) suffered dramatically, incessantly, maddeningly from this particular prenatal malady.

It was late-December. The year was 2010. A grid-locking blizzard was threatening New York City, predicted to drop inches of snow an hour for days on end. But we, along with the dog, were on our way out of town, literally ninety minutes in front of the storm, headed to the Hamptons in general, East Hampton in particular, for one last vacation (idiotically labeled a “babymoon”) before our threesome (with dog—a Welsh Terrier) became a foursome (with infant—a baby girl).

My wife (again, we’ll call her “Pregnant”) had always wanted me to see the Hamptons. This was not seeing the Hamptons in the summer months, when it has its best face forward, but still, we were in the Hamptons all the same, and something must be said for that, I suppose. The Hamptons are beach towns. And except for the people, what’s not to like about beach towns?

It was while we were headed to one of the beaches, Egypt Beach in particular, that Pregnant, the Welsh Terrier, and I saw God’s Porta-potty.

As the Great Blizzard of 2010 had made the roads impassable and impossible, we had decided to trek it on foot from our inn to Egypt Beach. The map we had of the area gave us the impression that the walk was feasible, and in nicer weather, I am sure that would have been the case. Snow and ice-covered roads. Drifts on the shoulder two feet deep. Sustained wind gusts of forty miles an hour. Needless to say, it was slow going.

After about forty-five minutes, Pregnant announced that she was going to need to pee soon (understandable, given her state), but she also wasn’t ready to turn back, so on we went, past Hither Lane, past Middle Lane, closing in on Further Lane, and then Pregnant declared that things had suddenly taken a turn for the worst and the need for a solution had now become imminent. We had to either knock on the door of what were most certainly abandoned, blizzard-buried, off-season houses, or we had to turn around and head back to town in search of a toilet.

On we pressed, intrepid travelers that we were, looking for the nearest car in the nearest driveway as an indication of human occupation.

We turned a snowy corner.

And there, all by his lonesome (or her lonesome), in the middle of a snow-buried open corner lot, sat a hunter green Porta-potty.

Even as I was certain the Porta-potty door would surely be locked, I encouraged Pregnant toward it, hoping against hope. Closer and closer we came. Finally, we arrived at its green frontage. We looked at the door. There was no padlock. We looked at the small slot by the handle that reads OCCUPIED or OCCUPADO when the responsible occupant has locked themselves in. VACANT, it read, in bright red letters. Pregnant opened the door and disappeared inside.

Naturally, upon watching Pregnant exit the portable toilet, I expected the usual horror stories. It was disgusting. It was stinky. There was poop on the toilet seat. There was a derelict perched behind the door and a pervert peering through a clogged vent hole. And enormous spiders had taken up residence. And there wasn’t any toilet paper.

The circumstances had been far from unpleasant. The Porta-potty had been fragrant (and not how one might think). The Porta-potty had been clean, spotlessly so. It had been well stocked with all the necessities. All things considered, it was the perfect pit stop.

So, on we trekked, toward Egypt Beach, fighting snow, 40 MPH winds, and a general malaise caused by bad weather and a shoe-wearing Terrier.

Eventually, we made it to Egypt Beach. And it was lovely. It was beautiful. It was late-December in the Atlantic Northeast. It was cold. We turned around.

Hoofing it back through twelve inches of snow and wind gusts threatening to topple us, it was consequently announced that someone desperately needed to pee.

And then there it was, on the same corner lot, green, unlocked, and not OCCUPADO.

On the walk back, the case of the strange Porta-potty was discussed. Under all that snow, on that premium corner property, there must have been construction underway that had been halted due to inclement weather. And where one finds construction sites, there will one also find outdoor toilets. And in the Hamptons, given its common reputation and all the usual stereotypes, any outdoor mobile rental toilets would of course be of only the highest quality. Luxurious. Regal, even. A regal Porta-potty.

Then I didn’t think about it for a couple of days.

We went to Atlantic Beach. We went to Main Beach. We visited friends in Montauk for dinner. We finished our vacation.

Inches of snow were still on the ground when we were gearing up to leave for New York (which was still in a city-wide lockdown). Casually, on the drive out of town, the topic of the Porta-potty came up. I detoured the car toward Egypt Beach. I steered down two-lane roads past shingled Traditionals and shingled Saltboxes and shingled Contemporaries. We passed Hither Lane. We passed Middle Lane. We could see Further Lane in the distance.

There was no Porta-potty. There was no construction site on an open corner lot. There was no open corner lot, just a little space on the outskirts of two already situated properties with a stop sign planted in the middle.

I stared at the corner and the stop sign until Pregnant announced that she really had to pee.

And, of course, the next public restroom we managed to locate was downright repellent. The kind of place one might expect to find in Satan’s Rest Area, a toilet in the back corner of the Welcome Center to the Entrance of Hell.