Sunday, Sunday

The brats are in the fridge, waiting to be grilled. The sauerkraut is ready. Since beer is no longer on my menu and sodas are out, the fizzy water with flavor and no sugar is chilling. Superbowl Sunday, gotta love it around here. I've given in to my inner football fan, and remembered how much I love the game.

I hear the Obamas are hosting a superbowl party. Somehow I didn't really think that an invitation was in the works, but hey, I donated. I can dream. I would love to be having a party myself, but my particular circle of friends are "above" football, as one of them liked to comment. I realize how visceral and uncivilized football can be. But I look at all those charts and diagrams, and the lists of plays on the quarterback's wrist, and know that it is far more complex than appearances would indicate. I am pleased that more and more, football announcers are former players and coaches. They have given me a greater understanding and appreciation of the game.

My head is clogged with ideas for art pieces I want to do. Some of them I know I will realize with much work but not a lot of difficulty. Others I doubt my ability to create, and this frustrates the heck out of me. Nevertheless I shall press ahead and try. I have some people in my periphery who subscribe to the notion that if you are pretty sure you won't be able to do something you might as well not try, because then you won't fail. I come from a different point of view. I figure the surest way to fail is never to try.

I am deferring most of my projects until we are in the new house. I'm lusting after that lovely open space of mine, and hopeful I will feel more like creating once we are there. For now, I'm spending my days making plans for the things I will make, and choosing floor tiles and lighting. Choosing the various light fixtures for an entire house has pretty much taxed my creative bone for a while.