Luxury fonts were originally designed by Christian Schwartz and available via Orange Italic. I was excited, my family business is jewelry and these typefaces are intended for the upscale market.
The type family names are Diamonds, Platinum, and Gold, a cinch that I would want to use them. In 2011, House Industries purchased the rights to sell them (at least I think) and added a 3 text weight in the deal. Well, this is a partial review…
Why Do Chickens Fly?
I am not sure that the original set of Fonts, the Display faces, were meant to be a serious attempt at a typeface. At first, I imagine it was conceived as the typographic equivalent of “sprockets” from SNL.
I, however, was enthralled at the simplicity and the utility of 3 display faces, all aligned and weight matched and looking like they stepped out of a Gucci ad. Joke or not, I was obsessed with having them, and even e-mailed Orange to request an update about when and where I could buy them.
Sometimes I get the urge to write about something, and it hits me quickly, almost hard. When I get hit with an urge like that it’s usually to write something about my mother, which at times is easy for me to do and other times is extremely hard.
Sometimes I write about her and intend to post the piece, but end up sitting on it instead, because like writing about her, there are times when it’s easy for me to post something about her and times when it almost scares me.
And there is a part of me that wonders if you, my readers, get tired of me writing about my mum – yet when I wrote about her recently, I was touched by the supportive comments that were left. I was thinking of how it was to be a teenager, but my mind drifted back to my mother…
I wrote this several weeks ago, thinking I’d post it, and never did. For some reason, this post made me feel kind of raw and exposed; I’m not entirely sure why. I wrote it when Julia was sick, really sick, and seeing her last week after her surgery brought these feelings up to the surface again. I got the feeling today that it was the right time to post this…
Okay, that’s really not true. I like summer – summer means sitting on the patio sipping beer from frosty mugs and barbecuing juicy steaks. Summer means sunshine and lots of outdoor fun, warm breezes, pasta salad and baseball on television, and those are all great things.
But it also means it’s gonna be hot, which means I’m gonna sweat. I hate being hot and I hate being sweaty.
Right now it’s sweltering outside. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t so fucking humid – the humidity has bumped the temperature well over the 100-degree mark for the last few days.
The haze is thick and hangs in the air; checking the mail leaves me in a full body sweat, for Chrissake. Being outdoors for any length of time in this heat is totally draining – we spent the afternoon at my girlfriend’s yesterday christening the new sprinkler she’d bought for her son and after like, an hour we had to head inside.
Even though I’d slathered her with sunscreen, Julia turned a somewhat alarming shade of pink and I felt like the sun had sucked out all of my brain power – I felt dazed. And confused.
Friday in work was just like any other day. Big delivery came in, we worked it and I did the money and paperwork. Boys were in a mood with each other and no matter how hard I tried to get them to cheer up they still were bitching at each other most of the day.
I’m slowly getting used to this, if they’re working a shift together they bounce off each other and create an atmosphere. It’s annoying, but usually by being fun and a bit silly I can manage to bring them back to normality.
The highlight of my day was a visit from my area manager. Usually, he doesn’t come into the store when the manager’s off. He doesn’t have a need to speak to supervisors, he deals with the managers most of the time.
Turns out he was in the store to speak to me specifically. Office door closed stuff. That always worries me, I thought perhaps I’d made a mistake and failed a test purchase, maybe something else serious?
Yesterday was one of those days where, when my kids were asleep, I wasn’t in active Mommy-mode and it was finally over, I curled up on the couch and had to fight back tears. It was a day that left me spent, feeling stretched too thin and exhausted at the thought of having to get up and do it all again today.
The kicker? For half of the day, I only had one kid – my mother-in-law picked Julia up after lunch and they spent the afternoon together. I was excited about having just Oliver to deal with, because it should be easier when the workload is cut in half, right?
I love Oliver with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, a love that I never thought I’d be able to have for my second child. I love his curious nature, the mischievous glint in his eyes and the determination that courses through his veins.
I love how affectionate he is – how he toddles to me from across the room, a fine stream of drool swinging from his chin, to collapse in my arms and bury his head in my neck.
A couple of nights ago Dave came downstairs with a bunch of red licorice in his hand. “Want some?” he asked.
“Um, yeah,” I said. Like, duh. He knows red licorice is my favorite. He tossed me a few whips. They were smooth and almost wet-feeling. Ew. Frickin’ Nibs.
I sighed and tossed them back to him. “Here. You can eat these.” He gave me a funny look. “Why? You don’t want them?” “No, they’re Nibs. Nibs are disgusting.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s licorice. It’s all the same. There’s no difference.”
I gasped. “There is too! Nibs are sweeter and they feel kind of slimy” I explained. “Twizzlers are fruitier tasting and they have those ridges on them, you know? The flavor is fuller, more robust.” I waved my hand around in the air for effect.
He snorted. “Robust? Babe, we’re talking about licorice. Not wine.” “Shut up. There’s a big difference,” I huffed.
And there is. Sure, they’re made by the same company but saying Nibs taste the same as Twizzlers is like saying Coke is the same as Pepsi. There’s just no comparison, if you ask me.
I go into my closet sometimes and pull my jewelry box down from where it’s hidden on the shelf, underneath winter sweaters and clothes from my thinner days that I can’t bear to part with.
I sit down on my bed with the box in my lap and when I close my eyes I hear my mother’s voice telling me about the day she saw it through a storefront window, how beautiful she thought it was and how grown-up it made her feel, her first real jewelry box. I remember when she gave it to me, at a pivotal point in my teenage years.
I look at the images she chose to decoupage the leather with before passing it on, images that are, without a shadow of a doubt, decidedly ‘me’.
I open the lid and breathe in the familiar smell – the sweetness of the Tiger Balm she’d rub on her forehead during a migraine spell and the musty smell of old leather, of history, of years passed. I breathe in deeply. The smell makes me feel close to her somehow.
This month’s Self Portrait Challenge theme has been ‘Introduce Yourself’. I was thinking last night about what I could do for today’s picture and suddenly remembered my tattoos.
Not that I forget about them, but since all but one are on my back I don’t see them that often, so they’re not at the forefront of my mind, ya know?
(Apologies in advance for the poor photos and quality…these are scanned pics…)
The first tattoo I got was the sun on my right shoulder blade;
I was sixteen. At the time I was a big Rollins Band fan and admired the sun Henry Rollins has tattooed on his back — that’s where I got the motivation for my first tat. I love the colors of this tattoo; after all these years the reds, yellows, and oranges really stand out.
Ever get in those moods where everything just annoys the shit out of you? And no matter how hard you try to not get annoyed, you just end up getting more annoyed than you ever thought possible, so by mid-day you feel like your head is going to explode?
Hi. That’s me.
Everything – and I mean everything – is annoying me today. The cornbread crumbs I’ve been stepping on all morning, the gigantic turd that wormed its way out the side of Oliver’s diaper and down his leg, the asshole in the truck behind me who repeatedly honked.
He made rude gestures at me because I~gasp!~ had the nerve to stop at a red light, the stubborn, bossy brat who has replaced my normally mild-mannered, easygoing daughter: “Can I have a snack? Can I have a snack? Can I have a snack? Can I have a snack?
Sometimes I feel like I’m going a bit crazy. It’s like I have three kids sometimes
A few nights ago Dave and I were getting Julia ready for bed – I brushed her teeth and hair and once she’d put her jammies on, we tiptoed into her room (so we didn’t wake her sleeping brother).
Dave was lying on her bed waiting for us and we crawled in and snuggled together, Julia in between us. We were goofing around and being silly; Dave was trying to get Julia to stick her finger in my armpit and we were both tickling her, drinking up her infectious giggles.