Britney Spears is...

a)... a victim of the manipulative, greedy and soulless pop music industry?
b)... a talentless bimbo whose ride on the celebrity gravy train is nearing completion?
c)... so dirty than any further discussion of her pantiless escapades would require a tetanus shot?
d) all of the above?

Ah, poor Britney. I'm not a fan of her genre of music, but I do kinda feel sorry for the messed-up kid.

Intervention, anyone?

"Don't it make my brown eyes blue"

Ah, the mysteries of genetics. Have you ever wondered how a man and a woman, with brown and hazel eyes respectively, can spawn children with blue eyes? Well, Richard and I have wondered the very same thing. Barring any questions of paternity of which, in this case, there are none as I'd be the first to boast had I a lover of blue eyes and fertile loins tucked away in some private love nest, we must then work with the available data of a brown-eyed father.

In my quest to solve the mystery behind heredity and eye colour, I discovered a very interesting web site called, appropriately enough, What Color Eyes Would Your Children Have? This site boasts an "eye colo[u]r calculator" into which you can enter your information and generate the different probabilities for eye colours amongst your hypothetical children. You are instructed to select the eye colour closest to your own. I chose green. Little did I realize that hazel eyes, which I possess (see photo at the beginning of this post for proof), are the wild card of the world of eye-colour probability. Unlike the phenotypes of green, blue and brown eyes, which are composed of a solid colour, hazel eyes are a combination of different colours. Mine, for instance, are a greenish-gold with a small ring of brown around the pupil of the eye. Incidentally, my mother's eyes are also hazel, whereas my father had brown eyes.

According to the calculator, the probability that Richard and I would produce a child with blue eyes is approximately 16.5%. Ridley is approaching his third birthday and his eyes are an indisputable blue-grey colour. Nigel's eyes are also a similar blue-grey colour, though he is only 5-months of age and eye colour can spontaneously change upwards of two-years of age.

Interesting stuff, huh? Now I only wonder whether anyone will inherit my curly hair...?

*Many profuse apologies, but I couldn't resist quoting from the sappy Crystal Gayle song for the title of this post."Don't it make my brown eyes blue" played on the radio ad nauseam when I was a kid in the late seventies and it is only today, several years later, that I've picked up on the double-meaning with the word "blue". Duh.

I submit, therefore I am

Hmmm, there's a provocative blog post title for you. While this title would seem to suggest some major kinkiness taking place in my life, the reality is a whole lot more mundane. The "submitting" to which I refer is to art councils, artist-run and public galleries, and last but certainly not least, to graduate studies. Ugh. The balance of family life and career is, indeed, a tricky one. However, if I want some cash to help pursue my goal, and/or an exhibition in the next two years, and/or a piece of paper which places three more letters (MFA) after my name, then submit I must. I've cast my net; now we'll just have to wait and see what I fish out over the next couple of months.

Was back working in the studio last night until 1 a.m. Tired, but feel no remorse.

Kids are good. Will post more photos soon, once I upload them off the camera. To tell you the truth, my Blog Confessor, I talk about my children all day with other stay-at-home parents and therefore feel more than a little fatigued writing about them here.

(Nigel's awake from his morning nap, anyway).

Enter...the Nigelator

He's big, he's bald and he's 18 lbs. of drooly, flatulent fun. He's also sleeping soundly in the baby carrier as I type this blog entry.

I've nothing of great profundity to relate at this moment in time. My Muse has not only left the building, she's disappeared up the road and permanently parked her inspiration on a bar stool at McCartney's Irish Pub. Damn fickle wench. Oh well. I'm content to wait out this creative dry-spell whilst occupying myself with the chores of motherhood. Yippee.