Many Me’s

I’ve decided I need there to be a lot more of me. A whole lot. At least a dozen. Now, The Ever-Gorgeous Earl would surely argue otherwise. In fact, if there were, oh, say, a dozen of me, he would no doubt flee to London (cold + grey = guaranteed none of us would follow him).

But I do need some help. There are so many things I need to get done every day, and such a limited amount of time in which to do them, that I can’t think of any other solution. Never mind the new book, which offers time-making help to everyone else. I think I need bigger help than even I can offer myself all by myself.

So:  Many Me’s. First, there’d be The Real Me, the one who would do what I do now—write, travel, stitch, hang out with my husband, etc., but would get to do ALL this and I’d get to ENJOY it because I would have all this help from all these other Me’s, and I wouldn’t have to try, pretty much constantly, to fit in even more stuff. I need, in addition to The Real Me:

Extra Me #1:  Worker Me. This one would go out and get A Real Job, making The Big Bucks. Someone needs to be earning lots of money, and it’s not going to be me, since I like the job I have, and no one’s showing up with bags of money to reward me for doing it. I list this one first because it’s for sure the one job I don’t want:  going out to find A Real Job.

Me #2:  Maintenance Woman.  This would be the next most important because it’s the next in line for Jobs I Don’t Want To Do.  This one would do all the maintenance stuff I hate so much:  shaving the legs, taking a shower, buzzing the hair, brushing and flossing and water-pic-ing the teeth. Putting on toenail polish. She would also do the laundry and those kinds of things because, although I don’t have to do a lot of that, The EGE could use some help. She would also do those boring-as-hell shoulder exercises and carry the hand weights and do the boring yoga stuff (I’d still do the Fun Yoga Stuff; she’d just do the ones I don’t like). In short, she’d do all those repetitive, day-after-day tasks that are boring and time-consuming and just generally no fun at all.

Me #3:  Cat Wrangler. My god. We might need two of me to do this. As it is, The EGE does most of it. With 7 spoiled cats, plus Humphrey, who technically lives down the street but has taken to snubbing his people in a very rude and obvious manner and sidestepping them to come back up and re-claim his my chair on the front porch (I had to go out and act as ambassador yesterday after he walked right past the little girl he belongs to—she’s there only every other weekend, and apparently Humphrey has taken offense at this)), there’s a lot to do. Plus the other half dozen cats we feed every day when we walk. We really need someone to take care of all this. This is how bad it is:  if we don’t walk by 8 am, Duchess and The Little Yellow Boy leave their block, cross the street, and come to find us. In order to make sure they don’t do that, we have to get to their block in time to give them breakfast before they start this way and catch them while they’re still standing on the corner, waiting on us. Yes, we have created monsters.

Me #4: Writer Me. I love writing, so I’m not giving it all over to #4, but let’ get real here:  I have enough books I want to do to keep several people busy for the next 50 years. I can do only so much, so this Me would do all the ones I can’t get to.

Me #5: Agent Me. I need some help here, so she could do all that stuff. See? I don’t even know what That Stuff is. I just know it needs to be done and I don’t have 1) a clue or 2) time to get a clue.

Me #6: Web Me. Facebook, Twitter, the blog, e-mail, bill-paying:  anything that involves a butt sitting in this chair in front of the keyboard would be done by #6. Let her get a lard ass. Since Me #2 is getting all the exercise, I can’t be sitting in the chair all day.

[Is this beginning to seem reallyreallyreally complicated to anyone else? Like, if it’s Me #2 exercising, do I get the benefits of that exercise if I’m not having to do it? Or do I suffer the lack because someone else, who’s actually just Another Me, is doing the work? Yikes. There’s actually a reason this has to be purely theoretical. Who knew?]

Me #7: Stitching Me. She’d stitch all damn day long, never whining about her fingers being stuck full of holes. She’d make a dent in this rack of clothes I want to alter with copious stitching. She’d stitch, then I’d wear the clothes. Sweet!

Me #8:  Beading Me. I have TONS of beading to do, and she’d do it all for me. Again, with no whining about sore fingers. There’d be a LOT more beads on stuff if I weren’t the one having to do it.

Me #9: Reading Me. There’re stacks of books and magazines on every flat surface in this house. There are novels and science books, travel writing and a whole separate stack of Nothing But Noam Chomsky. There are reference manuals out the wazoo and magazines I have only partially skimmed. Good lord:  I’m a month behind on Oprah, for crying out loud. Quelle horreur!

Me #10: Social Me. Someone around here should have a social life. I’m sure not any good at it. She’s going to do it for us. Meaning that, in the process, she’s going to become a gourmet cook, which will be nice, since I have once again given up wine and so have pretty much lost interest in food. Without wine, food sucks. Also she’ll keep track of people’s birthdays, at which I suck about like wine-less food. Boy, she’s going to be busy.

Me #11: Comic Me. In My Secret Life, I’m a stand-up comic. In order to get there In Real Life, someone has to go do open mic comedy stuff. That would be in bars, where there’s smoke and drunk people. Better for her to do it than for me:  I’ve gotten to the point in life where I’m all like, “Jesus, man! If you want to kill yourself, why not just smear yourself with Karo syrup and go lie naked in the pasture?”

Me #12: Massage Me. Another thing I’ve always wanted to do, and have tried to figure out how to work in a couple times, is to go to massage school and get the license and then provide massages where they’re needed. But school? Yikes:  I want her to go do the Practicing on Nekkid People Part, as I never intend to do that In Real Life:  I’ll just do necks and shoulders and backs. My Massage Rule #1 will be:  Do Not Show Me Your Naked Butt.

OK = I could obviously go on. I bet you could, too—you could use an army of You’s, I’m guessing. But there’d also be a Me #13, and she’d be the one who’d sleep, since I don’t much like to because there’s always something I’d rather be doing. I go to sleep only when I finally run out of steam. Which would be—you guessed it—right about now.

 

This Week’s Give-Away: Time & Space Pins!

And doesn’t that make you think of The Jetsons? No, I’m not providing a link:  if you don’t remember The Jetsons, it will just make me cry.

I can say how much I love the cover of my book without seeming to brag, since I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I mean, really:  I didn’t even SEE it until, by surprise, I came across it on amazon.com. Yikes.

But that makes it OK for me to say it’s fabulous. And so this weekend I was thinking it would be cool to make something with this collage-y-ish book cover image. I thought, “Gee, a tote bag would be nice, since I don’t have any tote bags and could kind of use something to haul my stuff around.” Snort.

So I started running some fabric through the printer, and then some sheets of printer-ready-fabric-esque stuff from various companies, and the next thing you know, I had cover images in a bunch of sizes, and then I was compelled to spend the rest of the weekend making those into little batted appliqué things. I worked all damn weekend on the stitching of these. And, in the process, although I did not even begin on a tote bag, I did make some of these pins:

I love these. I’m making one for me, and The EGE wants one to wear to school. That should leave about half a dozen to give away, so that’s what I’m going to do this week. I mean, really:  what can I do with half a dozen pins except find new homes for them?

They’re about 3” x 3”, with a felt backing (real felt) and a pin back and some beading around the edges. They will remind you to make Time and Space for creativity in your life, which is a very good thing to be reminded of (of which to be. . . .), indeed.

Here are The Rules:

1) You have to wear it. And pet it and talk nice to it.

2) If you post a comment throwing your name in and don’t check back on Friday to find out if you’ve won so you can send me your address, I will send Evil Voodoo Spirits to your house to pee on your carpet back there behind the sofa where you’ll never think to look, but when you have company and they’re sitting there drinking tea, this hideous odor of horrible horse-like piss (Voodoo Spirits have some powerful pee, let me tell you) will waft up and overwhelm everyone in the room. In the whole neighborhood, in fact:  your neighbors will turn you in to the Department of Sanitation, and you will be cited for Nasty Odors.

So if you’re not coming back, you might not want to put your name is, is all I’m saying.

Otherwise, go for it! And I’ll get back in there and bead some more of these babies~~

XO

Markers for Bea!

Sweetie, send your address, and I’ll get these in the mail to you. Thanks to all of y’all for stopping by on a lazy Sunday (not lazy here—I’m exhausted). Be sure to come by tomorrow—I’ve been working on something cool all weekend~~

Hey, Dori!

Dori wasn’t first, but she was the first of those who signed up originally. So, Dori, if you live in the States, send me your address lickety-split, and this one will be yours.

Ouch.

Yet another visit to yet another dermatologist. I think this one may work. The first one—the one who missed the melanoma in situ—wasn’t thorough enough, perhaps because he was too busy trying to sell me sun block in the exam room. Grrrrr. I hate doctors who are more worried about money and building a practice than they are about treating the patients they do have. No way I’d go to this guy again.
The next one, in Lubbock, after the diagnosis, was too cavalier. Fine for him; not so good for me. He didn’t have me take off any of my clothes, which seems a strange way to examine someone’s skin, and he wanted to see me only once a year.
This latest guy was very thorough. He’s the only one who checked the bottoms of my feet and between my toes. And he used his sense of touch:  when he checked the bridge of my nose, he rubbed it over and over, applying different sorts of pressure and asking, “Is this sensitive? How about this?”
I’ll go back in six months. Everything looked fine, he said, except one mole on my arm. Since it’s been there as long as I can remember and was flat, I hadn’t thought anything about it. He, on the other hand, thought it had to come off. I didn’t feel a thing when he did this, but he must have been pinching the fire out of my arm: those are bruises on either side. Yeow.
Just a reminder:  if you’re worried, go have someone check your skin. Easy peasy, and you won’t have to worry any more.
If only he’d given us both lollipops after--

Thank You for Coming By! & A Little Treat for a Sunday~~

So to offset my grouchiness (see previous post) and to say Thank You to those of you who show up regularly, I’m going to give this

away to someone who comes by today. I bought an extra set of these last year and have never used them. I found them, still in the original package, this week. I tested a couple of them, and they seem still like brand new, but I’m guessing they’ll dry up before I need them:  the original set is still doing great, as  they seem to have a lot of ink. These are pretty much just like Sharpies, as far as I can tell, just with cooler-looking barrels. So if you’d like to have this set to play with, let me know. I’ll pick someone this evening, if there are several people who are interested. A little treat for a Sunday. . . .

That Issue of Belle Armoire

Well, that give-away didn’t go so well. So here’s what I’m going to do:  if you put your name in the drawing for that issue and are reading this today, post a comment. The first person who does that will get it. I do get so tired of people who claim to want things but never bother to check back to see if they’ve won. Plus I don’t even have a real name so I can try to cross-reference them with the mailing list.

It shouldn’t be so much trouble to give stuff away, huh?

Anyway—so if you wanted it, here’s another chance! Sorry I’m so grouchy--

And What, Pray Tell, Was in the Box?

I could really get used to this Bringing Goodies by FedEx on a Saturday Thang. Yowza!
As you might have guessed, the other delivery (besides the Box o’ Postcards)  was My New MacBook Pro, delivered in fine form in less than 48 hours. The scheduled delivery date was Tuesday, but I think it’s a Zappos-esque affectation:  they tell you it’ll be a while so you’ll be all surprised and squeal-y when it arrives so much earlier than you’d expected. Apple’s moving up right there next to Zappos for just sheer delightfulness.
And let me tell you, as someone who’s bought a few computers in her lifetime, Apple has the packaging design thing down. I was so impressed with the presentation that I stopped as soon as I opened the box and waited until I had time to photograph it for you. If you’ve ever bought a PC, you’re probably used to a big box, a bunch of cardboard, some bubble wrap. Check this out:

You open the outside box, and there, right on top, is a handle. No trying to pry the inside box out or tilt it so you can slide your hand in there and pull it out. No, just this:

The corner protectors that hold the inner box in place are the sturdiest pieces of cardboard I’ve ever come across in a computer box.
Cute, too. I wonder what I could do with these?

 The plastic wrap slips off the handle:

You open the box:

Again, there’s no trying to get your fingers under the edges so you can pry it out. There’s this little tab:

Which lifts up the edge of the computer  so you can lift it out:

Underneath, you find everything you need, all neat and tidy. No random plastic packages of crap crammed in everywhere, like with the last laptop I unpacked:

You lift the tab again, and there’s the envelope, just like in the iPhone box:

Inside are the manuals and CD’s":
 
I hope whoever designed the packaging got some kind of award. Or at least a big bonus. Maybe an island.
So now the new notebook is hooked up, charging its little battery. I’m waiting on the new software before I jump in. I’ve got a couple of manuals on the way and one that I bought today—I buy all the how-to, the Portable Genius, the For Dummies. I read them, cross-reference them, mark them up. By the time I get through, I know pretty much what I need to know.
I ♥ reference manuals. I really do. You should see my collection.
It rivals my collection of Bags.

Creative Time & Space Postcards—Woohoo!

I’d forgotten these were on their way from The Lovely Sarah at F&W, so imagine my surprise when The EGE brought in yet another Saturday FedEx delivery, a hefty little package, indeed:

Aren’t these great? Only two typos I missed in my excitement when they asked me to proof them, but who cares? I think they’re fabulous.

And hey:  if you haven’t already sent me your snail mail address and would like me to add you to my mailing list (which is not nearly as formal as it sounds), send your name and address to voodoocafe@suddenlink.net.

And is there anybody out there who will come to my house and fix this mess for me?  I ignorantly did the mailing list as just a Word doc, way back when I was just trying to save people’s addresses. Now I want to sync it all with my Contacts, with which I’ve just now begun to bond. I’m afraid I’m going to have to do it all by hand, one address at a time, which will be impossible, since I have no idea which addresses go with which e-mail addresses. I wish everyone used their real names.

Hi, my name is Voodoo Cafe!

So:  one at a time, by hand. Eh. In that case, it’s probably never going to get done. Because, of course, I’m going to be spending a lot of time addressing postcards. . .

 

My Little Thang About Bags

Been wondering what I mean when I say I have a weakness for bags? Maybe you’ve got a weakness of your own and would like to see my collection one by one? Or maybe you just like shaking your head and going, “She really DOES have a problem, bless her heart.”
First, what I keep in my bag:
~~wallet. A man’s leather bi-fold, so that if I’m wearing jeans and doing something energetic, I can carry it in my back pocket. I used to do that a lot more than I do now, but still:  you gotta be prepared.
~~little camera
~~iPhone
~~FlipVideo camera
~~business cards
~~Moo cards
~~little cheap scissors
~~little bag of stitching
~~cheap cheater eyeglasses
~~hand wipes
~~tons of Kleenex, some loose, some in packets—you have to be able to grab one immediately in case of a sneeze
I used to always carry the journal, but—omigod!—the iPhone seems to be taking over many of its functions. More on that in another post, I think--
Also there’s usually a cheap fan (I buy them 3 for $5 in the French Market in New Orleans and use them constantly at the concerts there), one of my dad’s pocket knives that I sharpened and can use if I lose the scissors, various lipsticks that I play with when The EGE isn’t around (he loathes lipstick in every form), a few small rocks or shells or whatever I’ve found lately (very small! not heavy!). And then whatever crap I’m having to haul with me:  paperwork, coupons, pens, books, glasses, keys—all that kind of stuff. I try to keep this last to a minimum:  hardly ever carry a book any more, try to leave the keys in the truck, etc. I never carry any make-up in my bag, except the lipstick, which is more a toy than make-up, as I have no clue and just like it for the color.
So let’s begin with the oldest of my bags, which is a backpack. I had a groovy cool backpack in graduate school, but when Wendy got her journal backpack stolen, I sent her mine and got this one. Or maybe I already had this one. Anyway, I like this one way better—it’s softer and funkier.

The Good:  it’s roomy, has a lot of zippered pockets, has aged really nicely:  all funky and spottled.
The Bad: backpacks are impractical for me because it’s so hard to get into them if you need your wallet or if the phone rings. You have to swing it around off your shoulder, which is a really bad thing if you’re in a crowded booth at the quilt show, for instance.
Then there are the two Ameribag Healthy Back bags:

The leather one.

The green microfiber one, slightly smaller.
The Good:  also lots of fabulous zippered pockets, perfect for all my stuff. Easy to find things in the pockets, which are designed really well.
The Bad:  same thing:  you have to swing it around to get into it or answer the phone. Plus they didn’t really feel any better on my back. Plus they don’t feel like A Bag. Bummer.
The belly bag. This is the one I use when I’m going to be somewhere all day and doing stuff with my hands and I need something that’s totally hands-free and stays out of the way. Like at the quilt show.

The Good:  easy on the neck and shoulders, stays out of the way, hands free. Big enough to hold my Moleskine sketchbook (which is why I bought it).
The Bad:  ugly as hell, impossible to wear while driving (it’s very large), not Baglike Enough for someone who has A Bag Thang.
The smalls:
Tiny leather camera case on a long neck strap.
The Good:  very small, very handy, cool color.
The Bad:  no padding, no room for anything BUT the camera, meaning I have to carry something else.
Padded wool case, perfect fit for the iPhone.

The Good:  colorful (I needle felted it), well-padded, neck strap, very light.
The Bad:  itchy as hell (I should have remembered that wool drives me NUTS), not big enough for anything else but the phone. I use it when I’m going for a walk and expecting a phone call from, say, the vet. (Usually I don’t take the phone for walks. Truth? I forget the iPhone just like I’ve always forgotten the others. They stay at home most of the time.)
Tiny leather phone bag from New Orleans, bought just for the iPhone before I made a case for it.

The Good:  very light, perfect fit for the phone, extra little pocket for money or a credit card. It was cheap.
The Bad: no padding, just thin leather. Not big enough for a camera or anything except the phone.
Then we have the non-leather bags.
Sarah’s bag:

I traded with Sarah for this one. Mine was too big and had a flap, like a messenger bag, which I hate. This one was khaki, with leather trim, and I dyed it.
The Good:  again, lots of fabulous pockets. I love the leather trim, and I like having a bag that belonged to a friend.
The Bad:  hard to get into and very dark inside so it’s hard for me to find stuff.
This is a bag I got in New Orleans last year.

The Good:  the colors and the sparkliness and the bells I sewed around the bottom. It’s lightweight and easy to carry.
The Bad:  no protected pockets for stuff like a wallet or phone, plus the bells are scratchy against my leg when I walk—the strap is very long.
Woven bag, also from New Orleans.

The Good:  also light and colorful, can pretend to be dressy if needed.
The Bad:  black lining, making it hard to find stuff, and, again, no padded/protected/zippered pockets.
Smaller version of the woven bag that I got in Lubbock when we were up there all the time setting my mother’s stuff.

The Good:  small, colorful (I sewed on some big beads), lightweight, perfect for the phone and some small stitching. Can look dressy in a pinch.
The Bad:  dark inside, not much padding, won’t hold the wallet.
Then we have this, an orange leather bag/laptop carrier that I fell in love with.



It’s got a padded compartment for a laptop (although my 17” wouldn’t fit, the Apple should fit just fine). It had another compartment, but it was tacky (I don’t remember why) or irritated me or something, and I cut it out with an X-acto knife when I bought it.
The Good:  the color! Some pockets, the padded area, very sturdy. Will stand up on its own.
The Bad:  very stiff, needs more pockets, easy to overload so it’s WAY heavy.
Then we get to The New Orleans Bags. There’s a leather shop, Leather Creations, on Decatur. Every year, for the past I-don’t-know-how-many years, I’ve bought a bag here.
This is the first one:

The Good:  I love this bag. I love the tooling, the way it’s aged, the size. I love how it’s gotten all soft and spottled.
The Bad: It has no zippered pockets inside at all. The top zipper is a pain to use, so I never do, and everything spills out into the floor. There’s no place to keep the wallet or the phone secure. It’s more like a small tote than a functional bag, but, as you can see, it’s gotten a LOT of use.
This is the bag I got last year.

The Good:  big, soft, will carry almost anything. Some outside pockets.
The Bad: heavy, cumbersome. No protected zippered pockets inside, and the ones outside are hard to access. Not good for a wallet or phone. I use this one mainly for maps and stuff when we travel.
Then there’s this one, which to the untrained, non-bag-loving person, looks just like the one above. Au contraire!

The Good:  this one has zippered pockets and is slightly sturdier, so it will sit up on its own—always a nice thing in a bag. It’s got a great hippie vibe going on, and it’s one of my favorites (just got it this year and so am still getting acquainted with it). Got a deal on it, as it was in the window and already faded and funky, plus with a tiny, tiny hole in the lining. Like I said, I don’t mind asking for a better rate for things like this.
The Bad:  easy to overload, in which case it’s REALLY heavy. Kind of cumbersome to carry in small spaces. Heavy, which is not helped by the hardware (which I may remove at some point).
A smaller, tidier bag.

The Good:  small, sturdy, several pockets. Good training for me, as it won’t hold a whole lot.
The Bad:  it won’t hold a whole lot. The strap is wonky—very long, and the piece holding it in place slides, meaning that the end of the strap flaps around a lot. I may cut it off. Still really stiff—it needs to loosen up. Got a great deal on it when I bought another bag, plus the lining needs to be re-stitched.
The bag The EGE is breaking in for me.

The Good:  funky, cool, easy to carry—it fits your body perfectly.
The Bad:  way, way too stiff. Plus that little pocket up there? Just the tiniest bit too small for the iPhone, but perfect for a business card holder. I’m getting the EGE to carry it (it’s a men’s some-kind-of-bag) to soften it up and get it broken in, and then I’ll re-claim it.
A smaller, softer version:

The Good:  soft, lots of great zippered and padded pockets.
The Bad:  kind of ugly, plus you can’t put very much in the pockets or it swells to become a bloated, misshapen thing that really doesn’t work.
Then The Birthday Bags:
An orange-ish woven bag:

The Good:  colorful, lightweight, a zippered pocket. Very cheap—like 80% off, I think.
The Bad:  no padding, and it’s Not Leather. (sigh.)
A Fossil bag:

The Good:  a veritable TON of pockets, all neat and tidy and easy to organize. One outside section zips around 3 sides to open up for access to credit card slots, zippered pockets, etc. Very small—one of the smallest of the regular bags.
The Bad: kind of ugly, plus it won’t hold a lot. Which is actually probably The Good. It can pinch hit for the belly bag at shows and stuff.
Ditto this little fuchsia leather bag:

The Good:  very small and tidy with lots of zippered pockets and organizing compartments. Cool color.
The Bad:  I don’t know if it will even hold the phone AND the camera AND the wallet. It’ll be a tight fit, if so.
Then the three totes:
The reddish one:

The brown one:

The Good:  these are the same bag but in different colors. Duh. They’re lightweight, easy to carry, very simple. Zippered pocket inside. Sturdy handles.
The Bad:  not enough pockets. But that’s OK—these are light, quick, easy.
This is one of my favorites: 

The Good: it weights practically nothing. Very, very light and soft and supple. You could roll it up and put it in your pocket. Zippered pocket.
The Bad:  needs more pockets for organizing things.
My current favorite, the orange bag:



The Good:  all kinds of zippered pockets. Nice silky lining (even if it’s funky looking, it feels fabulous). Nice size, fabulous color, easy to carry.
The Bad: that ugly striped lining. The leather handles squeak every time you move them, like cheap shoes. So it’s noisy. But that’s OK:  like I said, this is my current favorite.
Whew. That’s it! I’ve shown you mine; now you show me yours! I’d love to take a look—give us a link! (Man bags count, too~~)

Score A Point for the Apple People

Since I was going to blog about it if it had gone the other way, I’m sort of compelled to blog about it now, too.

I had my first little glitch this morning. When I ordered the MacBook yesterday, it was after talking to a couple people at Apple and trying to figure out which would be better:  to order from them or pick up at Best Buy. I wanted the new operating system installed—Snow Leopard. Both BB and Apple said that wasn’t going to happen right away—that you’d get the software in the box and would just drop it in. The woman at Apple said that I might have trouble getting one at BB right away because everyone was going to be waiting for the software release today, plus Apple has a back-to-school incentive of some sort.

So I ordered from Apple. They said the computer would ship in 3-5 days. The ones that ship after midnight last night will ship with Snow Leopard in the box, so I assumed I was all set.

I get up this morning and check e-mail before we go walk, and there’s a notice that my computer shipped last night, about 6 hours after I ordered it. Normally this would be most excellent, Zappo-esque shipping news (Zappos doesn’t advertise that they ship overnight because, they say, they want the customer to be delighted when their order arrives so quickly). But I immediately knew it was a problem:  if it shipped before August 28th, it didn’t ship with Snow Leopard.

I called. Sure enough, I was right. So I went into Real Person Mode, where I very patiently explained the problem, explained the conversation I’d had with the saleswoman yesterday, explained that I could just as easily have waited a day, if I’d known.

She was very nice, very apologetic. She contacted her manager and told me that, as compensation, they would credit my card $30. She asked if that would be OK.

I told her that that wasn’t what I wanted. I told her that what I wanted was for them to put a copy of Snow Leopard in the mail to me today so that it will arrive at the same time as the computer and I can do everything—set it up, install the OS, start to learn my way around—at the same time.

I went on to tell her that I had several other options that I didn’t want to use:  refusing the computer when it was delivered, sending it back and demanding a refund, resorting to Twitter and Facebook and my blog—all things I certainly didn’t want to do.

I should have left this part out, as it wasn’t necessary in this case. In the past, it always has been:  you have to convince the company, whichever one it is, that you have unlimited time and patience and resources and are going to keep nagging and nagging and nagging until they remedy the problem. It’s how I got the new trees after Chemlawn killed ours, and the replacement shower door after TileEx ruined the brand new ones. For many companies, the world is divided into People Who Will Be a Pain in the Butt, and People Who Won’t Bother.

She couldn’t have been nicer or more helpful. She seemed to understand my point exactly:  that I had ordered when I did because the saleswoman had convinced me this was the fastest way to get a computer with the new OS.

In short, she fixed it. Snow Leopard will be shipped, officially, “within 3-5 days.” She said that was all she could tell me, but I’m guessing it may well go out sooner. She said they’re still going to give me the $30 credit, which wasn’t necessary. I’m not one of those people who is always trying to get money for stuff. I WILL try to get a bargain—like if there’s something in the store with minor damage—I’ll always ask if there’s a discount. But after I buy it? To try to weasel money for some reason? That’s slimy.

It’s great policy on their part, though. I wonder:  who came up with the $30 amount? Because it seems like a very deliberate amount to me:  $50 would be too much for them to handle. $10 wouldn’t be enough to salve the irritated customer. $25 would seem the optimal amount, so $30 seems like lagniappe. You know? Very savvy.

Anyway:  so my first interaction with the people at Apple proved to be quite pleasant. Naomi was cheerful and helpful, with a good sense of humor and not a hint of condescension—and we all know how rare that last is with so many computer geeky people who know full well how little most of us know about the True Nature of Computers.

Almost makes me want to buy the protection package just so I can talk to them all the time.

Listen to This & Be Happy

Pattie Tierney sent me this, saying, “This fun YouTube video features a 1980s pop classic. The rock band Toto scored their biggest hit with "Africa" in 1982. The song is instantly recognizable, but it has been reinvented by Perpetuum Jazzile, an A'cappella jazz choir from Slovenia. The beginning of this video is really striking. Group members simulate an African thunderstorm with their hands. It’s really something to see and hear.”

It is, indeed.

KayG5010

You won the copy of Belle Armoire, but I need to hear from you by tomorrow (it's been all week) so I don't have to pick someone else.

(Real names are sooooo much easier, you know?)

Oh, Dear. What Have I Done?

I just got off the phone with Apple. I ordered a 13” MacBook Pro, my very first Foray into the Trial Process.
Oh, wait. That’s My Cousin Vinny. I meant, My Very First Foray into the Experience That is Apple. Or should I call that The Religion That is Apple?
I keep telling people that the iPhone is the gateway drug for Apple:  we PC users go along being perfectly happy—or, well, not perfectly happy. Not really even vaguely satisfied, actually, since almost every one of us hates Vista with a bloody passion, but anyway—we go along not thinking we’ll never want to make the switch and then, innocently enough, we buy an iPhone. We circle it warily for a while. Then we begin to download some apps. We start to dick around with it, learn some moves, feel a little slick and sassy. Next thing you know, we’re traveling to some city with an Apple Retail Location, pushing our way through the worshippers at the Genius Bar, going home to order various Portable Genius volumes.
Like, for instance, the one about Switching to a Mac. Mine has not actually arrived at my house yet, but it’s on its way.
Eventually I want to switch over to Mac completely. The people I know and with whom I work almost all swear by Macs—the people who spend much of their days tethered to their computers are often Mac users, and they sure seem a lot happier with their experience than do the people who are still gritting their teeth over the disaster that has been Vista.
But I need to start off slowly. I have to be able to work, with no learning curve, on the main computer. I don’t have a couple weeks to get up to speed. So I’m starting out with a notebook computer. I’ll learn the operating system, get familiar with the differences, gnash my teeth and grumble and moan in my off hours. Then, when I’m ready—and when I can afford it—I’ll make The Big Switch.
To force myself to make this switch, which I dread, in many ways, I forced myself into getting a new laptop by giving away my old one. It was only two years old (approx. the age of Methuselah in Computer Years, I know), but it was a fancy schmancy 17” HP with a webcam and tv interface and a whole bunch of stuff I’d never unwrapped. The stuff to make it work as a tv tuner had never even come out of the bubble wrap. It had been used so seldom, since it was big (17”!) and quirky (damn Vista) and scary (all so new and big and shiny and damn expensive (it was a birthday gift from The EGE two years ago)) that it still looked brand new.
So I gave it to our nephew. Let him unwrap the tv tuner stuff and have a go at it. Let him figure out how to access the webcam videos from YouTube (I took some videos and could watch them but could never access them from YouTube to upload them, which is so weird, since I’ve uploaded tons of videos from other places. I couldn’t figure it out to save my life, and that just made me pissy.) Sadly, we never bonded. I picked it out, I thought it was going to be perfect, I treated it like royalty. But it just never settled in, and we remained strangers.
Well, it’s done. They’re officially Building My Computer as I type this. Snort.
The lovely young woman tried to sell me the protection plan on the argument that I’d have phone support for several years. I laughed just like I did on Tuesday when Wendy told me the same thing. She said that even she, who has used a Mac since the 1980’s, has, on rare occasion, found it helpful.
I asked her, “Why in the world would I pay $200 so I could call someone for phone support when I have YOU on speed dial?” My theory is, If Wendy Doesn’t Know It, It’s Not Worth Knowing.
If there’s anything that one of the Women Who Say Fuck doesn’t know? You don’t need to know it.
Nevertheless, I’m going to apologize to you in advance for all the grousing and bitching you’re sure to hear from me as I learn yet another bit of new-to-me technology. I like to think of it as my way of preventing Alzheimer’s.
Right.

Pearl Fryar’s Topiary Garden

Thanks to Linda for turning me on to this guy. Wow!

Here’s a video about him:

And here’s one that’s just shots of his garden:

Here’s his website.

Don’t you feel inspired?

Birthdays & Shopping = Oh. My. God.

So I had another birthday. They’ve been a little tough since both my parents died. My mother died two weeks before I turned 50, which was The World’s Worst Birthday Ever. So I’ve been kind of coaching The EGE since then, trying to get him into the whole Birthday Spirit, but he’s not really a birthday kind of guy. He did OK for a couple of years there with the crepe paper streamers and the light-up jeweled tiaras, but this year I realized I was going to have to seize the day and wrestle it into submission.
Like I’ve said:  it’s tough to celebrate when you do what you love every day. So what to do? I started out stitching on the front porch, which was nice, but then, when more drastic measures were called for, I got dressed and went to the mall.
Yes, honeys:  I spent a good chunk of my birthday at The Fucking Mall, Home of Sneaky Marketing Techniques, Zombified Shoppers, and Totally Worthless Imported Crap You Don’t Need.
Yes, I did.
And I had an absolutely fabulous time!
See, I didn’t set out to go the mall on my birthday. I set out to go to the post office, but when I took the SUV out of the carport, I went, “Holy crap, that’s one filthy truck!” Seems it hadn’t been washed since we got back from New Orleans, and it was covered with dead bugs approximately the size of Chihuahuas. So I took it to the car wash, which was kind of fun, since I got to sit in the car wash and work on a crossword puzzle I downloaded with an app. for the iPhone. I like crossword puzzles, but I won’t take time to sit and dick around with them. When you’ve got one with you already, though, and it’s not this big chunk of newspaper, and you’re not always having to hunt for a pencil (or a pen, if you’re a show-off), it’s a whole 'nother thang.
And then, since I was already halfway to the mall, I thought I’d go and check on this bag I’d seen on-line. I have a confession to make, an embarrassing one: I love leather bags. I have a severe weakness for them. As a vegetarian and someone who doesn’t believe in hunting, this is a real problem. It’s like those fanatical ministers who rail about the sins of the wicked and then sneak off to Acapulco with the church secretary while their wife is in the hospital giving birth to triplets. You know? It just doesn’t make sense.
But there you go. I’m not always consistent. It’s one of the benefits of getting older:  when we’re young, we think we’re going to find ourselves, discover what we’re like, figure out the world and our place in it and know how we’ll react in every situation. We’ll know what we like and don’t like, what we hate and will tolerate, and we’ll be All Set Forever.
It doesn’t work like that. And isn’t that a marvelous thing? If I knew everything about myself and had me all figured out, I’d be boring as hell to myself. The surprises and the changes and the inconsistencies are the things that keep me interested.
For instance:  I used to hate yellow. Loathe it. It made me queasy. I’ve told y’all why—I won’t torture you again. Let’s just say, as a memory refresher:  Christmas pageant practice, standing in the gym in 3nd grade, singing “Silent Night” next to a kid who’d eaten an egg salad sandwich for lunch.
Shudder.
Anyway:  I use a lot of yellow when I dye stuff. I mix most of my own colors, and the acid green and orange and gold require, well, a LOT of yellow. And as I worked with it, I realized yellow isn’t so bad.
[I still can’t listen to “Silent Night” without needing Pepto Bismol, but there’s still time. . . .]
Anyway. So I love leather. I’ve tried to get over it, making my own bags out of fabric and wearing rubber Yoquis by Keens, but the truth of the matter is that I love everything about leather except that it comes from poor, innocent, slaughtered animals. I love the way it feels. I love the way it smells. I love the way it ages and gets all spottled and soft. It’s almost like a fetish, but without the sex. I swear. I have not progressed to the actual licking of the leather, OK?
Anyway, so I’d seen this groovy bag at zappos.com. And let me just say here that I hate Zappos, OK? They must surely be from the devil, because they make it entirely too easy and pleasurable to shop:  when you have to call them, the people are all nice and cheerful and helpful and will go to a huge amount of trouble trying to fix what’s wrong. The CEO is funny and smart and has great policies, and people love working for him. They have free overnight shipping both ways, and their return policy is such that you can order half a dozen pair of shoes, get them the next day, try them on, keep what you want and send the rest back, no questions asked, free of charge.
Nope. They’re not paying me to say this.
The reason they’re so evil is that they will occasionally send you e-mail with pictures of stuff they think (duh) you just might possibly like. You know, from your Previous Shopping Choices. I had never ordered a bag from them—I think of them as just The Shoe Place—but there, in the e-mail was this bag:

Man, that’s a cute bag (and yes, my love of leather does cause me to use the word “cute” rather too often for my own comfort. Imagine my poor husband, who sees me transformed from his usually fairly logical and sensible (well, come on:  mostly!) wife into this estrogen-charged leather-fondling shopping fiend from hell when I get hit, as I sometimes do, by Bag Lust).
Fortunately for me (or not:  read on), I didn’t think to order the bag and have it arrive at my home in less than 24 hours. Instead, I googled it and found that they carry it at Dillard's. Since I was not yet in the grasp of Bag Lust, I didn’t actually plan to go look at it; I just thought that, you know, if I happened to be Out That Way (snort), I could drop in and look. And I mean “drop in,” as I treat the mall sort of the way I treat an iffy public restroom, holding my breath, looking neither left nor right, hurrying in and getting it over with and getting out before I can see anything I don’t need to see. You know?
But there I was at the car wash, the truck all clean and shiny, flush with my success at filling in 8 and 9 down (“epistles” and “Caspian”), and it seemed harmless enough, really, just going over to check out the bag In Real Life. I told myself that I wouldn’t buy it, even if I loved it, since I do sort of have this odd loyalty to Zappos (plus, you know, if I liked it and ordered it from them, I might want to, oh, you know, check out another couple leather bags while I was at it, seeing how it wouldn’t cost anything to LOOK at them, right? with the free shipping and all).
This is how all problems begin, isn’t it? They start out all innocently: “Oh, I’m just going to try this little, tiny, teeninsy bit of heroin, just to see what everyone’s talking about. What’s the harm, just this tiny, tiny little bit?” You tell yourself you just want to see it, see what it’s like, check it out. Next thing you know, you’re strung out on the street, peeing on yourself and talking to Mozart in Russian.
Well. I go over to The Mall and go in and, lo! They do have the bag! It’s right there, in the hip little Lucky Brand display. And ick:  what a disappointment! This model

must be about 4’2” and weigh, oh, maybe 73 pounds, because there is no way in the world that bag is as big as it looks in this photo. No way. It was a tiny little thing. Well, tiny as leather bags go. Because, really, people:  if you want a tiny little bag, you don’t need leather:  you’re not going to be carrying shit in it, anyway. Leather is bulky. If your bag is 4” square and all you’re going to put in it is your phone and a tampon, come on:  get velvet! Get something sparkly! It’s not like you need Seriously Functional. Leather is for Substantial Bags. Big, roomy, accommodating bags. Bags that will Go With You Through Life.
So the bag was too small = I was safe!
Yeah. Right. You, my fellow addicts, know what’s coming, don’t you? Yes, indeed:  turns out that on Tuesday, My Birthday, someone had, indeed, planned a perfect birthday surprise: in addition to the end-of-season clearance on all kinds of stuff, they had a One-Day-Only (although I’m not sure I believe that and so should maybe just kind of Stop By and check it out, just to be sure it’s not still going on. My civic duty, you know) Additional 40% Off with Your Dillard's Credit Card. Meaning that, in addition to the 50-70% off they had already marked on Shit They Couldn’t Sell, they had another, ADDITIONAL 40% off with a Dillard's credit card.
Do I have a Dillard's credit card? Hell, no. I have only one credit card, and I use it for everything and pay it off every week. I make money on this baby, what with the Driver’s Edge Bonus Points. I don’t have any other credit cards.
Except:  now I do. Now, it seems, I have a Dillard's credit card. You saw this coming, right? Because it turns out that if you don’t owe anyone any money, everyone wants to lend you money, even if it’s supposed to be really hard to get credit. Turns out it took me about 2.5 minutes to get a Dillard's credit card.
But let me back up.
I was still in the Browsing & Sniffing Mode. No! I do NOT mean I was walking through the Bag & Shoe Department sniffing and fondling the leather! No! I told you I haven’t sunk that far yet. No:  I mean I was still in that mode where you walk through and look at stuff and sniff to yourself and go, “Cheap, shoddy crap. No wonder they couldn’t sell it. $19.99? I wouldn’t take those if they were giving them away! Huh.” Like that.
And then My Friend Wendy, the Evil Enabler, called me. She was in Woodstock—yes, that Woodstock:  the one with the 40th  Anniversary going on (although, as she pointed out, Woodstock didn’t actually happen in Woodstock; it was about 40 miles away)). She was calling to wish me a happy birthday, and she had to do it while she was in town because she can’t get phone reception at her cabin. So when I actually answered the phone (which I hardly ever manage to do), she turned around and went back into town sp we could talk.
Big trouble for me. She was checking out Thomas Pynchon’s new novel, trying to decide if she wanted to read it badly enough to pay the Brand-New Hardback Book Cost (about $1,456,000, or $34.99) or if she could wait until she could get it at the Austin Public Library (meaning she has to wait in line until it’s her turn). I hated Pynchon in graduate school and so had to entertain myself with pleasant visuals of shoes and stuff while she was telling me about the reviews. See?  All Wendy’s fault:  we’re talking, and I was looking at bags. And shoes. Otherwise I could have escaped the mall and driven home, see?
Picture this:  we’re talking and laughing (and probably cussing, since we are, after all, Charter Members (we’re all CM’s) of Women Who Say Fuck and have certain responsibilities we have to uphold as requirements of our membership (i.e., say “fuck” a lot). Although none of us is the kind of person who walks around saying Bad Words (or, esp. Really Bad Words) out loud in public, talking on the phone to each other is another matter. There’s no telling what I might have said. So I’m sitting there, finally (I had too much to carry) in the shoe department, surrounded by the other shoppers, which would be Women Who Are Not at Work and Have a Dillard's Card. Meaning, in Midland, A Certain Kind of Woman. I look like I always look. I’m laughing and talking on the phone, surrounded by bags. Several bags. Many bags. Including a red one and One That Matches My Hair!  Wendy’s asking me if I’ve decided which one I’m going to get. I tell her I think I’ll just get all of them. Or none of them: I’ll ask the clerk if 1) I can return them if I change my mind and 2) if I can get a card today and use it to get the 40% off. Her answers will determine my fate.
You guessed it:  yes. And yes.
In the end, I have seven new bags and two pair of shoes, one for me and one for The EGE. This is obscene, and it’s a measure of my love and admiration for you all that I even tell you about this. I want you to know that, no matter what your little secret is, you’re not alone.
Well, unless you ARE actually licking the bags. Then you might be alone. We might need to talk about that one. . . .
I spent (get ready for The Full Confession) a little over $300 (broken down to Money Spent per Hour of Shopping, it really isn’t that much). Everything was on clearance, and everything was also another 40% off.
Guess how much I saved. Give up? I saved (drum roll!) over $1000 dollars. Yowza.  My mother would have been so proud. The EGE was proud of me—that man loves a bargain.
Here’s what I got, plus The EGE’s shoes, which have vanished into The Man Closet, where I dare not venture:

Now, there may be those among you (probably, I’m sorry, very left-brained types, perhaps (although not necessarily) male (although, honeys, I have known some men who love to shop. Hell:  when I stop and think about it, I realize that most of the men I have known in my life have SERIOUSLY loved to shop. Not my father. The EGE doesn’t like to shop for stuff, but he likes to do comparison grocery shopping and bargain shopping and really likes looking in places like IKEA. He just doesn't like paying money for stuff and then bringing it home))—anyway, there may be someone out there going, “You didn’t save $1000. You spent $335.” To you, I say “Phbbbbttt.” You obviously don’t grasp the concept of Bargains, so you need to go away and read your US News and World Report and let the rest of us wallow in our Total Shopping Success Glee.
OK, so I’ve told you mine. I’ve confessed the worst. Now it’s your turn: your biggest guilty shopping thrill? Or your biggest Shopping Bargain Score ever? Which will it be?
And that, my dears, is How I Spent My Birthday.

Another Video Featuring—Woohoo: Candy the Squirrel!

I don’t know if she’s building a nest or is just offended by my voodoo dolls, but she’s been disemboweling the one in the tree. Here she’s just beginning to realize that she can’t get me to give her a pecan if her mouth is full of voodoo doll guts. As soon as I turned off the camera, she used her paws to pull out the stuffing and toss it on the ground so she could beg more effectively. Like that’s ever been a problem for her.

You might be able to see some hair mixed in with the batting—Juliana Coles sent a bunch of her hair for me to use on these dolls.

 

Queen Butterflies in the Blue Mist

[Sounds almost like a James Lee Burke novel, huh?]

So here’s a little of The Good Stuff for you this morning, just in case you’re feeling a lack of it:

(I do misspeak here, in the best Self-Important Asshole from Texas fashion:  it’s blue mist, not purple. But you knew that already.)

Good Stuff

~~This morning when we walked, the small park (which has no trees or other landscaping and is primarily a place where the uncivilized allow their dogs to crap (there’s one well-dressed businessman who used to come every day at noon and let his little dog out to crap in the park while he sat in his SUV and waited. Never cleaned up a thing) (the people in the neighborhood, on the other hand, carry plastic bags and pick up after their dogs)) was full of dragonflies. They were gorgeous, their wings flashing gold in the sunlight as they flew just above grass level. We went around the block twice to admire them. We were trying to figure out if they were eating or mating or laying eggs—they’d fly the width of the park and then, when they reached the edge, turn and fly back. Hundreds of them. Even the mockingbirds and grackles seemed bemused.

~~Candy the Squirrel is getting ready for winter, burying the pecans we give her instead of eating them. This is cute but very silly, as 1) it doesn’t get that cold in the winter and so 2) she’s here all winter long and 3) we feed her pecans all winter long so that 4) she forgets where she put the pecans, and 5) they sprout and come up and 6) The EGE tries to save them and transplant them, which is nigh until impossible, what with that long, fragile taproot. So I go out and give her pecans and tell her just to eat them, and she buries them, thinking surely this year we’re going to abandon her and she will need them. The EGE grouses at her about messing up his lawn. She, chubby and determined, ignores him. All this drives the cats nuts as they watch from the window. She sits outside, up on her hind legs, her front paws folded over her belly, and stares at them. A mighty insult. They’ve been in the window all morning, watching her, unbelieving. How can she be so bold? Right now she’s taking a break, stretched out along a limb in the cedar tree.

~~the turtles show up in the morning so The EGE can feed them the dried-up, leftover cat food from the night before. He’s trying to train them to come to the sound of the spoon scraping the plastic bowl. They’re getting better—they almost always show up if he turns on the hose and lets the water run.

~~our neighbors way down the block have a stand of blue mist that’s been filled every day with queen butterflies. You can stand beside it and have them swirl all around you. I keep meaning to go down and take a video before they leave. Maybe I should go do that now--

What’s good in your world today?

The Rules in The Mixed Media Art Community

Riffing on another idea prompted by Deirdra’s post: What are The Rules? As I said last time, I have no idea about the back story here—if I did, I wouldn’t be posting about it, because then it would be me inserting my opinion about something that’s none of my business. As it is, being ignorant of the details, as usual, I can talk about the ideas prompted by the topic itself. Which is: The Rules.

I know there are rules—there are rules for everything. Some rules are great:  rules about commas, for example, help make what you write easily understandable by your reader. You know, the whole “eats, shoots, and leaves” thing. Rules for driving are good also. We love those rules, never mind that approximately 99.9% of the US Driving Population has no clue what “Yield” actually means. They seem to believe that it is a synonym for “slow down just a tad, then speed up reallyreallyreally fast so you can get there first.”

So what are the Rules for the Mixed Media Community? Who knows? It doesn’t matter, because, in practice, you need only one set of rules, and they apply equally to International Finance and dating and attending an art retreat and being part of any community, anywhere:

1. Play nicely. Show up with a good attitude, ready to contribute and learn and find out new stuff. Think about what you have to offer, and think about what you can learn from people who are willing to share what they know. Don’t come in with a chip on your shoulder or some agenda, like proving how groovy you are or how cool and worldly and jaded. Put on your happy face and try to make others feel at ease. Be encouraging, be honest, be open. If this is too tough for you—if you’re by nature an introverted, bitter, suspicious, angry person, then perhaps it’s best if you stay at home.

2. No hitting. Or biting. Don’t do nasty things to others. Don’t sabotage their work, and don’t spread gossip or rumors or bad news. Don’t be the one who’s sitting at home plotting how to get back at the teacher who didn’t give you enough attention in her workshop or the woman sitting next to you who used up all your red yarn. Don’t try to scoop someone by claiming you had the idea first or by going behind their back to suggest you’d be the better person for the gallery show because, well, really, she’s been having a lot of personal drama, and who can be sure she’ll be able to meet the deadline. You know what I’m talking about here.

3. Don’t be greedy. If you’re thinking about money, money, money all the time, and it’s always about marketing and pushing your work and getting people to give you money for your stuff or your time or your techniques, then you don’t really want to be part of a community; you want to have customers. While people in a community may oftentimes support each other financially, that is not their primary purpose. If you’re trying to insinuate yourself into a group with the main purpose of finding ways to get them to pay you for stuff, you’re lying, aren’t you? You don’t want to be part of a group; you want to build a customer base. If it’s all about money for you, it’s never going to be about community.

4. Don’t take stuff that doesn’t belong to you. If artist A gets an article in a magazine about her Braided Tchotchkes, and if everyone is immediately blogging about Braided Tchotchkes and talking about A’s Braided Tchotchke Workshop, and her Etsy shop, once full of Braided Tchotchkes, is suddenly sold out, don’t you DARE suddenly go, “You know, I’ve always had a fondness for Braided Tchotchkes. In fact, I first made Braided Tchotchkes at my great-grandmother’s knee when I was nothing but a wee lass. By golly, I have as much right to make Braided Tchotchkes as A does!”  and then you suddenly start cranking out Braided Tchotchkes for your own brand-new (but you really intended to open one YEARS ago; you just never had the time) Etsy shop. You know it:  every how-to piece begins with “I’ve loved bird images my whole life. . .” or “I was using Rusted Metal Things in my art in kindergarten. . .” or whatever other disclaimer the artist thinks will cement their right to jump on the Braided Tchotchke band wagon. This is not about art. This is about taking someone else’s idea—their successful idea, because, really:  if you come up with something that totally sucks the big winkie, you don’t much have to worry about anyone else stealing the idea and running off with it, do you?—and trying to cash in on it. It’s about money, it’s about laziness, it’s about greed. You can make up all the excuses you want and try to justify it any way you want, but you know what it is.

5. Share. This is the flip side. If you’re Artist A, and you make a small fortune on Braided Tchotchkes, and everyone is clamoring to learn to make them, teach a workshop. Go ahead:  tell them how. Show them samples and give them the handouts and teach them how to do what you do. Why? Because if you’re making art, if you’re an artist, by the time your Braided Tchotchkes become internationally famous, you’re hot on fire with passion for Waxed Potsherds.  You live Waxed Potsherds and dream Waxed Potsherds, and making them is all you want to do. You are so over Braided Tchotchkes [and, honeys, imagine how tired I am of typing “Braided Tchotchkes”] that you keep making them only because people are still mad to death in love with them and you can’t bear to disappoint them. In fact, you’re ready to sell the rights to some company, which will pay you well enough so you won’t starve—and there is nothing wrong with making money with your art--just so you can move on to Waxed Potsherds. Because Real Artists are like that: they don’t have The One Big Idea that they ride for a lifetime. Hell, no. They have an idea and then another one and then three more and then half a dozen and then one that GRABS them, and the question is when to find the time to chase them all down and play with them, not how to hide them away and keep them all secret. We all know artists who won’t share:  the ones who have Secret Steps or Mystery Ingredients. The ones who say, “You’ll have to take my class to find that out” when all you asked them was what kind of glue stick they like best. Sure, you don’t give away the store when you’re trying to make a living by teaching workshops, but if someone asks you what kind of wax you’re using, good grief:  you TELL them. If you’re doing fabulous stuff, they’ll want to take your class anyway. Chances are they’re paying for the class just to hang around you and watch how you work, not to glean the Secrets of Waxed Potsherds. I feel really strongly about this  because  I couldn’t do the job I do—writing about artists and their work—if artists didn’t share. If they didn’t freely tell about their work and show it and show how it’s done and share their tips and techniques and shortcuts, I’d be out of a job. Everything I write relies on the willingness of artists to share what they do. Do they all share? No. But I guarantee this:  the ones who keep it all to themselves, who refuse to share and expect to be paid for every single little tidbit they toss out to the waiting masses? You don’t hear much from them except in very, very rarefied arenas. The ones who do share? They’re the ones posting how-to’s on their blogs and providing videos and giving instructions. Or the ones who, when you contact them to ask a question, do their best to find the time to answer it. Think Judy Wise, who’s a very successful teacher, indeed. She  posts tons of how-to stuff and shows step-by-step stuff (remember her paper bag journal how-to?) and shares her journal online. How can she share so much and still work? If you notice, by the time everyone else is excited about whatever it is Judy is doing, she’s already been captured and captivated by Something Brand New. She’s not afraid you’re going to steal her One Big Idea and run away with it; she’s too busy trying to find time for all the million things she can’t wait to try. That’s what art is about.

And those, my sweets, are The Rules.

Go. Play well with others.