Podcast with Mary Beth Shaw

I had The Best Time talking to Mary Beth yesterday. I'd spent the morning making the book trailer movie, and of course Mary Beth appears in that--fabulously!--and I was teasing her about how I was her Biggest Fan that day. She's in that movie a lot--the woman doesn't take bad photos, you know?

 

So we had a lot of fun, and she had some really great things to say about changing careers in mid-life (she quit a really high-powered insurance career to focus on art: talk about scary!) and about art as healing and about finding your voice. Plus she's just fun to listen to--not ever boring, not even a bit. Check out her website here.

You Wanted More Photos? You Got 'Em!

Some people said they wish there were more photos. I made the movie short so it would load to smartphones, but, hey: why not go back and make an expanded version with even more eye candy? Why not, indeed! Here you go:

It's Here!

Oboy, oboy, oboy! We found out yesterday that amazon.com has started shipping pre-orders of our new book, so I can officially begin to tell you about it. While I could easily wax poetic about this baby for many, many paragraphs (and aren't you surprised?), it's much more fun if I can *show* you, right? So I spent all of yesterday (until midnight last night) making this for you. I don't know about anyone else, but The EGE and I LOVE this movie--we've been watching it over and over, loving how everyone looks so happy. As, indeed, they were--we had a blast at these retreats~~

So watch the movie, and then come back later to hear more Adventures in Geekdom.

You Learn Something Every &^%$# Day

Today's lesson: if you exit BlogWriter, it does *not* automatically save your post, as does WriteRoom. So the blog post I'd been writing for you for the last half hour is gone. Vanished. Poof! Because I had to take a photo, and so I had to use the camera, and so. . . .

This irritates me mightily, as I had been entertaining us with tales of shopping in Dallas, which is what we did yesterday. I also told you about how I didn't have to shoot the woman who puked next to me in the parking lot this morning because 1) she didn't puke *right* next to me and 2) I don't actually carry my gun with me. I did think about it, however. And then I might have ranted a bit about Other People. As in, "Gah." And, perhaps, "Gack." It's the major drawback of travel, for me: the exposure to other people and their noise and filth and nasty habits and bad attitudes and effluvia. You never see cats digging in their noses and then wiping their fingers on their shorts, is all I can say.

Yeah, yeah, so they don't have fingers. But still--they never do that.

And I told you about this leather bag I found and studied because it was Almost Cool, meaning it came so close to total coolness but just missed, which is really inspiring to me because, as I'm standing there fondling it, I'm thinking of how I can make one and fix all the things--the color and texture and size and embellishment and, well, pretty much everything--that keep it from cool-dom. I told The EGE that that alone, seeing that bag, was worth the whole trip. You can literally feel the sparks in your brain when that happens--it's like some drug that makes things zip around, makes the connections ping. I can't wait to get home and start experimenting. I want to make more things out of leather (yes, leather is My Dark Side--the dead animal skin that I adore and that makes me feel guilty for adoring, but there you go) but am unsure of the processes--of cutting it and sewing it, of what will stretch and how much, of what needs to be reinforced and what's fine on its own. I have unlined leather totes that are fine, even though they're thin and carry a lot. Why? Why does other, thicker leather stretch out of shape? I have research to do.

And then I shopped. Rather a lot. Way more than I usually do. There's this new store, Desigual, in the Northpark Mall, and I tweeted it yesterday--it has the most Almost Cool stuff of any store I've been in in a long time. I've been to their website (sorry, no links in this app) because I'd seen a few of the pieces in The Boutique, the ritzy little Midland shop that carries Free People and Double D Ranch and Old Gringo boots--that kind of stuff--but I hadn't been into a Desigual store, with the patched and appliquéd stuff, the screen-printed and stitched and embellished stuff. What kept it from being Totally Cool is that it's all machine-done, as far as I can tell. Lots of zig-zag and serging, both of which I think are ugly. But the ideas! The ideas! And then two pair of pants I couldn't resist. I tried, O! I tried. I walked away. But then I came back. Of course. And bought them.

Funny thing--this is how our life is: I'm in the dressing room, standing in front of the mirror checking out one of the pair of pants. A woman next to me in the huge mirror calls out to her friend in the dressing room to come see these pants I've got. The curtain parts, and someone says, "Ricë! What are you doing here?" It took me a second to recognize Lisa Renner, which is silly because we just saw her in Phoenix at Art Unraveled, but you don't expect to run into people you know in a dressing room when you're traveling, you know?

OK--I'm going to post this now. It's got me spooked, afraid it's going to eat another post.

Then I'd have to shoot it.

Hanging Out in Dallas

GeoTagged, [N32.86395, E96.77285]

Hello, my little chickadees! We're in Dallas, at our New Favorite Dallas Hotel--the DoubleTree at Campbell Center. Whew. I'd almost despaired of finding a place that was 1) convenient to where we like to go, 2) reasonably priced (<$100 a night) and 3) not skank city. As y'all know, I'm officially boycotting La Quinta, which means "hairs" in Spanish, never mind what they tell you about the translation.

Long, long ago, we stumbled upon a motel out on LBJ, the Terra Cotta Inn. It was owned by a mother and daughter, I think, and not part of a chain. Each room was different, and there were resident cats. Lots of plants and greenery, like a little oasis right off a busy highway. We loved it and were hideously disappointed when it closed. Since then, we've generally stayed at the LQ Inn & Suites at DFW North, where we could often get a big room with separate bedroom for a good price. But it was ugly out there, and far from everything except Grapevine. And now, with the boycott, well. We liked the Doubletree in Milwaukee last year. Why? Cookies, of course! So we tried this one, and so far (2 stays) we're very happy. Weekends gave good rates--I think it's probably more a business hotel, as the rates seem higher during the week. For about $85-90 a night, you can get an upgraded corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, which we love. We're on the 13th floor this time facing southwest, so the lights at night are fabulous. And even cooler, the staff has all been amazingly friendly. Nothing like some of the people at some La Quintas, like the guy in Houston who, when I pointed out some error on his part, responded, "So what does that mean to me?" And I said, "Um, that we won't be staying here?"

Anyway, so we got here yesterday. We first made a trip to DFW to hook up with the fabulous Christi Friesen, and if I had a clue how to add a link to BlogWriter on the iPhone, here I would direct you to cforiginals.com (and you can tell I like Christi a lot because I actually remembered that URL without having to look it up (and if it's "net" rather than "com," I'm going to have a little temper tantrum).

Anyway, she's on page 106 in the new book, and she's here this weekend teaching in Southlake, which is, like much of Dallas, like a whole nother country: far, far away. We met in the bar at the Grand Hyatt and visited until her ride came to collect her, and it was the best conversation-- work and travel, creativity and teaching, workshops vs. art retreats, energy levels and laziness. You know: the good stuff. Although hooking up with other creative people is often difficult, it is so, so worth the effort to sit down with a glass of wine and talk about the stuff nobody else gets, you know?

Then we shopped for shoes. A pair of running shoes for The EGE, who still gets to run (I love him anyway), and groovy shoes for me, including a pair of Born sandals, regularly $99, for $8.99. No, I'm not talking second-hand shoes. I can't handle those unless they're 1) actually new and haven't been worn or 2) vintage cowboy boots. I can't wear used shoes. Nope, these are new, from Nordstrom's Rack on I-75, my favorite place to shop for shoes. Best of all? These (and the other, um, 2 pair I found) don't hurt my toe (the one I broke, which still hurts. But not in these shoes!)

Today we'll go to NorthPark Mall and, maybe, The Galleria, where The EGE will indulge me in my favorite thing to do when we travel: look at clothes I would never buy to see if there's anything cool I want to figure out how to do. The upscale shops in these malls have stuff that actually inspires me--hand-dyeing, or hand beading, or hand-stitching. I'll try to find more examples of knit with handwork. I'm totally jazzed by the discovery that I can sew on knit (t-shirts, The EGE's polo shirts)--as long as it's by hand. I'd tried many times to appliqué with machine, and it was always a fiasco. And I don't like the look of serging, frankly. But there's some handwork that I really like--I've already started in on one of his shirts, snipping and patching. We'll see how that goes. Maybe leather trim--I'm testing some leather scraps in the laundry to see how they behave.

OK, let's see if this is going to publish. It's all typed on the iPhone (with the bluetooth keyboard, of course, which is going to the Apple store with us to see if there's a fix for the sticky "shift" key). If it posts, give a cheer, please--it's been a long, long road trying to find a blogging app I can actually rely on to post for me.

Hey, Hey, It's My Birthday--Let's Have Some Cake!

This is what awaited me this morning when I woke up. 

The Ever-Gorgeous Earl was up until 3 a.m. making me a Birthday Cake. Now, while this is totally fabulous, it may not seem to you to be a total act of love, but wait: this is not your standard Birthday Cake, not by any means. Let me tell you why--and, in the process, explain pretty much everything.

I have always been spoiled. Not in the sense of getting everything I want or pitching tantrums or acting like a diva and being allowed to get away with it. No, that's not what I mean. I mean that I have lived my life with two people--my mother when I was little, The EGE after that--who loved me and treated me like it. Being well-loved is a blessing of the biggest sort, and I have been lucky.

My mother was A Birthday Person. You know, the kind of person who makes a big deal out of your birthday if you're her kid, with a special cake and a pile of gifts and letting you do whatever you want all day long. You get to wear what you want, within reason. You get to eat what you want for lunch, and she'll probably go to the store and buy a little cup of shrimp cocktail for you. Even into adulthood, I got the Royal Birthday Girl treatment.

The EGE? Not so much into birthdays. As in, not at all into the whole Birthday Thang. With eight brothers (no girls) growing up, birthdays were not about the cake and the tiara, you know? So while he'd always do the gift-and-card thing, he never really got into treating me like a queen, and this chapped my butt royally. Did I mention spoiled?

Especially after my mother died five years ago and there was no one to take up the slack in the Birthday Girl department. Now, I know full well how selfish and childish this is and how many, many people in the world would be happy even to have a card or an email on their birthday. I get that. I do. I know exactly how spoiled I am. 

It's not about the presents. Not at all. I don't need or want anything, and I don't much like getting gifts because of that--there's nothing I need or want. Nope: what it's about is being The Queen for the Day. What does this mean? Ahhhhhh--that's where we get into problems. 

I have no idea what it means. I don't want to go out to lunch (I don't eat lunch). I don't want to take the day off and go to a spa (I like working; I wouldn't do well in the shared-pedicure-tub-thing of a spa = ick). I don't want to go to a movie or out to dinner. I like my life just fine, and I like what I do every day. 

I just want to be Treated Like a Queen, and I have absolutely no idea what that means. 

So. There were a couple years there that were kind of rough, when I'd hope for something I couldn't name and then be disappointed. Irritating for everyone involved. Then, a couple years ago, I sat down and figured it out. I told The EGE, "A tiara. A wand. Cake, but not regular cake."

The man is brilliant, as I might have mentioned before. He waited until after I'd gone to bed, got in the car, went to The Dreaded Wal-Mart (which he doesn't dread, not if I'm not with him and he doesn't have to listen to me rant about the people grazing their way through the cookie aisle) and bought balloons and streamers and a big "It's My Birthday!" button and a neon light-up plastic tiara. He made me a cake.

It was fabulous, and I was happy. I wore the big button all day long, and yes, I wore the tiara, too. And the cake? Ahhhh, the cake.

I am not a cake eater. I don't much care for things that are kind of sweet. If I'm going to eat refined sugar, I want to make it worth it. I want real sugar, and I want butter, and I want chocolate and nuts and caramel and coconut. I want it all, all at once. So what I really like is the frosting. I adore frosting! Granted, I eat it once, maybe twice a year, but by golly, I make it worth it!

So of course my mother had long ago devised a way to make a cake for me that I would eat. She got a big shallow pan (I'm sure it's a specific kind of pan, but I don't cook and have no idea what it is). It's square, about twice the size of a regular cake pan. She made the regular amount of cake batter and spread it in this pan so that the cake was half the thickness of a regular cake. And then she doubled or quadrupled or whatever the frosting recipe, so that there was twice as much frosting on half as much cake.

When she died, The EGE got the cake pan. He's been making my Aunt Sissy's Pineapple Goo Cake for me. The frosting has coconut, sugar, butter, Carnation Evaporated Milk, vanilla, pecans, and walnuts (I just asked; I have no idea how to make this cake). He makes extra frosting that goes in the refrigerator--I eat it with a spoon.

Yeah, I tend to be a little more hyper than usual for the week or so this stuff lasts.

Then, last year, he decided that since I was still leaving most of the cake, just eating the frosting off the top, that he'd quit making this rich, moist pineapple cake from scratch and do something else. He found a recipe for Praline Cookies. He makes the cookie dough and spreads it out in The Big Pan, cooks it like a sheet cake and then frosts it like my Aunt Sissy's cake.

Praline Cookies with Fabulous Frosting! Sugar on top of sugar! Butter on top of butter! Heaven!

He makes this once a year. We always cut it up and give a lot away, although we suspect that people don't actually eat it--most people are more the Angel Food Cake with One Strawberry kind of sweet eaters. You know: they eat something sweet several times a day but nothing ever that's REALLY sweet. I eat something REALLY sweet maybe once every couple of months, and it lasts me for a long, long time.

So now you see what I mean by being spoiled rotten. It's not about presents or a day spent being indulged with a facial. It's about someone really paying attention and then figuring out a way to make you happy. It's a plastic light-up tiara and enough sugar to send a flight to Mars. 

Ahhhhh. A fabulous birthday, indeed! I wish you were here to help me eat some cake~~XO

Podcast with Roberta Sperling, My Very First Editor

Roberta is the Editor-in-Chief and--along with her husband, Michael--the owner of Rubberstampmadness, the very first rubber stamping magazine and the single most important factor in everything that came after. Before the internet, before the other magazines, before art retreats--there was Rubberstampmadness, which Lowry Thompson began in 1980. Roberta and Michael bought the magazine in 1982, and I started writing for Roberta in 1990-91.

So many mixed media artists got their start in rubber stamping. It's like the iPhone, kind of the gateway drug to everything else. You know: you get an iPhone, and the next thing you know you have a MacBook, and then an iMac, then an iPad. Same thing: you start out rubber stamping, and then you're carving stamps, and then you're doing mail art and faux postage and collage. Then bookbinding. Assemblage.

So today I talked to Roberta. I thought we'd talk about this very thing, about how stamping is at the core of so much of what goes on today. We did, some, but then we started reminiscing, talking about people we knew and mail art and what that used to be like, when you'd get armloads of fabulously funky stuff that other people sent you through the actual US Mail, back before everyone was terrified you'd be sending something dangerous.

It was a fabulous conversation, and maybe you're one of us, one of the ones who remember what it was like back then, back before there was eye candy everywhere and the best chance you had to get to see what other people were doing was when your copy of RSM arrived in your mailbox. It still can be--you can still subscribe, and if you're lucky, you'll catch some of that excitement~~

Fabulous Shopping at My Sister's Closet. Oh, My.

We had a wonderful time at Art Unraveled a couple of weeks ago. We always do. The Embassy Suites is a really nice hotel, with a balcony in every room (as far as I know--we've always had one), and ours always looks out over the golf course and, in the distance, the mountains. The classes are varied, the vendors' event is fabulous. Everything is really groovy. Best of all, we get to see lots of people we know but never get to see otherwise. It's not like we live in a mecca of mixed media art activity; no one ever comes to Midland on purpose. So we love going to Phoenix even if it is 117 in August.

And this year we found even more to love. First, we met Jeanie Thorn, whom I met online this past year. I love her. She has the coolest hair EVER. Plus fabulous Stuff--shoes, bags, jewelry. So, yeah, I should have known she'd be Trouble (that starts with "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for "pool"--I worked for a guy decades ago who said that every time someone mentioned either "trouble" or "pool," and even though I've never seen the movie, it's still stuck in my head).

 And then--then!--Jeanie sealed the deal by introducing me to--oh, my, my heart beats faster just thinking of it!--My Sister's Closet. Now, she'd told me we should go to this consignment store, and I was, of course, game. Beyond game. But I didn't expect too much. You know--you think, "Oh, that would be fun," but kind of figure it's just the adventure. You don't expect fabulousness. Fabulousness, however, is exactly what we got.

My Lovely Editor Tonia lives in Phoenix (or one of the other parts of Phoenix that has another name--I think everybody lives in one of those, because if I sent stuff to them, it's never actually addressed to "Phoenix," but I stayed so completely confused and turned around (because it's so hot, you don't spend much time outside, and because I'm not outside there, I get turned around and don't immediately know which direction I'm facing, which drives me nuts, as that's something I *always* know--I navigate by directions: "on the southeast corner," "two blocks west"--and not knowing makes me, literally, disoriented (from the 1650s, "disorient" is French, meaning to "cause to lose one's bearings" or "to cause to turn from the east"--I LOVE this)). Whatever: they all live somewhere nearby, "nearby" being relative in the nation's 5th largest city.

 Tonia.

 Jeanie's huband, Mr. G, Jeanie, and Tonia.

Don Madden, Mr. G., Jeanie, and Tonia at the book signing and panel discussion (I was working and didn't get to schmooze).

So we arranged to meet Tuesday afternoon, after we all got some work done in the morning, and Jeanie took Tonia and me, with The EGE driving, to My Sister's Closet.

Oh, my. My, my, my, my. I fell in love. Here I am with what I bought at the first version (it turns out there are four locations, and, as you might guess, we managed to hit them all before the end of the week. I became something of a pest. People would go with us and find places to sit while I shopped). These stores are amazing, filled with tons and tons of cool clothes, way, way less expensive than you'd expect.

The long blue dress is, they said, "vintage Isaac Mizrahi," which, as my friend Becky points out, is kind of weird since he's not very vintage himself. The people in the shop acted like this was a fabulous couture piece, but it could well have come from Target. I didn't care: I love it. I especially love the tiny holes that need to be patched. I'm also going to have to attach the back of the skirt to the top--while that peek-a-boo effect may be groovy, it's not for me, and that's not how I intend to wear it (for me, it's a long casual thing, not something for high heels and glamour).

 

This is what it looks like on the hanger, which is probably why it was still there.

 It ties like this.

 The back--the skirt sits at the waist when you're wearing it--it's got elastic.

 I'm going to sew the elastic part to the hem of the top. It's going to take some pinning *while* I'm wearing it, which is why I wish a dress form in exactly my size would magically appear on my front porch. Alas, I'm going to have to enlist The EGE. He's painstaking and meticulous, but I don't know that he's ever pinned clothing in his life. Yikes.

 Tiny worn holes. That white-ish line is a flaw, which I also love.

 I also found that top you saw up there. I actually squealed when I saw it because I recognized it immediately. Or thought I did: Alabama Chanin, about whom I did a piece for Belle Armoire. I was soooo excited, having made a skirt with her technique and knowing that everything's done by hand in Alabama, and, oh, my: $17.50! I snatched it up without even trying it on (it fits perfectly). (Susan Lenart Kazmer tried to get me to wear it: she said she bet she could unzip the back and snatch it right off me before I even noticed. Ha. Silly woman: I would never wear it before I *washed* it. Gah.)

Alas, when I got it home and read the tag, I realized it was one of the ones made after the split, when the partners (or whatever--we didn't discuss this part of the company's history, so although I've read a little about it, I forgot the details) split and Alabama Chanin took over the operations in Alabama and "Project Alabama" moved its stuff to India. This top was made in India, and the zipper is most definitely not put in by hand. Still, though, this is a pretty cool top, and it's close enough for me. You can find a few Project Alabama things on ebay, and the tops made in this style start at $525.

 Alongside the handstitching for the zipper is a row of machine stitching. Huh. (The big deal about her style is that everything is handsewn; I think this was part of what the split was about--that and moving the work overseas.)

Some tiny holes that need to be mended. Hooray!

This morning I'm working on this. I think it's supposed to be lingerie, but I bought it to wear over a tank. Or who knows what else--I love it, even though the color is boring. It's silk, a wonderful silky silk. Very floaty. It's "Rebecca Taylor," and this is the closest I could find, at $225. I think I paid $10 for it.

It had those adjustable lingerie-ish straps, which I don't like, so this morning I removed the hardware and sewed the back of the strap in place. I picked out some beads, which was difficult, as the lace part I want to bead isn't pink and isn't really rose but isn't beige, either. Of course I had some beads that will work perfectly, but they were hard to find because they weren't in the pink drawer and they weren't in the brown drawer. I don't even know where they were--I looked through them all until I yelled, "Eureka!" I don't know which drawer I'll put them in when I'm done with them, either. They're kind of stuck in color limbo. I think I need a drawer just for Beads of Indeterminate Color.

OK. Whew. So that's part of the story. There's more, of course--more to show when I get it photographed and stuff. But that's it for now--Sunday it stitching day, and I'm already behind: I got a bunch done earlier but then stopped to dick around with these photos (and the Blogger uploader is NOT my best friend today). Back to work--hope you're doing something fabulously productive today, too~~XO

Fabulous Thrifted Finds! Peek Inside My Closet & Share My Obsession

I took some shots of some of the recent fabulous thrifted finds and figured I'd get a couple others I've had hanging around (literally--this stuff hangs from every possible hanging spot in our house: the knobs on the pantry, hooks on doorjambs, a nail in the door to the hot water heater closet, the shower curtain rod in the front bathroom, and here, where you see them--from the rod for the curtain that covers the shelves of paper in The Voodoo Lounge). I can't put them in the closets or the storage building: I have to see them to think about what I want to do to/with them.

I've got plans for most of these, but this first one has me baffled. I've had it for years and years and know I want to do something with it, but I don't know what. It's 100% cotton, of course.

Where I got it: Goodwill, I think. Thrifted, for sure.

How much: less than $5, I'm pretty sure

Why I bought it: Fabulous with jeans. I'm always cold, so I can never have too many coats/jackets/sweaters/wraps.

What I might do with it: At one time I thought I'd stitch in all the white lines, but that's probably not going to happen unless I end up on a cruise or something (i.e., with a ton of time on my hands). Beyond that, I can't figure out what I might do.

This is a lovely black rayon/silk velvet jacket/coat. It looks new. The price tag says $45, but I think we got it for 20% off that--it was at an estate sale, and I left it there and came home and thought about how cool it would be with sparkly black beads sewn around the edges. I have a shawl that "matches" it, and it's still waiting to be beaded, too.

Where I got it: estate sale

How much: $36, over my "limit," but it feels fabulous!

Why I bought it (actually, The EGE went back and got it for me, so it was a gift): jacket! Velvet!

This is a rayon hoodie I couldn't resist.

Where I got it: BJ's consignment

How much: $10, I think

Why: Jacket! Me = always cold. I like rayon. The colors are fabulous. Beads!

What I might do with it: more beads and sequins. The note you see pinned to the front: all the clothes to be altered have those; I just took most of them off for photographing. I have to do that so I can think about how much work is involved when I'm doing the triage: I put them in order with the quicker things first. The beading and handstitching always goes at the back of the line.

Here you can see the rip.

What it is: rayon blouse with (gasp!) ruffles

Where I got it: BJ's consignment

How much it cost: $0

What I'm going to do with it: mend it, add beads

This is a Johnny Was rayon blouse. It was white, and when I saw it, I couldn't tell exactly what it was--one sleeve was pulled inside out on the hanger, and when I adjusted it, I saw that it had a rip in it--apparently someone who didn't quite fit tried it on, ripped it, yanked it off and stuck it back on the hanger. I showed it to the owner, and she said I could have it. I demurred, as I don't do 1) blouses or 2) ruffles. But she said it was an expensive blouse (this isn't on the website, but here's something that's kind of close to give you an idea) and she didn't want to throw it away and she couldn't sell it, and she knew I could Do Something With It. Sigh. Well, it was rayon, and I adore the way snow-white rayon takes dye. It really is this brilliantly orange now. Cool, huh? I have some hot pink rayon floss, and I'm going to mend it with big obvious stitches and then add some beads. I saw a Midland Woman (if you're From Here, you know exactly what I mean), about my age, wearing one of these this past week. She had on a denim skirt, knee-length, sandals, and a tank underneath. I saw her from across the parking lot and told The EGE, "That's my blouse." I could just tell: once you start working with something, you get to know it. Whether I'll ever actually wear it, I don't know--it depends on how it feels when I finish. But I *will* finish it and take it to show the shop owner, of course. It feels pretty good--a nice drape to the rayon.

On Friday afternoons, if I've worked hard all week, I go *shopping.* To BJ's, sometimes other places. Yesterday I scored big, finding 4 things I love.

 Soft linen top, mid-thigh
Where I got it: BJ's
How much: $16, I think
Why I bought it: I like to wear these jeans, cropped and stretch, that are form-fitting. They are fabulously comfortable: they stretch but don't look like stretch jeans, so I can sit cross-legged in them without them pulling across the knees. You know how it is when you try to sit cross-legged in 501's. Almost impossible unless they're huge. When I wear tight jeans, I wear a longer, loose top. (I wear full/loose skirts/pants with form-fitting tank tops; it's one of the only "rules" I follow, and I follow it because it looks good to me: never tight on top and bottom, and hardly ever (I make exceptions with some really cool stuff, like some linen things) loose on both top and bottom. One of each = a flattering balance)

What I'll do to it: dye it in either golden yellow or deep orange. It's too pale and peachy right now. That's probably all I'll do to it--I'm not in love with it; it's just a good top to wear.

 Bryn Walker top. Oh, my. I adore Bryn Walker, as you've heard me mention. I don't adore it enough to pay full price--it's ridiculous. But I lovelovelove finding it for cheap. I love that it's shorter in front--I love that cut. The ends of the sleeves are fuller--after I launder it, they should be puffier. It's a deeper purple than this--hard to get the color right in this room (the first photos were in the Voodoo Lounge; these new ones are in the office studio where the washer and dryer are because I haven't washed them yet)

Where I found it: BJ's
How much: $22, I think (and worth the extra $2) It was probably $98 new; everything of BW is either $98 or $198, as far as I can tell.

Why I bought it: Bryn Walker Linen. Need I say more?
What I'll do to it: I have no idea. I may wear it like it is for a while, as I have a bunch of other linen things in line ahead of it. It does beg for some handwork, though.

 Free People dress-ish thing.
Where: BJ's
How much: I think this was $28, but, for obvious reasons, I couldn't resist it
Why I bought it: COLOR! plus BEADS!
What I'll do with it: wear it as it is as soon as I wash it. Some things are so fabulous they don't need my help. Having said that, I may eventually cut it shorter in the front and leave it longer in the back. I don't know yet, but that *would* be pretty cool. Soon I'll have everything cut like that--longer in the back--and then I'll get tired of it and wish I hadn't. Or maybe not--maybe I'll love it forever. Who knows? Who cares!

 Another Free People top. I don't think this one has ever been washed or worn.
Where: BJ's
How much: around $20.
Why I bought it: I can't wait to add more patches to it. It begs for them--it called to me in the shop! Really! "Ricë! Buy me! Mend me! Stitch me!"

What I'll do to it: add patches, beads, stitching. I'm going back to Dillards today:  they have these new Ralph Lauren Polo shirts in the men's department. No, never fear: I would never buy these. The EGE would never wear one. But they have this hand-stitching on them and these hand-sewn (I'm pretty sure they really are) details that just made me happier than snot, never mind that they're not that well executed, and I studied them (not wanting to replicate--they're not that cool; just thinking about them), and then I came home to find them online to see what it says about them. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. So I'll go back after while and find out what else the tag says. Anyway, it gives me ideas for hand-stitching on knits. I used to think I couldn't because of the stretch, but I'm finding you can do some really cool stuff, even on them. Huh.

I like the button-placket detail. When I bought this, I had the idea I'd come home and try making one myself, just to see if I could. But then I realized, eh, I have no desire to do that. At least I don't think I do--if I work on this one and wear it and love it a LOT, then I might try to make something similar (the arm and neck bands would be from the hems of some chambray shirts I cut up for patches--I saved the edges, and they'd be PERFECT for this).

OK, so that's a sampling of what I've got lined up to work on. As my taste focuses, I'm weeding out some of the stuff I thought I wanted to work on and pulling out other stuff that's more exciting. It's a constant weeding and sorting, thinking about what I want to do and, more important: why. Why do I want to have things mended and patched? Why does that appeal to me? What is it about linen that I love? Rayon? (My mother, who lived through WWII, thought of rayon as a cheap, tacky, war-time fabric, and she hated it. I like it because it's made from wood pulp and takes dye and is NOT polyester (the word I use for all synthetics because I don't care enough about them to differentiate)). I like the texture of good rayon, the heavy, almost silky weight.

[Note: I've said this before, but: when I decide I don't want to work on something, I take it back to Goodwill. They hire kids in the special ed classes at the high school (both? or just Lee? I don't know) to sort and price clothes. The EGE has gone with them when he subbed there, and he thinks it's an excellent program that the kids seem to enjoy. So the sign in the shop that says "Your Donations Provide Jobs for The Handicapped" isn't just a poorly-worded sign; it's a sentiment that's worth supporting. I feel good buying stuff there, and I feel good taking and re-donating it, too.]

I've got more photos for another post but figured this was enough for now. I don't want your brain to explode from thinking about how there's someone who has all these used clothes in her house and is thrilled beyond belief to think about ways to make them better. It's a peculiar obsession, but it's *my* obsession.

XO

My Favorite Video EVER

My MacBook Pro says it's full--remember the grief it was giving me at Art Unraveled, when it refused to upload photos or videos? I thought it was iPhoto, but now I'm pretty sure it was all the dang videos from way, way back. Years back, when I was using this as my primary computer.

So I'm going through and deleting the ones that are duplicated on the iMac and moving the others to the external hard drive because, you know, with a terabyte of memory, it should have enough room for them. Wouldn't you think? And I found this one and just lost it. I laugh like a crazy person every time I watch this. It's old--it's from a book signing for the last book, Creative Time & Space. [What? You don't HAVE that book? Oh, my goodness. Go here and get it right away.]

In the meantime, you can watch this again and snort along with me. I wonder if I could get Becky to come to the signing for the new book? Oh, yeah--I forgot to tell y'all we're setting up signings. Oops. I'll try to get those posted ASAP. In the meantime, though:

(In case you didn't figure it out, Becky is the one who figured out how to turn my hair orange. The tattoo was designed for me by her daughter, Sarah, who copied my tattoos onto her mom's arm with markers just for the book signing. And Becky, fabulous person that she is, cut and dyed her hair for this, too (it was on Halloween, so she had an excuse). No, she doesn't have those tattoos, and no, her hair isn't anything like this In Real Life. It was just a fabulous one-day adventure, which delighted me no end, as you can tell. She was the manager at the Barnes and Noble cafe, so she had to be there anyway. Is she the coolest or what?)

I ♥ Antsy McClain

I know nothing about him, but I love the music videos I've seen, especially this one. Hope it makes you as happy as it makes me!

Don't Hate Us Because We're Texans

I'm sorry, but I just don't think I can take any more. First George W., now Rick Perry. George W. was bad enough with the damn boots and the hat and the aww-now-good-ol'-boys manner, but at least we were comforted by the fact that, really, he wasn't From Here. He wasn't born in Texas. He wasn't really raised in Texas. His people aren't from Texas.

But Perry? He's a thousand times worse, because he is, as Wikipedia points out, a fifth-generation Texan. Slap me, please. Now, I don't know about the rest of y'all and the states you call home, but here in Texas, being a 5th-generation child of the state is a big deal. People brag. I've heard them.

So let me be clear right up front: I wasn't born in Texas. Nope. I was born in Magnolia, Arkansas. But I could claim Texas if I wanted: both my parents were born in Texas. They were raised in Texas, met and married in Texas, and--12 years later--I was conceived in Texas. My mother spent her pregnancy in Texas and then, at the last minute, my father was transferred to Arkansas, where I was born. They brought me to Texas as soon as my mother was allowed to travel, when I was 6 weeks old. She joked that she wanted to make sure I grew up wearing shoes. I don't do genealogy, so I have no idea how far back my ancestors have been from Texas. Three of my four grandparents were. That's all I know. It could well go back much, much further.

My husband, on the other hand, has a younger brother who *does* do research, and The EGE and his brothers can trace it back five generations on their father's side and six on their mother's. The EGE was born and raised here and is much a Texan as anybody I know.

That's why when I read today's Midland Reporter Telegram and William Murchison's column titled "Perry upsets national media with Texas delivery," I started ranting. I pretty much haven't stopped since. In this column, Murchison (born in Corsicana, educated at the University of Texas and Stanford, former editor of the Dallas Morning News and nowhere, that I've ever seen, referred to as anything approaching liberal) seems to take the New York Times to task for the comments its readers posted on its website, comments about Perry that, he says, include:
"Texas yahoo"
"alpha male Texas quarterback style"
"more whackos [sic] from Texas" (That's my [sic], as Murchison is apparently OK with the spelling.)
"the Texas twang and the Texas swagger"
"tiresome and stupid in a big Texas way"

and, I'm sure, plenty more. I couldn't find them, although I did find an amusing column about him.  Now, this is supposed to make those of us who live in Texas and love the state fightin' mad. We're supposed to rise up en masse (although we probably wouldn't use that particular term) in a show of support for One Of Our Own, Our Proud Texas Son. I think we're supposed to scoff at anything the NYT has to say about Perry from here on out, as if it were responsible for its readers' comments.

Bunk. Here's the deal: Rick Perry, just because he was born here and has been governor here forEVER and talks and walks and, apparently, thinks the way the rest of the nation (and way, way too many Texans themselves) think a man from Texas should talk and walk and think, that doesn't mean a thing. Not a thing. Because if you want to pick someone and claim they're the quintessential Texas man, you'd be better off picking my husband, who, if he were picked up and plunked down in some tiny hamlet in Eastern Europe, and someone came up and asked him (via interpreter, we assume) where he was from, would not say, "The US" or "America," or "Earth," but would, instead, say without thinking, "Texas." I will argue that he represents the state as much as Rick Perry or Clayton Williams or any of the men (or women, although you don't hear much about those since Molly Ivins and Ann Richards left us) you hear about in the national forum.

No, I'm not going to argue that Texas doesn't have some serious problems. It always has. It was among the last states in the nation to get rid of its anti-miscegenation laws, and it did that only when forced to by the US Supreme Court as a result of Loving v. Virginia, on June 12th, 1967 (ten years and five days before The EGE and I got married. I don't know about y'all, but to me, that's a frighteningly short length of time). It's got lots and lots of pregnant unwed teenagers and an educational system unwilling to teach sex education. It has a textbook committee with religious ideas, ones they're more than willing to foist on the rest of the textbook-using national population, that could be called, at best, shockingly conservative. Some would say "whacko," but we'll take a pass. Lots of people without insurance. A lack of tolerance for diversity in all its forms. And, right now, a horrible, terrible, devastating drought.

But there's more to the state. Of course there is. You know no state is monolithic. So while Texas is plagued with a governor who swaggers and prays for rain and shoots coyotes on his morning jog, it also is home to kind, thoughtful, creative people who love the state because, long before it became what it is today, it was a state with its fair share of eccentrics and rebels, visionaries and thinkers. It's a big, big state, and it has been home to all kinds of people, many of them utterly fabulous.

So when Rick Perry does whatever he does, please don't look at him and see the rest of us.  Yes, he will have many supporters here, and you may begin to think that Texas is full of boastful swaggerers who don't believe in global warming or evolution and want to ban abortion and think, honestly, that all white men should carry sidearms. Don't buy into it. Realize that Texas is just like any other state, only bigger (unless you're Alaska); it has all kinds of people, and all kinds of people can trace their roots back even further than Perry can. He doesn't speak for us, and he doesn't represent our views of the world or the nation or the state. Or our views of life.

Many of us live here not because of the conservative, bible-thumping, right-wing tang in the air but in spite of it. We live here because we like to be able to drive past the edge of town and watch the sun sink below the horizon in a gorgeous, fiery blaze of orange and because we like to be able to see enough of that horizon to see the weather approaching long before it gets here. We like being warm and dry (although not, thank-you-very-much, quite *this* warm and dry), and what we really, really like--and sometimes feel is slipping away--is this: from the time I can remember, way back when we lived Elsewhere but came to Texas to visit my parents' families, almost all of whom still lived in the state, you knew you were in Texas by two things. One was the accent--and no matter where you were, when you heard someone with a Texas accent, you recognized them. When I was a kid growing up in the Rocky Mountains, there was nothing so thrilling as hearing that accent; to me, it was home, because it was how all my relatives sounded to me.

The other thing that told you you were in Texas was when you were driving along some little bitty two-lane highway. You had to keep your hands--at least one of them--at the 12 o'clock position on the steering wheel because whenever a car or truck would pass you going the opposite direction, you and the other driver would both raise your index finger in a little salute. It said, "I see you." When there were miles and miles between towns and not a lot of anything there, that was important, seeing and acknowledging each other. It still happens, although not as much, of course. People From Elsewhere don't do it, and lots of younger people, used to driving on the Interstates and not having much use for the little back highways, never learned the habit. But when you're feeling that something's been lost, that fools have led us astray and made the state the laughingstock of much of the rest of the nation and quite a bit of the civilized world, you can still go out and find some little road up around Tahoka or Lamesa and be reminded that there really is a reason we once had a reputation not as a joke, not as a state full of rich, flamboyant yahoos, not as a gaggle of right-wing nutbags, but as a wide-open state of really friendly people.

Well, except for the rednecks. But when I think of them, I rinse out my brain by thinking of my husband, the guy who can trace his ties to Texas back for more generations than Rick Perry.

My Little Thug Earring, She is Gone Away. Or, The Treacherous Machinations of Dr. Mendez

[Doesn't that title sound positively Sherlock Holmesian? I thought so, too.]

You've heard all my various whinging about the piercing and are heartily sick of it by now, I'm sure. So, apparently, was my OB/GYN, who is also my Primary Care Physician (otherwise why, really, would he need to know anything about my ear, right?) He calls me "Cece," as in "C.C.", as in "Chatty Cathy," because, he maintains, I've gotten way, way more talkative (not to say "chattery") since he hooked me on estrogen, my Fabulous Drug of Choice. I, on the other hand, just like to think of my predilection for conversation (not to say "monologues") as evidence of my flair for social niceties.

But never mind that. To recap: got the first cartilage piercing in March. All went well. No trouble. So a month later, I got the other one done. From the first, it was The Thug of Piercings. Grouchy, bad attitude, making everyone else miserable. You know. First cellulitis, which I really do believe led to everything else that's gone wrong this summer. I think the chiropractor would concur, thinking of balance and chi and stuff. But I was determined to make this baby work. I took the antibiotics, and I used the hot compresses, and I tried sweet-talking and making a milagro charm--I tried EVERYTHING.

On the way to Art Unraveled, she pitched another fit, and I had to call Dr. Mendez from the hotel in Tucson for another round of antibiotics, which you KNOW I loathe, but there were reasons. Which I will not go into because you can imagine for yourselves, and you might be post-prandial and not want to hear. So trust me: things were not good.

In exchange, he said I had to come in when I was done with them and let him have a look. I told him I didn't want to take out the earring. It was dangerous, I argued: the infection could heal from the outside, leaving a horrible pocket of--oh, never mind. Leaving things not-so-good on the inside, OK? He scoffed. I argued. "Just come in and let me look at it," he said.

So this morning I go. It's much, much better. "See?" I show him. But there's still a little white bump on the back--something that's common in piercings--and he says, "It's never going to heal. How long has it been?"

I admit: four months. But let's try a couple more weeks, I say. He shakes his head and says, in effect, "Whatever." (At least he doesn't do like The EGE and say, "Whatever, white people.") I tell him that if I can't get it healed by then, I'll let him take it out and look more closely. OK, he says. You can tell he doesn't mean it, though. You can tell what he means is, "Yeah, right."

Now, let me pause and add here that we're all very jolly: his new Office Manager/Assistant/Secretary/Everything Person is his wife, Connie, who recently retired after teaching English. We had a graduate class together lo! these many years ago. The EGE knows her from school. So we've known her forever. So there we all are, The EGE, me, Dr. Mendez and Connie, talking about what it's like working with your spouse, which we all do. I tell her I sympathize because I can't imagine working with her husband. He's just the tiniest bit demanding even if you're *not* working with him. (I love him because I can say that to his face and not get stabbed with needles.)

OK, so we're laughing and teasing him, and he says, "So when you can't get it to heal and I have to take this thing out, how does it work?" You know, those endless loops with the little ball that piercers put in.

I say, "You just pop the little ball loose, and then you can take out the hoop. But DON'T DO IT NOW!"

He says, "I'm not taking it out; I'm just looking to see how it works! [pause] Oops. [sound of little metal ball bouncing across the floor]. Sorry."

That's when I hit him.

So here we all are, all four of us, trying to find this tiny thing amongst the furniture and equipment and stuff, me griping steadily about how he did this On Purpose, and him laughing and insisting, no, he did not. I am not buying it. We find the little ball, and he says he can put it back and he soaks it in alcohol, but by then I don't even want it any more. Not on my ear. It's been on the floor, for crying out loud! He knows me; he would know this. It was all part of his plan, I swear. Him and The Thug Earring, in cahoots.

So the earring comes out. And he promises that, when it's healed, he'll pierce it for me in a better location--higher, where the cartilage is thinner. He says this with some conviction, as if he's been moonlighting at a piercing parlor.

This idea amuses me a great deal: in the local House of Piercing, you get people in tank tops and flipflops with many, many piercings and vast acres of tattooed skin and odd (not to say "skanky") hairstyles. Dr. Mendez always looks like either an investment banker or the guy in the commercial driving the Mercedes S-Class up the driveway to his estate. I think if I were to let him re-pierce the ear, I'd first make him put on one of those temporary tattoos and an earcuff.

Sadly, I think flipflops would probably be out of the question.

I Lived Through It; Now Go Schedule Yours!

This morning was the every-five-years-until-I-die colonoscopy exam. My dad had colon cancer, so I do this. And of course I wouldn't rest until The EGE had one, too, never mind that he has no family history; African Americans are more likely to die from the disease. So he gets one every ten years; and I get one every five.

Now, I know that many people don't have health insurance and can't afford the tests they need. I think that all those tests--from colonoscopies to mammograms to stress tests--should be made available to everyone. Sure, it would be expensive, but not nearly as expensive as the treatment once disease develops and progresses. Of course, I think a lot of other things about health care, too, mostly having to do with all the various ways people abuse their bodies and are in denial about their diets.

But never mind that. If you *do* have insurance, and you're over 50, please schedule a colonoscopy today. It's not pleasant, but it's not painful, and you'll live through it. I had my first one at age 50, right after my dad was diagnosed. I had a nice, healthy, polyp-free little colon. I had my second one today, and there was a polyp (removed during the procedure) and, amazingly, diverticulosis. This is quite amazing to me, and The EGE and I are pretty much stunned and baffled: the gastroenterologist talked to The EGE while I was off somewhere waking up, explaining what diverticulitis is and what they believe causes it.

His recommendation? Eat more fruits and vegetables, more whole grain. Get more fiber.

Goodlordallmighty. That's almost all we eat! We cannot figure out how we could possibly get any more fiber. Benefiber, fiber wafers, bran fiber muffins (me--this is my regular breakfast), steamed vegetables--a LOT of them--every night for dinner. I'm not a big fruit fan, but The EGE loves almost every kind of fruit and always has a variety in the house, so I do eat some almost every day. The only way to get more fiber would be, geez, I don't even know. A permanent IV? We eat more vegetables than anyone we know, and I don't mean lettuce and tomatoes (the former is mostly water; the latter, a fruit). I mean broccoli and cauliflower, carrots and squash and zucchini. Avocados. Huge amounts of spinach, which I adore.

The EGE was sitting on the porch telling me this (he's explained his conversation with the dr. several times, but I can't remember any of it until the rest of the drugs wear off. Even then, of course, it's iffy whether I'll remember), shaking his head and saying, "That's all I feed you." That's true: I have the most excellent diet imaginable, prepared just for me by a former health teacher who believes firmly in the power of a good diet.

Diverticulosis is common among--ahem--"the elderly," it says. I think I'll ignore that and just use it as an excuse to eat more spinach. I'm like the guy in Forrest Gump. Broiled spinach, fried spinach, spinach salad, raw spinach, sauteed spinach. Spinach pie. No, I've never had it, but I bet I'd like it.

Anyway, it's amazing what you can find out from these tests, in addition to what you meant to find out in the first place.

I feel great--I've been napping with Moe. Because of the minor surgery (polyp removal), you can't lift anything for 48 hours. Good thing I just happened to remember this as I bent over to pick up Moe. At 20 pounds, he probably counts as heavy lifting. I'm always telling him, as he walks over the top of me and plants a paw in my ribs, "Moe! You're not my brother! Please!"

You know: "he ain't heavy; he's my brother."

Go check your records, find out what tests you need, make the appointments. If the prep is icky, we'll all listen to you whine about it.

XO

The Really Dorky Dress, But Not Any More

Here's just for you, my little chickadees! I thought about y'all when I bought this dress this weekend. Really! I bought it because I knew I could show you how easy it is to do stuff like this, filling your life with delight and your closet with cool stuff.

So I'd been eyeing this dress at Dillards. I tried it on weeks ago and realized its total dorkiness and figured that, sooner or later, it would go on clearance. Who's going to buy something that fits like this? I mean, really:

Well, except for me. Who looks good in something like this? The waist is too high, but not high enough to be flattering. It makes even me look dumpy. I think the only women who would look good in this would be very curvaceous on top with a tiny, tiny waist. Maybe no ribs.

But the skirt part! I loved it--the color (well, except for that black--what's up with that? It looks like I've been doing automotive maintenance tasks while wearing this), the fullness, the thin, breezy fabric (very cool, meaning "not sticky-sweaty hot").

I could have pondered this for days, but The EGE was ready to take photos and asked if I were going to do this or what, so I just jumped in and grabbed the scissors and Just Cut It. Yikes! My mother used to marvel that I would do this; she would think about things for days, weeks, months, then measure, mark, pin. That makes me nuts, even though I usually *do* let it sit in the back of my mind for longer than this. I can't measure. No notes. No pins! Well, not on something like this (I *am* learning the value of Using Many Pins, but that's another thang altogether from the cutting).

But it turned out fine--nothing unraveled (because, duh, it's not knit) and it fits fine.
I don't know if I'll keep the top part--the jury's still out on this:

I'm not sure how I might wear it--certainly not as a tiny little top by itself. Maybe as a vest thing, like in this photo, but somehow not so dorky-ish? I don't know.

But the skirt is as cool as I imagined it would be:

This morning I'm whipstitching, very loosely, the cut edge to the inside. I'm not going to fuss over this--it was cheap ($24, which is slightly over my limit but a fraction of the original price, which was $70), and if it does something wonky (starts to fray too much), I can work on it later. For now, I'm going to wear it. I LOVE the fullness and--best of all: GORES.

I ♥♥ Gores!

So keep this in mind the next time you find something you almost love at a price you can't resist (think thrift stores, garage sales, estate sales). If it's cheap enough and it fits, you can make it into something you love with very little fuss. And that's always a great thing--and a great feeling, knowing it's really yours~~

XO