Late(r) Night Thoughts on a Saturday
June 27, 2009It’s nearly 10:00 pm, and I’ve spent the majority of the day outside, selling my wares at a local event.
I’m sanding my feet with one of those Pedi-egg shaped things. I should do this more often, I keep it by the bed and intend to use it nightly.
It’s summer and I wear flip flops and sandals a lot. I’m nearly 40. I should at least remember to put lotion on my feet each night–it’s not like it’s hard, just take a few minutes to put lotion on them and then they stay softer and prettier. Sexy feet aren’t hard to get.
I spent the week making my soon to be copyrighted Gayprons for today’s Gay Pride celebration. I promised to donate $5 to the local Pride organization for every Gaypron I sold. I made 25 Gayprons in the last two weeks and so hoped to sell them all and give Pride $200.
I got my hair colored this past Wednesday–took four hours out of the day in the midst of Gaypron production. We’re broke, but I’m nearly 40 and I know that dyeing my hair one flat color is starting to look harsh and like I’m trying too hard. So I used some money from my inheritance account and got my hair colored in three different colors. Cost me $146. But it’s time, I need softer hair, no harsh lines.
I only sold four Gayprons today; so my fantasy of someone with a microphone announcing my generosity as a straight ally evaporated as I handed the chairperson a lone twenty. I did overpay my $10 booth fee and make it an even $50, and I did donate a Gaypron to a pre-Pride fundraiser where it sold at live auction for $100, but I wanted to have done more.
I have two shows, two big shows, coming up. So far, this year’s shows have been big disappointments. What am I thinking, trying to make a success of making purses? I’m nearly 40. It’s almost silly, and now each failure means not a break in work, but a redoubled effort for the next show, the next thing that will most certainly get me back on top.
We have company, my brother in law, and since my husband couldn’t take the day he arrived off, I did. I cooked a big dinner (having to scramble to replace the planned fish with chicken–I mistakenly thought the BIL ate fish) and did dishes and visited and tried to keep the SofTF from braining himself in his excitement.
I ordered some Betty Beauty—Sexy Betty and Fun Betty to be exact, and then threw in a Ready Betty kit, too. I talked to my mom about how I’m not sure; should I use some of this inheritance to get laser hair removal so that the Betty is always sexy at a moment’s notice, or get the veins in my legs done–surely if I did I could get ten years of bare legs out of it? I can’t get my thick ankles cut down, but I could have saline injected in my spider and varicose veins, right? That would make my legs less disgusting.
When I mention hair removal my husband, who is a penny pincher, says he’d pay the bill for me to take all that hair off. But I don’t want it all off, because I know that my Betty isn’t the pleasing sort when she’s naked; if she’s supposed to be a pair of closed lips (I’ve seen the sites rating such things) then she isn’t pretty because her “tongue” sticks out a bit. No one needs to see that, I don’t care how many children I’ve heaved through there, it’s definitely Not Sexy.
I found out that the scholarship the Eldest got isn’t going to cover as much tuition as I’d hoped in his first semester of college. I’ll have to come up with $1616.oo in August. His father, who once told me I had feet as black as a poor barrio child, can’t come up with one slim dime to contribute to that effort. Once, at the age of 20, I modeled some panties for this man, and he said that models don’t have that hair that shows when you’re wearing panties.
I did get my Betty Ready, but didn’t want to stay up another hour to bleach and then dye the now appropriately trimmed hedge. I thought it would be a fun surprise for the husband, but then I got my period anyway, so what’s the point? I really should’ve done it, though. Now my hedge is growing back. Too short to wax, still. But I want to cover the offensive and disheartening grays that have snuck in. What could be more unattractive than being nearly 40 and having gray pubes?
The brother in law is a cop, so I have tried to be gracious about the fact that he is a frequently wonderful guy with some serious deficiencies in the open mindedness department. I don’t want to be a shrew who diagrams every sentence for feminist/racial/sexual faux pas. He’s trying. He arrived with a trunk full of firearms, and after going shooting for the morning, he and the husband arrived home on Friday with sunburns and blistered hands. In front of the BIL, the husband showed me the new 45 his brother brought him. I played the game of “Oh, you know you want to touch it” and such.
Later I asked my husband if he knew this gun was coming? Yes, he did.
So it seems that he didn’t think of me or consider that it would be a good idea to inform me of this decision to get a gun. He failed, for thirty or better minutes, to understand that the issue won’t be resolved by sending the gun back, keeping the gun, or shoving it up his ass; the issue is in his not talking to his life partner.
I’m drinking sake tonight but I feel guilty, I shouldn’t drink so much. I skipped my forced march, fast- paced over-one- mile-walk on Friday, too. I can’t stay skinny if I’m going to drink and skip the walk. But we had company and I was running late on Gaypron making; on Thursday as I was sewing, my Grama developed a passive aggressive hearing aid emergency and once I finally ascertained that the right answer to “whenever you have time to take me to the hearing doctor” meant “take me right now” I had already lost twenty minutes and the whole trip took nearly two hours total.
Walking isn’t going to keep me skinny if I don’t do it all five days a week. I should remember to lotion my feet before I walk, too, that would be really good and help them be sweetly pink instead of used, dirty and hard. My feet don’t have to look 40 years old. I should’ve stayed up to finish the Fun or Sexy Betty process, too, but I’m lazy.
The guys are out drinking and doing guy stuff, and I offered to stay home and mind the child. I’m tired, I worked my ass off to sell exactly four Gayprons today. I had to deal with the fucking hippie menstrual device in a porta potti, and then I threw in extra toilet paper because while people may expect to look in there and see shit, piss and, (oddly) bubble gum, a big puddle of menstrual blood is too disgusting.
I’ve only done one foot. I could’ve used this time to dye the Betty, repaint my toenails, and sand my feet. I’m worrying about what to plan to cook for everyone tomorrow. How to make them all happy. Smoother feet would help. Getting rid of the gray pubes. Fun color. It’s hard to stay on top of being acceptable. But I can work on my failures. It’s not like I have any excuses for not working hard on my appearance; I’m nearly 40, the carefree days are over. I don’t want to become even less than I already am.
Josie & the Pussycats was a Brindle Hound
June 10, 2009We’ve had her since she was only a few weeks old–October of 1997. Today I took her to the vet one last time, and before they euthanized her the tech went and found a tomato to cut up for her.
Josie was a serious vegetable and fruit enthusiast. As a matter of fact I just finished eating an apple and put the core next to me, then felt sad because normally I’d have been eating an apple to the sound of a dog frantically whining next to me, yipping as if her tail were on fire, desperate to have that apple. The core never had a chance to turn brown when Josie was about.
For years I’ve told the vet, “She’s my favorite. Don’t tell the others.”
At least two or more years ago, Josie started the descent into dementia. She barked, constantly, at things like nothing. She barked at nothing a lot. Or at us, even after we’d come in and were standing in front of her, she’d bark and bark. Not angry or aggressive, more like someone who was yelling and couldn’t stop. She might’ve been yelling, “HI HI HI HI HI” for all we knew. A year prior to that we discovered that she had the worst case of hip dyplasia the vet had seen outside of a text book. Pain meds ran about $100 a month. She had a thyroid issue, too, requiring daily meds, and allergies that we could never get on top of. Chronic ear infections, a skin infection that required 3 months of antibiotics to get rid of for a month before it returned. Lumps of all kinds.
She was a mess.
Today she also became incontinent, and I looked into her eyes and I knew that Josie wasn’t home anymore, and she was miserable, and it was time. The vet agreed. Knowing you’re doing the right thing doesn’t make it any easier, though, and I am wishing that taking responsibility for the life of an animal wasn’t so hard.
Our dogs have great lives, and they are all rescued animals. We take it seriously, and get all their shots and such. We don’t generally hesitate to take them to the vet. They have crates with fluffy beds and are never locked outside. They’re not really dogs, frankly, they think they’re people.
I know people that would go further for an animal. Keep throwing money at antibiotics and tests and pain meds and evaluations. And I am not that person. I try to balance things. My goal, always, is that the animal not suffer. She was suffering, and leaving puddles behind her everywhere was a big step backwards. She wasn’t happy–no big dog smiles, too anxious to have her ears scratched, too hyped up to go on a walk.
Damn, it’s hard though. She was a great dog. In her prime she was beautiful, intimidating, alert and smart. She liked to run up the slide at the playground then run back down. There’s a long list of great things about Josie, but mostly she was our dog and we loved her.
Because I Might as Well Declare My Position
May 31, 2009I love Twisty even more in the aftermath of this “cuntalingagate” and I am not linking only because when you do that, it shows up visibly to the followers and they sometimes swarm, and I’m a gallina caca. I have often thought that it was the mob following the prophet that constituted the biggest problem I had with her, and when she wrote and published the offending “cuntalina” I whooped, veritably I WHOOPED and loved it.
Because, sometimes, it’s what you say.
An anecdote is mayhaps in order. I mean, I’m all about being pro-feminist and shit. I, too, have cringed at the use of the dreaded “c” word.
But guess what? Sometimes, it’s the right word at the right time. I’ll give you my most treasured example:
The nut next door. Crae Z. FeatherCrystalJesus.
So my other neighbor, Spiritual Mother, has this landscaper. He’s kind of crabby. And he’s recently been hired to dig out a twenty or more years old cactus garden. A big one. And so as a result he has a bunch of cactus items that are typically very, very expensive to buy. Yuccas and the like. So he comes by, and he offers Spiritual Mother some cacti. And he even offers some to Crae Z. Crae Z.; who loves all things desert even as she is the sort of person the desert would joyously rise up and kill in five minutes flat if you left them alone together, well, she wants an ocotillo and some prickly pear.
All very stickery. Spiny. Stabby. Needled. Unfriendly.
It’s a very hot afternoon. The landscaper offers to not only give this flora to her, he and his assistant will plant it. She dithers. They dig holes.
As they are, under the hot sun, trying to set something covered in anger and tiny needles into a hole, Crae Z says, “Maybe it would look better over there someplace, ah’m not sure ah’m gonna like it here.”
And the landscaper, peering into the sun to locate her mulleted, bandana-wrapped head, says, “Lady, this is free. Don’t be a cunt.”
Truth hurts, man. But it still exists.
And I am betting that Twisty and her many might not agree with my delight in that particular usage, but I offer it as a statement that guess what? There really aren’t any rules that are without some propensity for bending, shifting, or shaping.
I heart Twisty. I heart “cuntalinga” and I will still very likely whip out the pepper spray if a man calls me that or any deriviative. Because life is really complicated like that.
So, watch your step.
Apologies in Advance for Lack of Cohesiveness
May 30, 2009I’ve been lying in bed since around noon, when my husband brought me home from the Saturday market with a mind-boggling headache and an anxiety attack to beat the band.
I am not the layabout sort. I hate laying about. This week, however, I’ve been doing a lot of it. And over the past 48 hours, I’ve been trying to piece together just what sort of colossal drug interaction issue I am having. See, about two weeks or more ago, I returned to the girl bits doctor after a multiple year hiatus (Jesser, you can stop reading if you want right here).
One of the things concerning me was this “I”m getting old and my cycle thinks that means I want to have a day a month wherein I cannot leave the house.” I use that damn hippie menstrual device the Diva Cup, with which I have a love/hate relationship. On that first day, the hippie moon non-bleached device is not helpful. Not helpful at all. Add to that the fact that if the events begin during a show, I’m dealing with the hippie device in a porta potti or a public bathroom, a situation that simply Will. Not. Do. And the cramps are such that I am often tempted to shout, “Is the baby’s head out yet?”
So, my provider offered me a mini-type birth control pill. Up until this week, the only thing I noticed was significantly bigger bosoms. I mean, I’m on the bra-optional side,and they were, well, Super.
Not bad, right?
So, this past Tuesday I went to our local doc in the box (haven’t got a PCP right now, go figure) for a recurring sinus infection. I had one that I was being treated for going into a show I did a month ago and then spent that weekend in blowing grass and cigar smoke, and color me surprised when it returned in force after that. The CNP I saw gave me a steroid shot in the ass for inflammation and an Rx for Cipro.
So, starting about three days ago, I noticed that I would, early morning or so, start to feel that the world was ending, I was in the shadow of the meteor and the wild bear was breathing on my neck. Freaked out. Completely panicked and losing my shit. And it was curious, because as part of me was all, “I need to throw myself out this window shit is happening I’m freaking out I’m totally NOT okay” a small part of me was being all Spock-like and saying, “But nothing is wrong. You aren’t freaking out, you’re fine.” And then freaked out-me and Spock me would be arguing about whether or not I was really freaking out and hey! That causes more freaking out.
I blamed the Cipro. I called the doc in the box. They said no, they don’t think it’s the Cipro, maybe it’s the steroid shot. OH, I say, how long will that last? They say, a month? They say, You should see your PCP.
Ah, but I don’t have one of those.
Yesterday’s anxiety fest ended like a switch had been thrown, which I associated with having eaten an omelette and gotten some protein in the gut.
But today. Today I went to the market, and I took the birth control late because the Cipro says you can’t eat for two hours after you take it (pain in the ass, anyone?) and all of sudden I thought Joe Pesci had my head in the vise and I was freaking out like, well, like Joe Pesci had my head in the vice, and it took everything I had to keep my shit in any sort of order. I finally had to call the husband to take me home.
If you visited me at the market (P and her lovely family, in particular) and I seemed weird, I apologize. I was working really hard at not throwing myself into traffic. I cried all the way home, I laid in bed with a massive headache and finally, when it thawed a bit, did some research.
Mama ain’t gonna take the pill no more. I found long boards of women describing exactly what I’ve been going through on this same brand.
Sometimes, you just have to accept nature for what it is. And, sorry hippies, I’m going to have to set the Diva Cup aside, at least for the first day of the moon related festivities.
It’s kind of funny that I dyed my hair this week and the SoTF looked at me and said, “Your hair looks really different, Mom. Like you poured blood on it.”
The universe sends messages in a really interesting way sometimes. But, message received. Message definitely received.
Honestly, Mr. Linkletter, that’s Exactly What He Said
May 25, 2009The SoTF, having opened the Mr. Spock talking head in his Burger King kid’s meal:
“Cool! Did you hear that mom?”
“What, sweetie?”
“He says, Live Long and Crush Them!!!”
Indeed.
At Least It’s a Step Up from “Carnie”
May 23, 2009So as a “vendor” of wares, I decided that this year I would try a series of shows in the region in addition to my weekly appearance at the local Farmer’s and Craft Market. I knew it would be a heavy workload, but the four or so shows I did last year were really great, so I figured I’d go ahead and commit myself to, oh, a show a month starting in April.
Yes. I did.
So, one of the things that drives me nuts about other people in this line of work is how cagey they get about how well they do at a show or market. There’s this couple across from me at the regular market gig who sell, amongst insipid landscape photos, heavily photoshopped and filtered “digital art photos” of, wait for it: Themselves. Naked.
It doesn’t appeal to me so much because I have a pair of regular looking naked people who live at my house already, and if naked people are going up on my walls, they need to be, like, way fucking better looking that what gets in and out of my shower each day.
I digress. This couple, whom I refer privately to as The Pornographers, hardly ever sells anything. Yet, if you ask them how they did, they say, “Oh, it was an okay day.” But what does that mean? Is $50 okay? Is $2.00 okay? What is okay? What is “okay” for me at the regular market is between $175 and $300. I pay forty clams per quarter for my space at the market, and work about 4.5 hours. Keep in mind I sew for about 25-30 hours a week and generate about $400 or more in inventory.
A “show,” on the other hand, tends to cost about $100-350 for my booth and runs two days for about 6-8 hours of selling time per day. If the show is out of town, I have to pay for three nights at a hotel, plus gas and meals and, if the SMoF is with us, 4 million dollars worth of fair crap. A show, for me, is “okay” if I make at least $1000 day one, and about half that for day two.
I’m not trying to brag, but if you are thinking that maybe you would like to make shit and sell it to people, you should know what fellow vendors consider worthwhile. I consider that $1500 or so to be the bottom of desired earning. Standing in a 10 x 10 booth for 8 or more hours, often without taking a bathroom break, is hard. Being nice to 5,000 people, many of whom think that a) they know exactly the thing you *should* make (The Pornographers think I should make heart-shaped purses, because women LOVE them), b) you are waiting there specifically to talk to them about their interesting and detailed lives, c) your shit is way too expensive and their sister/mother/uncle could make it cheaper, d) it’s okay to take your picture without asking permission first.
It is totally not okay to take my picture without asking. I will not be polite about it, either.
So, I did a show last month at a winery about 30 minutes away from our house. Two days. Noon until 7:00 pm. The wind blew at 55 mph gusts, my purses became coated with dead grass dandruff, and I got sick from the cigar smoke (it was a Wine and Jazz festival, and all men were required, it seemed, to have a stogie in one hand and a glass of New Mexico wine in the other). I saw more partially naked women in one setting than I’ve ever seen before. Ninety percent of them were naked in ways I didn’t find pleasing. I worked my ass off (as if, but anyway) to squeeze $800 out of that show. Of that, $640 was profit. And not really “profit” in a pure sense, since I also have to factor in the cost of materials, which is maybe 30-40%, and then there’s labor…..
That show got crossed off the list.
This weekend finds me in lovely Silver City, NM, for the annual Blues Fest. It’s in their historic and charming downtown area, where there are numerous antique shops, used clothing shops, art galleries, bars and restaurants. The music is good, the town is full of bikers. I’ve spent $175 on my booth, invested $65 in weights for my tent, put together $3500 worth of inventory, and spent $220 on a room at the Motel 6 for three nights.
My mantra about the room is that if I were camping, I’d be grateful for this bathroom. That means it’s a dirty dump, but I”m making the best of it.
Then there are meals for three people.
So imagine, if you will, the way it feels to get to this artsy burg with one’s very fine wares to find that their booth is next door to SHAM WOW, and “600-thread count sheet sets for $22 a set!” Rule of thumb? ShamWow=Not My Venue.
It makes that last show with the blowing grass and cigar smoke look good, because at the end of today, I’ve made $375.00.
Oh, and we spent $8 on Kettle Corn, $6 on silly string, $5 on a cheap ass plastic gun and then $5 more on another cheap ass plastic gun after the SMoF let another kid play with gun #1 and that kid decided to skip town with it.
Thank Dog we brought whiskey to pour in our wounds tonight. Here’s to tomorrow, when we get to do it all again!
