Killer Crafts

Last night I enjoyed Unconditional Craft Night with my girls.  There's nothing like making ridiculous  kitsch with glue guns and sparkles, then getting praised for your work.  With a bottle of wine in front of you.  I provided the project materials this eve, and prided myself on getting the entire kit and kaboodle into a small brown paper bag.  I've used this other bag on previous Craft Nights, and was getting quite fond of toting it for these special occasions.  

Fast forward to this afternoon.  Marky and I left the apartment for a nice lunch, and before grabbing my backpack, I moved the little Stitch 'N Bitch paper bag to the corner floor of the dining room.  It'd be the first thing I'd see upon returning home, and then I'd put its contents away in their various craft stations.  We had a lovely lunch.  

And then we found the massacre.  

I opened the door and looked to my right.  Gold sequin ribbon strewn across the living room floor.  To my left, a mini hot glue gun was tossed in  a corner of the dining room.  Roger!  That rascally cat had gotten into my bag and had a party with the contents.  I guess could understand the sequin ribbon, but really?  A hot glue gun?  That seemed a little bulkier than his toys of choice.  Beaded tassels in the bathroom, and glue sticks laying helpless on the kitchen floor.  That furry jerk went berserk while we were gone.  I picked up the pieces of this craft puzzle, but couldn't find the bag anywhere.  With arms full of glitter and self-adhesive squares, ready to punish, I entered the only room I hadn't inspected.  The bedroom.  What I saw halted my rage.  I called Marky to the room.  "Oh, and we thought he had such a good time," he whimpered.  I ran to the bed.  

There was Rogey, pupils dilated, fur rumpled, breath quick.  He sat nervously on the bed, with the shredded bag, the handle around his neck.  He was fine, not even close to danger, but while we were out, he must've poked his little head through the handle, gotten stuck, and raced around the entire house trying to shake it off.  I'm glad we weren't gone longer.  We spent many minutes petting him and reassuring him that no nasty handles would ever bother him again.  Tonight let's all be glad we have opposable thumbs.

Easy Bake Lovin'

Here's what I want for breakfast.  I want someone else to decide for me.  I'll go for anything.  But when Marky suggested we go to a bakery for brunch, I scrunched up my nose. 

Boy, was I wrong to scrunch.

I'd passed Angel Food Bakery several times and noticed the whimsical signage, but thought I'd only find cookies and cupcakes within this mecca of perky retro decor.  This corner storefront is painted and accessorized in apple green and turquoise, and the staff is equally as colorful and sweet as the scenery.  We pored over the menu, and gazed at decades of vintage Easy Bake Ovens, high atop the cornice spanning the width of every wall.  Although the lunch menu is compact, every dish seems to be a winner.  The Niçoise salad and brisket sandwich were my top contenders until, in a frenzy of capricious indecision, I chose the vegetable tart!  Marky ordered a green salad, which was anything but boring.  Luckily I got the same salad on the side of my dish, otherwise I would have had to bat my eyelashes doubletime to get a few bites of his green-appled, lemon-vinaigretted deliciousness.  Asparagus, bell pepper, cheese and leeks danced in this delicate pie crust that could only have come from the hands of an expert pâtissière.  And bonus of bonuses, we happened in on Earth Day, and enjoyed coffee on the house!

Stepping up to the register, I insisted that we have some sort of dessert.  Marky genrally resists, but how could we?  I mean, there were Airstreams, Igloos, Whoopie Pies, S'mores, and Thin Mints calling out to us.  At the very least, we had to share something.  We settled on a chocolate-covered sour cherry macaroon.  Oh my.  What a naughty little dessert!  I think I blushed upon the first bite. 

Angel Food Bakery, you have won me over.  I shall return to try the rest of your menu, and to find out what exactly is inside the Airstream's foil wrapper...

Yer Trash

Sheer terror.  

As I exited Roosevelt University's Audtorium Theater, I was overcome with the fear that I wouldn't remember every comedy nugget from my evening with David Sedaris, of which there were a boatload.  I suppose I should point out that it was our evening with Mr. Sedaris.  I bought the tickets months ago, technically as a Christmas present for Marky, but it was a semi-selfish gift knowing I'd be his date.  How I adore stepping into a historic venue, complete with gold leaf and frescoes, nestling into a springy chair that lets me sit upright, placing my jacket below it, confident that my garment is in no danger of Mr. Pibb or nacho cheese stains.  Before any show begins, I tend to rate the audience, for they are equally, if not more responsible for my evening's enjoyment.  Hundreds of iPhones went black as the opening speaker received hoots and hollers for mentioning NPR.  This was an A+ group.

The theater nerd that I am, I couldn't shake the feeling that the tall guy sitting in front of me would tarnish my view of the stage.  When the diminutive, buttoned-up Sedaris took to the podium, I silently laughed at myself for worrying about missing a performance move.  He wasn't going anywhere, and we were there to listen.  And laugh.  It's been awhile since my head flew back and I cackled about fatty tumors, Irish setters having sex, or a reheaded "Crazy Mutha Focka" with corn rows.  For those of you (if you're reading this, how could you let me down like this) who haven't cracked open a piece of David Sedaris literature, yes, some of the humor is surprisingly lowbrow.  Lowbrow, modern, liberal humor, tied up with a carnation pink Windsor knot.  

The fact that David Sedaris can so harshly judge an altruistic Holiday Inn clerk for having a messy car, then 15 minutes later admit he did a charity gig for some "fucked up kids," is so human, and real, I just want to squeeze him.  His story about the crochety neighbor in When You Are Engulfed In Flames is one such instance of contradiction.  He simultaneously hates and loves this shitty neighbor, and as a reader, I came close to tears from laughter and sadness over the course of 5 pages.  

Mr. Sedaris read to us a selection of essays, diary entries, and stories from his yet unreleased Bestiary.  The philosophical views of lab rats, the ennui of married dog life, and an in-depth look at air travel from security checkpoint to complimentary beverage - just a few of the subjects he masterfully narrated to a loving audience.  He wrapped up the evening with a brief Q&A, and recommending a book, Tim Johnston's Irish Girl, which I can't wait to be creeped out by.  

We topped off the evening with fancy coffees and sandwiches at the Artist's Cafe.  The respectable, bejeweled, public radio-listening patrons in the cafe had also been at the show.  With their indoor voices, none of the conversations included the phrase "Crazy Mutha Focka," but just like us, I know they were all thinking it.  

Finally Got My Wings

Last night I shared the stage with one of the coolest bands in the city, The Honeybees.  A last-minute benefit left them without a backup singer, and since I knew a few songs from my audition last year, the lead singer, Barb, hit me with an email.  If it'd been more than a half-hour gig, I would've been a little nervous, but still wouldn't have passed this chance.  

After a full day of the ol' day job, and my big debut as a designer in a fashion/art studio opening in Pilsen, I made my way to the Cobra Lounge for this half-hour rockabilly set.  Long day.   Barb had told me it was a punk bar, and asked if I had something punk/retro to wear.  Aside from black nail polish, I'm about as un-punk as they come, so I went full retro with pearls and a French twist.  When I walked into the Cobra Lounge, my teeny tattoos dropped to their knees and worshipped at this altar of full sleeves and teardrops.  My happy harmonizer vocal cords quaked with every gutteral screech from the preceding thrash band.  But I felt 100% comfortable.  The patrons were friendly, and the sound guy even let me place my Flip Video Cam on his plexiglass (possibly bulletproof) partition.  "Cheat" is my favorite song from their catalogue, and I have a big fat role in the vocals, so check it out.  

The sweet set of Honeybees songs we performed may not have broken any glass, but when we sang "Be My Baby," I spied a dude tattooed up to his neck, smiling and bobbing his head like a schoolgirl.  At the close of the show, Barb handed me a bracelet in thanks.  Her friend in Las Vegas crafts these handstrung bangles with alphabet beads.  Mine reads "Boozer."

Thanks for a great night, Honeybees!!

Purl Paranoia

During the last three weeks, I've been advised by other small business owners.  I didn't really consider Crafty McSchnafty a "business" until now.  The b-word  is so stuffy, right?  And it was really more of a hobby that paid for my yarn addiction.  True, I have designed a couple patterns for fruit suits, and yes, I've sold some stuff.  However, I don't think it's going to be my main source of income until I can get my sweaty mug printed on millions of skeins of yarn.  Side note: My yarn will only come in green.  Dozens of shades of green.  Two different artist/lady/friends have told me that the minute I declare myself a business owner/designer, then it becomes true.  Ok, world...

I'M A DESIGNER WHO RUNS A SMALL B-B-BUSINESS! 

Now what?  I feel there should be some sort of ritual, more than just a declaration.  What would make me feel official?  Paperwork!  When you purchase an item from a business, you get a receipt.  So I bought a book of receipts for this art expo thing I'm doing in April.  Even though they don't have my name printed on them, I feel very business-y.  Next, designers make and follow patterns, yes?  Well, even before I read Fahrenheit 451˚, I loved the rote method of teaching and learning the arts.  Admittedly, though, I'm getting bogged down.  Rather than than allowing all these fruit suit, schneed, hat, and arm/legwarmer ideas to continue rattling around in my head, I've written them down.  I would love for a master knitter to look at them (much like I used to call on my dear voice instructor to check my rudimentary arranging attempts), and pat me on the head for my effort.  It is a great relief and a proud designer moment for me.  Maybe I'll publish a book of patterns.  Which brings me to my next quandry;  Should I only share these ideas for a fee? 

Aside from two paid half-hour lessons in knit and crochet and a $12.50 tip I left in Silver's e-jar, I've pirated the vast majority of my stitch vocabulary from blogs and free internet sites.  Do I pay it forward?  Did I steal from starving artists, or did I get a bone from some rich, bored suburban housewife?  Perhaps I need to move forward and not worry about the past.

Either way, I have two events coming up in April that feature my b-word.  *Fingers crossed* I will run out of receipts at said events.  Crafty will keep you posted.  

What I Did On Vacation

It may have only been 60 minutes, but I did quite a lot during Earth Hour.  Alerted to the event only two minutes before it started, I had to move quickly.  Lighter found, blueberry muffin candle lit.  From there, I could find more candles and place them strategically in the house.  8:30 lights out.  

Not interested in a meditative experience, I wanted to see how productive I could be with no electricity.  How Little House on the Prairie would I get?  There was no butter churning, but I did finish a sink full of dishes plus some.  I also made dinner, washed a ton of vegetables, and learned a few things.  

Today, after holding a decidedly un-productive conversation with a client, I decided that people these days attempt to do too much at once.  There are a few people who can successfully perform multiple activities simultaneously, like talk on the phone, hail a cab, shop for toothpaste, and chew gum, but most people need a do over at some point.  Have you ever been on a the phone with someone who is obviously otherwise engaged in email or driving?  And have you ever found yourself at home after going grocery shopping, and you forgot the one thing you set out to purchase?  Am I the only one this happens to?  People get distracted.  Today's un-productive (not to mention, disproportionately long) conversation could have been totally avoided, had said client just done one thing at a time.  He couldn't hear me because he was in a busy train station, had already clicked out of the screen that had the necessary information to tell me what he was interested in, and he really had no intention of committing to an appointment.   We were useless to each other, and he decided to call back later.  A simple sounding exchange, but it took ages to come to this agreement.  Trust me, there's a point to this anecdote.  

When I washed the dishes by candlelight, I didn't poke myself once with a fork, or spill water on the kitchen floor, like I usually do.  And that's because I was able to concentrate on the task at hand.  No iPod, no blaring TV.  I walked around the house and looked for more dishes, thrilled by this  experience.

  

Before starting this blessed dishwashing, it took me 11 minutes of Earth Hour just to locate and light all the candles in the house.  This alone made me appreciate how much I take for granted the quarter second  flick of a light switch.  We're not really candle people, but I found enough to illuminate the whole place with a pleasant and useful glow.  Our blueberry muffin candle smells the best.  And our three-wick unity candle burns brighter than our five-piece beaded candelabra.  

Confessions: I opened the refrigerator a few times to retrieve and stow vegetables and lemon juice.  I didn't actually unplug everything, just turned the computer and lights off.  All the same, it was nice to be alone with my thoughts and the sound of sloshy water and dishes.  

Once a Hooker, Always a Hooker

Last Wednesday was St. Paddy's Day, so Stitch 'n Bitch at Mother's Too was on a one week hiatus.  After the banana-ganza from two weeks before, I needed to up the ante on the raffle item.  Marky suggested I bring the pear Fruit Suit.  Pure brilliance.

I arrived a couple minutes after 7pm, to find several friendly faces.  Jessy got right to work teaching the newbies how to cast on.  There were three new gals, and I tried to help fill in the gaps when Jessy couldn't be in three places at once.  I kinda felt like the poorly behaved aunt from Las Vegas, encouraging tight cast-on rows, and fixing the girls' dropped stitches rather that letting them make mistakes.  What can I say?  I'm a terrible influence.  We had some laughs, and Jessy deftly undid the harm I inflicted. 

At 9pm, it was time for the raffle.  Jenny presented the Fruit Suit to all the patrons.  When the pear came back to me for safe keeping, I noticed that the first button was undone, and I quickly fixed it.  For the mere price of an email address, every willing beverage consumer was entered in the contest.  The pear went for one more spin around the room, and came back with the damn button undone.  I felt a secret shame that perhaps I'd offered a raffle prize with a faulty buttonhole.   Jessy drew a name from the hat, and a very excited gentleman claimed his prize.  I went to shake his hand, and to cover up my buttonhole flaw, I encouraged him to undo the top button.  "Oh no," he resisted, "I want them ALL undone!"  And we both cracked up, he tickled by the sexy pear, I finally realizing that he was the one undoing the button everytime the pear traveled about.

 

After the patrons and students cleared out, Jessy and I quietly grooved and crocheted flowers to the tunes of Earth, Wind, and Fire.  I officially hate leaving Stitch 'n Bitch.  It's a good nerdy time for hookers.