Excessively Wordy

Patron of the Arts (and Crafts)

/ wvfurandroot / 3 Comments
Sherri's Multimedia Painting

Sherri's Multimedia Painting

Surprisingly, I had Friday night off. Now I could have called in and asked if they needed an extra body. Almost assuredly, they would have said yes and I would have had a few more dollars to throw at my creditors. However.

However, I have worked a great many hours this past month and a couple minutes with the calculator indicated I could enjoy Friday evening without much more austerity than is already in place.

I ended up at my good friend’s house for what we term a “sistering.” Women gather and we talk about stuff. We talk and we talk – about our kids, our classes, our dreams, our aspirations, about how good the lasagna is. One of the craziest evenings involved the en masse arrival of the lesbians after which, somewhat perplexingly, we all ended up sitting around talking about boys and whether or not size matters. (The other memorable occasion was the night we were all PMSing and the potluck was ENTIRELY comprised of chocolate.)

My friend, the host, teaches art history and the guest list is often, usually, comprised of artists.

I have a love/hate relationship with the artsy crowd.

Willy on Great-Grandmother's Afghan

Willy on Great-Grandmother's Afghan

Now my mother is into crafts. She has always been thus. She’s fully aware of the difference between arts and crafts, although like most of us, she doesn’t know exactly where the dividing line is. The female members of both branches of the family tree are into crafts. A few of them dabble in the arts. They crochet, they knit, they tole paint, they quilt, and they paint ceramic figurines and execute paintings. They make collages and jewelry. Christmas will find them in quite a frenzy.

My mother is not big on the crochet/knitting thing, but she makes up for it with power tools, sanders, and every shade of acrylic paint Michael’s sells. She also sews. She’s actually very good at sewing. I was tortured throughout my childhood with my mother trying to teach me how to sew.

The disasters are family stories – the time I hemmed my dress (which I had no intention of ever wearing) to my jeans. And then there was the time I made kitchen curtains without any thread in the bobbin and couldn’t figure out why they kept falling off the rod.

I am afraid of my sewing machine and after the slight concussion of a few weeks ago, I am doubly afeared. It used to just silently glare at me and taunt me to try and fill the bobbin. Now, it seems, its malevolence has branched into physically harming me when I have no intention of pressing it into service.

That love/hate relationship centers on the fact that I love that talent/ability and hate that I don’t have it.

I did manage to spray paint this piece <br>I bought at auction for a $1.

I did spray paint this piece I bought for a $1.

I arrive at the sistering on Friday to discover that two of the guests did a run through Michael’s and purchased an astonishing amount of beads, wires, thingie-dos and other accoutrements for the making of jewelry. The idea was that we would all sit around talking (about boys or no) while making necklaces, earrings, bracelets, anklets, etc. etc.

I had a right awful day Friday. I immediately envisioned myself lopping off a finger with the needle nose plier-thingies and spending the night in the Emergency Room. Or somehow crafting earrings that would turn my ears black with gangrene. Or, worse, having all the art students laugh at me. I have a good ear for music, but can’t sing a note anyone besides me has ever heard. I also have a good eye for design, but can’t execute.  (I’ve spent 25 years trying to learn how to crochet and my only accomplishment is the ability to chain if I concentrate really hard.)

I know my limitations.

Generally, I’m not too concerned about being laughed at and poke more fun at myself than the others could even begin to match. But. I had a right awful day Friday and was trying to control my twitching.

I demurred.

Voila! Bodily adornment for me, me, me!

Voila! Bodily adornment for me, me, me!

I insisted it would be far better and I would enjoy myself far more watching them turn hobby supply store goods into bodily adornments. I ate lasagna, drank wine, and watched women make jewelry.

The creative process (whether art or craft) intrigues me. I love watching artists and craftspersons execute. It doesn’t matter if it’s the well-turned leg of a piece of furniture or the execution of a piece of sculpture. Watching that ability to take raw goods and turn it into something visually appealing is a great form of entertainment.

In this case, I watched pieces of this and that turn into a necklace and a pair of earrings. From the beginning, it was the intention of the maker to give them to me. She kept asking my opinion and asking me to make decisions about the choice of components. I kept telling her I would be far happier and it would mean more to me if she made me what she wanted to make.

I left with a lovely ensemble of malachite and dragonflies.

The one thing I can do that I’m good at is needlework. Years ago I took up needlepoint as something to do while watching television. I loved the process. I loved the process more than the finished product. Of all the stuff I did, I only managed to actually frame a couple of pieces. In The Closet I Am Afraid Of languishes finished projects unframed and unstuffed. The act is enough.

In memory of Donnie.

In memory of Donnie.

Needlepoint is damned expensive. I regarded it as worth it, because the moving meditation of pulling thread and yarn in and out of canvas was soul-soothing. But as with so many areas of my life, the cost of both time and money became insupportable. When I had the time, I turned to cross stitch and simple embroidery to fulfill my need to poke a needle in and out of fabric. While I enjoyed the act of cross stitching, I hated the end results. There’s something about cross stitch that offends my sensibilities. The only piece I ever displayed was the one I made while my best friend was dying of cancer.

Back in January, I had another attack of Needleworkitis. At ridiculous expense, I purchased a kit of needlepoint boasting an image that I’m not thrilled with. Needlepoint is damned expensive and I went for the clearance stuff. The kit itself bears a ridiculous price, but even worse is the added expense of all the other crap – stretcher bars, thread organizers, hoops, needles, magnifying glasses, and carrying cases. (And as fate would have it, I have not had time to relearn the stitches – something I must do before I can bring myself to tackle this project which cost me far more than was prudent.)

Like many people with ADD, I have a love of containers. It’s been postulated that those of us with ADD love (love, love, love) containers because we’re embroiled in a constant battle to organize our minds and our surroundings.

Containers and yarn and books, oh my!

Containers and yarn and books, oh my!

HMOKeefe claims to not be ADD, but I’m dubious. He has containers for his containers. He puts stuff in containers, holders, cases, bags and boxes and then puts those things into containers, holders, cases, bags and boxes so that the end result is a lot like Russian nesting dolls. On our vacation, I had a suitcase, an overnight bag and a purse into which everything was tossed willy nilly. He had 77 tote bags filled with containers of containers that like that old Barrel of Monkeys game I was uncommonly fond of as a child eventually revealed the item he intended to need. Now that I think about it, perhaps he’s not ADD. He actually uses his containers. Still. I think there’s some sort of pathology there.

As I sat there watching the jewelry process, I was equally intrigued by the containers. I submit the entire guest list of Friday evening is ADD. Not only did they spend a boatload of money on beads and whatnot, they also purchased containers, dividers, and all manner of stuff to organize the supplies.

I’ve gotten off-topic. (We ADD people tend to do that.)

Birthday quilt from Sherri.

Birthday quilt from Sherri.

My point, I think, is that while I’m relatively talentless in the arts and crafts area, I love having things people I know have made. Fortunately, I’m surrounded by people who do have talent and see fit to give it to me. The objects themselves are wonderful, but the bonus of knowing the artist and, sometimes, watching it made is an even greater thrill. I asked on Friday if I could be considered a patron of the arts if I never actually paid for any of the stuff I have. I was assured that was not unusual.

So. As an impoverished patron of the arts, feel free to make something and give it to me. (I draw the line at plastic canvas – it’s a long story. If your medium is plastic canvas you’ll need to find another patron.)

(Nonexistent) Spare Time

/ wvfurandroot / 10 Comments
Photo by TheMarque - used under a creative commons license

Photo by TheMarque at Flickr - used under a creative commons license

In my nonexistent spare time, I’m doing some work at an emergency shelter for teenagers.

I must be getting old.

For fourteen years, I worked on a college campus. In addition, I was a teenager (once upon a time) and I raised a teenager. I hadn’t expected to be surprised by these kids.

About every two hours or so, one of them surprises me. Far too frequently, one of them will surprise me to the point of speechlessness. I’m rarely at a loss for words.

In 13 days, I will celebrate the golden jubilee of my existence. I’m rather excited about turning 50 though I can’t quite articulate why. I am discovering the Big 5-0 is a time for reflection. While I don’t feel it’s possible that I’m 10+ years past the age I was convinced my parents were elderly and on the verge of nursing home care, I do know that I’ve got enough years behind me that every now and again true wisdom pops up in my brain – the brain that still feels 25 in the body that’s feeling every year of 50.

Working with teenagers at this junction encourages that reflection and results in some brief glimpses of insight.

I was the teenager from hell. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, I was intelligent and strangely responsible with my delinquent behavior. I had goals and I managed to get through a surprisingly good public school system with a solid 3.92 average. I worked 20-30 hours a week. In my (then) nonexistent spare time, I also partied like it was 1999.

The saving grace was that I loved and respected (kind of) my parents.  I loved them and they loved me.

I told my son there were few things he could do that I hadn’t done; and, unlike my parents, I knew what to look for. While there were days I said to him, in stunned disbelief, “Who raised you?” we managed to get him through those years with minimal trauma.

At this point, I’m probably sounding like a hypocrite.

Those all too brief episodes of wisdom are bearing fruit.

They tried to tell me then and I try to tell them now that they have years and years in front of them, but youth is all too fleeting.

I would love to have the attitude and joy of being a small child again – the wonder at the world and the excitement of discovering it. I wouldn’t be a teenager again for nothing. Folks say they’d love to do it again knowing what they know now. Not me. They’d have to drag me kicking and screaming back to the time of Clearasil.

These kids I spend time with 25 hours a week are a mess. Most of them haven’t willfully done anything I didn’t do. The difference seems to be what has been done to them.  By their own actions and by what’s been done to them, they’re growing up far too fast. 

Some of them are there because of things they’ve done that landed them in the criminal justice system. Others are there because of things that were done to them that landed their guardians in the criminal justice system. Others are mentally ill. Some are there because their parents couldn’t control them and voluntarily turned them over to state custody.

College professors are consistently amazed at the irresponsible and dishonest behavior of their students. They’re further disgusted at the lack of basic skills these kids are coming out of high school with. Some of them put the blame squarely on the kids. Some on the public school system. Some on the parents. Some on all three. Rather than blaming, I’m more interested in figuring out what we’re doing differently with our kids that leads to this behavior and attitude. If we can figure that out, we can stop it before it starts.

In my other job, I work with folks committed to prevention of child maltreatment. The statistics and the research strongly show that it’s far more effective and less expensive to prevent the problems in the first place than to react to them later.

This job offers the flip side. What I see is that we’re dumping tons of money on this problem. Money that needs to be spent. But I wonder about the efficacy of it. It’s a temporary shelter so I don’t get to see what happens in the long term.

What strikes me about these kids in the shelter is how young they are and how old they think they are. The problem lies in that junction. They chafe, in ways I didn’t, at our attempts to control and change their behavior. So many of them have an attitude that this is all there is. Those that do have goals have ones that are shallow and center on the acquisition of stuff or the attainment of fame. They don’t want (or don’t they can) contribute something of real worth. Or they have no concept of what is worthy.

At their age, I felt like an adult. As an adult (and I use that term loosely), I know now that I didn’t feel like an adult – I felt like a teenager with the accompanying raging hormones and brain that had not yet lateralized. Hell, most of the time I still don’t feel like an adult.

It’s too easy to throw up our arms in despair and declare the problem too big to deal with. There’s an old story that makes the rounds of intervention folks – The Starfish Story. It was written by Loren Eisley. In short, a man on a beach sees miles of beached starfish and encounters another person picking them up and throwing them back into the ocean. The man points out to the other that he can’t possibly make a difference as there are hundreds of starfish and miles of beach. The starfish thrower says, as he tosses one back into the ocean, “”It made a difference for that one.”

My work at this group home is not onerous. Mostly, I sit and talk with the kids. Every now and again, I get the opportunity to say something that I hope is the equivalent of tossing a starfish back into the ocean.

What I need to learn, and this is probably true of life, is that while I will not get to see if my actions provoke positive results, the simple act of doing is still worthwhile.

I’ve spent this morning bemoaning my loss of free time. This job began as a means to alleviate some financial distress. It’s becoming something more. I’m learning something from these kids and I’m learning something about me. Time will, perhaps, illuminate more clearly what it is I’m learning. It’s possible that the starfish I’m saving is myself.

Eager Capitulation

/ wvfurandroot / 10 Comments

Retro tech.

Retro tech.

Back about 2001 or so, my family got their panties in a tangle when they discovered I was traveling the state and eastern seaboard without a cell phone. Now, I’d traveled years and years before the advent of cell phones, but suddenly it was a problem. 

Now they had some good arguments: the one that swayed me was the fact that pay phones are an endangered specie. I also was tired of explaining that I was the last person on the planet without a cell phone.  So. I got a spiffy little prepaid cell phone with which I was happy But then people started calling me all the time and no amount of YOU CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT THIS CALL IS COSTING ME got through to them. At 50 cents a minute, I couldn’t afford the convenience.

The NEC

The NEC

By then I was convinced of the need for the damn thing. I wandered into an AT&T store and came out with an NEC phone that rocked my world. It was simple and didn’t try to make toast, take pictures, play music, or iron my sheets. It made calls and it had a great calendar that synced nicely with my Outlook contact list. For $29.99 a month even my chattiest friends could call me without me gritting my teeth.

Then I discovered that people think that because you have a phone you should answer it unless on life support or in a job interview. I continue to be astounded that people fail to realize that the phone is for my convenience and I answer it dependent on personal whims. That’s not ever going to change. My first full-time job was as a switchboard operator and I’ve had a love/hate relationship with phones ever since. I once lived for 3 years without a phone to try and get over the trauma of those early employment years – 42 ringing lines, 8 hours a day, all day, 5 days a week, and two Saturdays a month.

In any event, I went days without turning the cell phone on. You can’t imagine (or maybe you can) how that enrages people. Then there’s my mother who hollers “pick up, pick up” into my voice mail. Now granted, she only calls me when things are dire, but I’ve yet to get her to understand that voicemail is not an answering machine. (Her confusion is understandable – at home I have an answering machine, I screen all calls and I don’t “pick up” most of them.)

Well, just as I was getting to be dependent on the cell phone, AT&T sold to Cingular and my phone, coinkydink, didn’t work half the time and no amount of talking to customer service did any good. Enraged and in full tantrum mode one day, I went to the Cingular store prepared to have a meltdown. Fortunately, one of the kids I knew from the university was working. After a calm, reasoned explanation of my wrath, I was given a new phone at no charge.

Turns out it was the Motorola Razr. I had no idea that it was the trendy phone of the moment and younguns everywhere were saving their money to get one. I hated it. I do not want to hold my tongue just right, hit the right center side of a microscopic button, and say 12 hail mary-ies just to get my address book to open. I don’t know why anyone would.

The Old Blackberry

The Old Blackberry

I also do not want my cell phone to be smaller than my lipstick tube. I want to be able to find it in my purse. I do not want it to be thinner than a credit card. In fact, I’d like a cell phone the size of a cordless phone handset. That would make me very happy. In fact, I railed for some time about how I’d like a cell phone that was tucked inside of an old fashioned black receiver – big honking, heavy thing. [Note: they don’t make those, but they do make a nifty “earphone” thinger – see the picture.]

Less than 24 hours later, I took the Razr back. My cute little university boy wasn’t there. I had to have a meltdown.

I walked out with a Blackberry. It was the first “smaller” version of the classic Blackberry. It didn’t have the QWERTY keyboard, but it was 4 times the size of the Razr.

Man, I loved that phone. It was simple, direct, synched with my Outlook and had dedicated buttons for features and a nifty track wheel conveniently located on the side. After a couple of months, it occurred to me that I wasn’t using the data capabilities and it was stupid to pay for it. I cancelled the data plan. I also cancelled the text message plan.

I didn’t understand until recently why having a Blackberry with no data plan confused people. Apparently, I was the last person to be allowed to do that. Now, if you want a Blackberry you have to pay the additional data fee.

Well, Cingular sold everything back to AT&T and regular as clockwork my phone became unreliable. It’s also very old. As my use of it dwindled, I decided paying for 450 minutes a month when I was using 20 was kind of silly. So, I converted the Blackberry to a Go-Phone account.

After years of railing about the evils of cell phones, addiction to the little monsters, etc. etc. to wit and tut tut, I found I missed knowing that I could call anyone anytime without fear of being out of minutes or talking too fast because of the 25 cents a minute thing.

And after years of railing about multifunctional phones that do everything besides connecting one voice to another, I found myself wanting the Blackberry 8900 because of its camera.

The beautiful, coveted 8900

The beautiful, coveted 8900

Cameras, specifically, were the target of my ire. I said often and loudly, “I do not want my phone to take pictures.” I also said, “I don’t want it to play music. I don’t wanna surf the web on my phone. I just want to make a phone call.”

I thought this pining for the 8900 was temporary insanity and would wear off once my hormones stabilized. But then a friend got one. And then my son got one. My eyes narrowed into green, blazing slits of uncontrolled coveting.

Given my hatred of phone dependence and previous railing of phones that do everything, I cannot justify this.

But here’s an attempt:

  1. I’m really loving this blogging thing and I like giving y’all pictures to illustrate my blathering. I don’t want to carry my camera around everywhere (it’s bigger than your average digital), so a cell phone with a camera seemed kind of smart. The 8900 boasts a 3.2 megapixel with a decent resolution. (The picture quality is better than my first digital camera.)
  2. I also like responding to your comments in “real time” and I’m notified by email when comments come in, but if I don’t have access to the email, I can’t respond. Voila! A web enabled phone solves that problem.
  3. I’m now working two jobs – one of which has me out late at night. I feel safer with a phone, besides which a multifunction phone will alleviate some of the boredom of the wee hours.
  4. I just want it.

So. I’m cruising the Amazon site for birthday presents and there was the come-on deal – no activation fee, no shipping charges, and the 8900 for one penny. ONE CENT. ONE.

I dithered about that now-mandatory data package thing. I dithered about how much all this was going to cost me – my one cent phone. I dithered that they didin’t have it in a brilliant red. I dithered about 4 hours before clicking “add to cart”.

The thing finally arrived today. There are some things I’m not happy about, but I’m hoping it’s just a learning curve glitch and it’ll be second nature in no time.

But wouldn’t you know it – it’s cloudy and a little drizzly outside and I can’t get a signal. Cell phone reception in the barn is always hit and miss, but dammit, I got a new phone. I’ve got the data package. I’ve got texting minutes.

Fortunately, I’ve got wi-fi, so I did get to test that out. I’m hopeful that tomorrow I can explore my new phone and learn all its secrets and take a million pictures of people from the front seat of my car.

So. If you want to send me a text message, email me and I’ll give you my number.

I’m tickled with a phone that at the moment is incapable of making a phone call. Go figure. It’s a big ol’ goofy world and I’m the leading lady.  Happy (early) Birthday to me!

[Note: The spiffy old-fashioned phone receiver thingie doesn’t fit in the new Blackberry – I’m going to have to find an adaptor – bet that ain’t gonna be easy.]

Wa

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments
Patio wa.

Patio wa.

I never thought procuring new lawn furniture cushions would rival The Great Sofa Search of 1984, but it has been an eminently frustrating experience.

Seven years ago, I got a terrific deal on patio furniture. It was one of those experiences where I kept expecting to be arrested for shoplifting on my way out of the store because the ensemble was ridiculously cheap while being well-made, sturdy and exceptionally comfortable. Ya gotta love those liquidation type stores.

I clock a lot of hours outside. I need the sun to counteract my tendency to depression and I love the surge bright light on my pineal gland invokes. I’ve taken to sitting out there anytime the temperature is above 70 and it’s not raining. Sunday mornings are often spent sprawled on the chaise with a carafe of coffee and the laptop. The patio is my second living room.

From the get-go, I despised the cushions – they were a hideous faux-Hawaiian print decidedly not suited to my Appalachian barn garden. While the furniture was well-made and luxurious, the cushions were badly made of a vinyl fabric that provoked sweat and uncomfortable sticking. I hated them.

There was nothing wrong with them, but I kept my eye out for something more suitable and comfortable. Nothing appeared.

Because they were badly made (and I’m bad about storing them away), they deteriorated quickly. The search for new cushions ramped up considerably about 4 years ago. No luck.

Three years ago, when I was considering duct tape to hold them together, I found something that might do and dragged them home. Two chaise lounge cushions and four chair cushions of a luxury thickness will fill up a full-size sedan in no time. These six cushions cost 75% of what the original patio set had cost. I hated them – wrong color, didn’t fit right, and way too much money. I took them back within a few hours.

I decided that perhaps I should just buy a new patio ensemble, sell the existing one, and avoid the cushion dilemma by buying something that didn’t require padding to begin with. Wood, I thought, would fit the ambiance and project the atmosphere I was going for.

Hah! There is no wood patio furniture for less than $700 a piece. There is no comfortable wood patio furniture. There is no wood patio furniture in a dark stain.

I turned to metal furniture with that new-fangled non-cushion stretch webbing. Nothing. If I liked it, I needed a second mortgage to buy it. I cannot believe, I just can’t, that there are people actually spending $3000 for patio furniture. That’s criminal.

Chocolate mint and merlot.

Chocolate mint and merlot.

For two years now, I have searched high and low for a solid blue patio cushion in the right size for something less than a gazillion dollars. Last year, I threw the cushions away to force myself to do something, anything, to rectify the problem. The search has been frenzied.

Several years ago, I found the cushions of my dream, but the price was beyond ridiculous and the shipping costs even sillier. I lusted after them. They were made of the same fabric used on car convertible tops, billed as quick drying, and allegedly would last forever. Periodically, I would check Amazon and Overstock to see if by some miracle. . .

Well. The miracle occurred. Last week, I was cruising Overstock for the last gasp of the June family birthdays and there they were – my convertible top, royal blue, solid colored cushions without tufting (which collects water and mildew).

I was stunned. Even more when I calculated the price for all the pieces I needed. I’ve spent more on gas searching for patio cushions than it cost to have these delivered to my door.

I was dubious. This was too easy.

I ordered them fully expecting the hassle of returning them.

The order went awry and I thought, Okay, here we go. . .knew it was too good to be true.  Overstock apologized, promised to get things moving and before I even knew they had been shipped, they were outside my front door.

I opened the first box with trepidation.

Perfect!

So little of the externals of my life have been perfect the past few years and so it took a little while to register that they were perfect. I am not only happy with them,, I’m ecstatic. The whole experience had been so free of drama, I am at a loss as to how to behave. The color is exactly right and they fit my non-standard furniture exactly right. They’re thick and comfy. The fabric feels like a thick, soft denim. I suspect that the patio ensemble is now the most comfortable furniture I own. And I feel like I stole them. I keep waiting for Overstock to call and tell me that a terrible billing error occurred.

I spent this evening sprawled first on the chaise and then in a chair, sipping Merlot, watching fireflies, and sinking deeper into the cushions.

I cogitated on stuff some more.

I’ve been actively anti-stuff for several years now. I’m hauling far more out of here than I’m bringing in. I’ve been to the mall four times in two years and, when asked, I’ve requested eminently practical stuff for gifts.

My spirit has been much improved by the de-junking of my physical life. The Japanese have a concept known as wa which is feng shui, kind of, but applied not to just the external, but to the internal as well. Anything that disrupts the harmony of the spirit, the body, or the surroundings is said to disturb the wa.

The more stuff I haul out of here, the more harmonic my wa is.

Still, wa is about harmony; it is not deprivation. Comfortable seating in my outdoor living area enhances my wa. The old cushions disrupted it.

My benchmark for new acquisitions is that it must seem like they’ve always been here. It’s how I tell that the wa is not only not disturbed, but improved.

Twilight blues.

Twilight blues.

While it may seem silly to attach such importance to patio cushions, I think it’s even sillier not to. Mindless consumption is the problem. Expecting a thing to bring happiness is the problem. Improving wa is always win/win – there is never a down side.

The timing is interesting. Had the cushions shown up a month earlier, I could not have afforded them – even as cheap as they were. Again, it sounds silly to attach such importance to patio cushions, but the right cushion showed up at exactly the right time at a price I could handle with little discomfort. All good things in time.

I’m going to quit the frenzied searching for the stuff I need. This is not the first time the right thing came along at the right time.

My wa will be further improved by this new resolution to just roll with the flow.