Getting into and out of the groove: Part III

Los Angeles is a city. Right? You'd call it a city. However, the parts that make up Los Angeles are also called cities, rendering the word "city" kind of meaningless.

Where do you live?
Los Angeles.
Oh, really? Where?
Palms.

I've never fully understood how that works exactly. It's kind of like ordering a carbonated beverage in Texas.

What would you like to drink?
I'll have a coke.
What kind? We have Sprite, Dr. Pepper, root beer, Coke.
(If you're a local) I'll have a Dr. Pepper.
(If you're not) Um. I'll have a Coke.

Or like "sizes" on women's clothing. Why even bother with a number when a size 8 at one store is a 12 at another? "Size"? A meaningless word.

Anway, when I say NWAI and I zipped across town for B-SNAK's birthday, we were going from one city in Los Angeles to another city in Los Angeles. Not a big deal. We do it all the time.

According to Yahoo maps, the distance from my house to B-SNAK's is a mere 8.3 miles, and the approximate travel time by car is 17 minutes. Makes sense. We're just zipping across town. Sure. Ok.

The trip to her place in the morning was lovely. NWAI and I stopped for cupcakes on the way, had a lovely discussion about the complexities of admiring Justin Timberlake (Dick in a Box is an undeniable work of genius), and we got across town plenty quick. It was, I don't know, maybe 20 or 25 minutes.

So you can imagine we were quite stunned when the return trip -- same exact route -- took one hour and forty-five minutes to complete. Wait. Let me put that another way. In the time we could've watched a feature-length Hollywood film, we travelled 8 miles by car. Eight. Miles.

We left B-SNAK's at at 5:30 pm, and pulled up to my place at 7:15 pm. In the time it took us to travel about 4 blocks, we watched the sun set.

5:34 - around the corner from B-SNAK's

NWAI: Wow! This is kind of bad.
Me: Huh. Yeah. Well, it is rush hour.
NWAI: Good thing we have the 2007 Grammy nominees CD!
Me: Awesome!

We laugh. We dance. We talk about how great stamping together is.

5:45 - we've travelled 2 blocks

Me: Hmm. This is pretty bad.
NWAI: Yeah. It is.
Me: My sidekick made reservations for us for 8:00 for a late Valentine's Day dinner. I'm sure we'll be fine.
NWAI: Oh, you'll be totally fine.

We sing along to Sexy Back. We laugh some more. We talk about Valentine's Day.

5:50 - not moving at all in traffic

Me: Oh, shit. I think I was supposed to get him a present.
NWAI: Uh oh.
Me: Shit.
NWAI: We can stop somewhere.
Me: No. That's silly. It'll be fine.
NWAI: We can totally stop.
We both find this hilarious, as we are already completely stopped.

For the next 5 blocks or so -- let's say the next 30 minutes -- we joke about my hopping out of the car and running into one of the shops on the street to buy him a gift.

NWAI: He'd love some bubble wrap and boxes for shipping.
Me: Nothing says love like hardware and wiring.
NWAI: If you bought him an insurance policy, he'd really know you care.
Me: Check it out. It's a sex store!
NWAI: We can totally stop.
We find this hilarious again, because we are still, for all intents and purposes, stopped.

It went on like this for a while, until finally I mustered the courage to call my sidekick and sheepishly ask if I was supposed to have gotten a present. My sidekick is awesome. He not only said there were no presents required, but he also offered to move the reservation if it would help.

I think it was around this time that the punchiness set in. That's the only thing I can figure happened. Because next thing I know, NWAI has turned up the music, is looking at me with the most hilarious look I ever saw, and is singing along with (Grammy-nominated) My Humps. This. Is. A. New. Low. This is hands-down the worst song I've ever heard in my life, and she's singing along, knowing it's horrible, and smiling from ear to ear. This song is to music what our car ride is to commuting. The worst of the worst.

The good news? We've now got a new standard.

How was your drive?
It was pretty bad.
Was it My Humps bad?
Well, no. Now that you mention it, I guess it could've been worse.

Thank God for carpooling. And the bus lane. (Oh! Is this the bus lane? No wonder we raced past all those other cars. Sorry.)

Los Angeles: A city of cities, where you can drive 8 miles in 2 hours and decide that there's an upside to My Humps. God bless it.

Getting into and out of the groove: Part II

So. The groove. Isn't it the best feeling when you're in it? And doesn't it both suck and blow when you're out of it? Damn that groove.

Anyway, as I was saying, it had been a while since I last stamped. Usually a social activity for me, stamping almost always happens with B-SNAK and our other very good friend who I'll just call Ms. Refusing to Watch American Idol Even Though LaKisha Jones May Very Well Be The Most Amazing Woman Anyone Has Ever Seen In The History of Ever, Because Ms. Refusing Already Has Too Many Shows She's Watching, Esquire. Too long for a nickname? How about Not Watching American Idol? NWAI. That's better.

Ok. So, the three of us have been stamping together for years now. We get together, play awesome music, crack wise, make cards, and laugh a great deal. We also threaten to punch one another in the face a lot. It's usually in this context:

NWAI (to me): Did you see what B-SNAK just made?
Me: No.
B-SNAK: Look!! (holds up a ridiculously intricate and beautiful card that she made in about two seconds)
Me (to NWAI): What a little bitch.
NWAI: I'm gonna punch her in the face.
Me: She knows what she did.

Oh, to be clear: any one of us can be the little bitch in the above scenario. It's just usually B-SNAK, because she's a card-making machine.

This day was no different. It was B-SNAK's birthday, and she was on fire.

Usually, she'll look through magazines or books for ideas, and she'll limit the supplies she's using. Lately, she's been using items from kits (she's a member of an evil monthly stamp club). But, she was already five steps ahead of the game on Friday. Believe me, it was "B-SNAK is a little bitch"-this and "You know what you did"-that all morning. NWAI just jumped right in, too, like she hadn't missed a beat, and she finished 12 cards in about 5 minutes. Right back into the groove!

Me? Yes, well. You won't be surprised that my snail's pace isn't limited to just knitting and sewing. As the tornado of productivity whirled around me, I slowly made my way through my supplies, testing things out. I calibrated my expectation machine, ensuring everything was properly low. But I stayed strong. And positive.

So you can imagine that I was thrilled when I created this combination of stamps and inks:


My inside voice: Thank God I can still figure out how to put things together.
My outside voice: Who's a little bitch, now?


Woo hoo! This pleased me greatly. B-SNAK has taught me many things, and one of them is when you create a good card, make multiples. I made 10 of these. (Most of them aren't as wonky as the one on top appears.) So! Happy! The dust, the agony... all worth it!

I'll save you some legwork. Here are the specs for those cards:

Stamps: Impress - large circle of dots, thank you dot
Inks: Versamagic - Jumbo Java, Pink Petunia
Papers: Bazzill - Parakeet, Chocolate; Stampin' Up - Ultrasmooth Vanilla


In the spirit of adventurousness I tried two other things in the afternoon, and was underwhelmed. They're fine. Not terrible. Fine.

(1)

Stamps: Leavenworth Jackson - dude in hat and coat, clouds; Zettiology - tree in background; unknown company - tree stamp to represent "grass"
Inks: Versamagic - Jumbo Java; Versamark - for watermark images of clouds, "grass", and tree in background (on cream-colored part)
Paper: Fabriano card (see photo of box below)
Ephemera: little cardboard Scrabble tiles, individually cut out with little scissors and adhered with Diamond Glaze


(2)
Stamps: Zettiology - tree branch with bird; Impress - happy birthday
Inks: Versamagic - Jumbo Java, Red Brick, Aegean Blue (applied to stamp with Stampin' Up blender pen)
Paper: Fabriano card

As an aside, I heart Fabriano cards. But they are so expensive, it's ridiculous. Paper shouldn't be that expensive. Talk about some bitches.


In the third and final installment of "...the Groove", I shall regale you with the story of NWAI's and my car ride to and from B-SNAK's house. It'll kinda be like a buddy/road picture, only shorter. And without the moving pictures part. But, I assure you, there'll be just as much cursing and sass!

("Cursing and Sass" appears courtesy of Cursing and Sass, attorneys-at-law, specializing in personal injury and intellectual property.)

Getting into and out of the groove: Part I

It's been a while since my rubber stamps and inks have seen the light of day. A long, sad while. So when B-SNAK said she wanted to have a Stamping Day at her house for her birthday, I was really excited. Excited and -- if I'm honest -- a little nervous.

What if I've forgotten how to do it? What if all my inks have dried up? What if it's been so long since I've stamped that when I finally get them out, I become incapacitated with disgust because all my rubber stamps are of ducks dressed as doctors or pigs doing somersaults or something? Ugh. Why have I not done more stamping? Why have I squandered my resources?

(FYI: That little tour of my brain? Free of charge!)

It was B-SNAK's birthday. I had to push through that nonsense. I held my breath, didn't look too closely, and packed my supplies for the trip to her house.


Ok. So I looked closely. And with some judgement. But, look at those signs of neglect! What is my problem?

Hey, now that I think about it, this is similar to another experience I have sometimes. I don't know if you've ever had this, but when I haven't exercised in a while and then I start again, I find myself saying, "Why haven't I been working out?" But I'm saying it to myself while I'm working out! As I am doing a set of sit-ups I'm thinking this. Completely ridiculous. I am actively doing the thing I'm saying I want to be doing and simultaneously giving myself grief for not doing it. I am a genius. I'm half-tempted to do it about writing right now. And I'm writing!

I'll tell you all about Stamping Day and even show you the items that came out of it. But first, I want everyone to stop giving themselves grief (that includes me) and enjoy the rest of your day. Life's too short. Deal? Awesome.

Coaster photo parade

I don't want to gloat about the success of the do-overs. No, no. Please. Dr. B. doesn't like to gloat. These photos are primarily so that my PIC can see the final, final result of my latest coaster project/my birthday gift for B-SNAK (aka, The Coaster Debacle of '07).

Sidebar: Consider yourselves lucky I've deviated from the original plan for my blog wherein every entry would fall into one of three categories: (1) Hey, PIC, check out what I made! (2) Hey, PIC, you have to go to this awesome website! or (3) Hey, PIC, your job is really hard! And my hair looks really curly today for some reason.

So, this post would be a Category 1. But, you can all look. It's not for my PIC's eyes only. Apologies in advance for the crappy lighting.



Twelve coasters in all -- half of them quilted, half of them not -- and I tried to make the quilting design different on each one. I didn't do the free-motion thing that I'd toyed with. When I do try that technique in earnest, that project is sure to have "Not Gift Quality" written all over it.



Oh, if you're interested, here's an overhead shot before sewing:


So hey, PIC! Your job is really hard. And, you know what? My hair is actually pretty straight right now, but my part is kinda too far over to the right so it looks weird. But who cares? It's the middle of the night, and who's lookin'? Right?

Carry on.

Weight a minute

Back on December 19th of last year, I wrote a post that I put up for about five minutes and then took right down. I was really sick at the time, and I got convinced that I'd written it out of some kind of fever-induced rant. My sidekick had read it and was strangely silent about it. When I encouraged him to explain his reaction, he said that it was such a different tone from everything else I'd written, it might seem out of place. Ok. That seemed fair. And I was so sick, I couldn't really think it through any further than that.

But reading Crazy Aunt Purl's posts recently, it made me realize posting this made/makes all the sense in the world. You know, at a minimum, to add to the dialogue.

Here's to Crazy Aunt Purl. May we all continue to speak up for what's right.

*********

I like to think of myself as a person who's pretty bright. Pretty on top of things. Pretty much, you can't really pull one over on me. Oh, yeah. I'm all that.

But then there've been times where I've felt so tricked by the ways of the world that I've wanted to crawl under the covers and never come out. One was the time someone pointed out that the peach-colored crayon being called "flesh" was inherently racist and feeling like a complete tool that that had never occurred to me. And the other time was when I heard that riddle: A father and his son are in an accident. They are rushed to the ER and the boy needs surgery. The surgeon looks at the boy and says, "I can't operate on this boy. He's my son." How can that be? And I didn't ever get to the point that I figured it out. The person asking the riddle had to tell me it was because the surgeon was the boy's mother. Damn. That shit was deep. And embarrassing. (By the way, this was all quite a long time ago. Just for the record.)

And then there was this set of tricksy, bad ideas:

Here, here stand on this machine. It's awesome! Stand on it! Watch! It's gonna give you a number. And it's not just a number. No, siree! It's a number that tells you all about what kind of person you are! Like it'll tell you if you're disciplined or lazy, in control or out of control, etc.!! It's like magic! The lower the number, the better a person you are. Isn't that awesome?! Oh! And there's no number that's too low! The other thing you can do is repeat that number over and over again in your head, and it'll help you know what you should be doing with your life -- like not eating food, getting some friends together to not eat food and talk about not eating food, and focusing on all the ways you can lower that number, including constantly surveying all your body parts to see which ones are too big. It's a really great machine! This number tells you a lot. You should let it run your life in every way. Let it be your beacon.

Many years ago, the WWNSMW/B-SNAK told me, "Unless you're a baby or have a legitimate medical reason to be weighed, there's no reason you need to get weighed every time you go to the doctor. It's not like they need to see if you're failing to thrive." This was another of those crayon/surgeon moments. If the doctor's office insists on weighing her, she stands facing away from the numbers and asks the person doing the weighing not to tell her the number.

I've been following her lead on this for years now. Sometimes I'm at the doctor for just a check-up. Sometimes, like today, I'm there because I'm sick. Not feeling well. Not my usual self. But, I don't ever get confused about this scale thing.

Woman in the Scrubs: Ok. Just step on the scale here. Let me get your weight.

I put my purse down, kick off the clogs I'm wearing, and face away from the numbers. The woman giggles. Like this is cute that I'm facing the wrong way.

Me: (quite seriously) I don't want to know the number.
Scrubs: (still a little giggly) Oh. OK.

Click, click, clack. She moves the metal pieces behind me on the scale. This takes about 3 seconds. THREE seconds from the time I say I don't want to know the number to the time she says the number out loud, in my ear, matter-of-fact. Not like to herself so she'll remember it when she goes to write it down. Like just full-voice, out loud like, "Here's your weight!"

I clench both my fists, cock my head to the side, and scrunch up my mouth and say, "I really didn't want to know the number."

Scrubs: (still too chipper) Oh. I'm sorry.
Me: (seething)
Scrubs: (realizing she just fucked up) Oh, it's just a habit. You know, it just happens. It's a habit. I didn't mean to... it's a habit.

Yup. It's a habit. No one even pays attention to it anymore. It's just built in and incredibly influential. That machine, its number, and all that goes with it take you completely out of your actual relationship with your body and with food, and into a relationship of self-scrutiny. If I were a woman with an eating disorder, if I had any history of problems with anorexia or bulimia, just hearing that number could send me into a series of life-threatening behaviors. Life-threatening. No joke.

As it is, it's already had a ridiculous effect on me. It's is echoing in my head, almost non-stop.

My thoughts: {That number} {Number again} I should've been clearer with the scrubs lady. I should've said, "You're gonna be tempted to say the number {number} out loud. Don't say it out loud. I don't want to know it. {Number} You can write it down, but don't say it." {Number}

I'm not crazy. I've just been raised in a culture ruled by that machine and the habits associated with that machine.

Oh, but hey! You know what I want for Christmas? I want to know what happens when you step on the scale backwards. Next time you're at the doctor, test it out. And let me know what happens. Nothing would please me more. {Number}

Online stores of painfully cute proportions

Nora over at Black Dog Knits has my back. I mean, really. She made sure I didn't knit an overpriced baby coat, she redirected me to a delicious adult coat option instead, and then offered a coat-along to boot. Then. Then! She gave me not one, but TWO heads-up about online stores with crazy cute Japanese fabrics.

First, she alerted me that the unbelievably adorable Kitty Craft shop has re-opened. Great! I've been waiting and waiting for them to re-open! I promptly zipped on over there, only to find that many fabrics were sold out. I was very sad about this.

Then! Knowing I was sad about this development, she sent me a link to SuperBuzzy.

Now. Pay close attention here. (I'm particularly talking to you PIC, B-SNAK, SIL, and Mue.) Super. Buzzy. Has. Awesome. Shit.

Safety disclaimer/advice/aside #1: Go get your teeth protectors. Put them on. As much as I'd love to help, I can't really do anything from here if you bust your teeth from all the cuteness that you're about to behold. (Even if I were there, it's not like I'm a dentist or anything, so fat lot of good I'd do anyway.)

Aside #2: That safety disclaimer reminds me of a poster that my boyfriend in college had in his dorm room. He'd gotten it from his high school's nurse's office. It said, "Safety is a constant battle. You can never relax." This always cracked us up. You can never relax! Isn't that hilarious?

Ok. Enough with the asides. Everybody ready? I'm gonna give you some highlights. There are many, many more cute things. Go check them out after viewing this sampler.

(This is not meant to hurt you. It's only out of love. All love.)

Notions & Trims, bitches!

BEES???!! On cloth ribbons??


Yup. Now look at this little brown dog sniffing white flowers:


Don't like flowers, just like dogs? Well:


Love girls?



Ok. Now. The killer.

Sit down all over again. Are you re-sitting?

Lammies. A doggie. A little fellow with a cap and red pail. And a little saying.

"Wake up on the grass."

Wake up on the grass?! But, safety is a constant battle! I can never relax! Waking up on the grass doesn't seem safe. Can that be safe? Waking up on the grass implies you either (1) accidently or on purpose fell asleep on the grass/were relaxing or (2, and even worse) you fell asleep elsewhere but somehow ended up on the grass! "Wake up on the grass" could mean all kinds of things. None of them safe!

Well, while this doesn't seem like sage advice, it's a ridiculously cute piece of trim.

So! Stick any of these trims on a piece of cardstock, and you've got yourself a greeting card. Double it over, sew it up, and you've got yourself a bookmark. Or, add it to some fabric item, and you're rocking some serious flair. Trims!

Go into the world. Explore the glorious cuteness. And if you can find some way to both relax and be safe, I encourage you to do so at this time.

What do you think it means

...when you're sleepy in your dreams? I had a dream this morning that I'd called B-SNAK and was leaving her a message, and I was so sleepy I was confused about who I was talking to and said, "Ok, baby, I love you. I'll talk to you soon. (sort of catching my error) I mean, I hope you have fun on your trip." And then I hung up and fell asleep. (Please invoke David Caruso voice for the following reiteration:) Fell asleep. In my dream.

...when Blogger is thwarting every effort to post my delicious photos? Are they too delicious?

...when it's perfectly lovely and warm outside, but -- despite having the heat on -- it's freezing inside? Freezing!

Hmmm... taken individually, each one of those kind of makes you go, "Aw." But together? I tell you what. You see that lady coming? You walk the other way. Don't even pretend you don't.

You used to be bi!

That's all she said to me, and I knew instantly what she meant.

I was hanging out with the WWNSMW (aka B-SNAK) last weekend, and at some point in the evening she looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and blurted out, "You used to be bi! I read your blog all the time, and it's always 'knitting this' and 'sewing that' and I don't even know what else because I don't understand ANY OF IT! WHERE'S THE STAMPING?!"

Did I ever mention I have a giant collection of rubber stamps? Oh. I think I did, once in passing.

Yes, well, B-SNAK and I have a long-standing relationship with stamping that I think you should know about. So: The Story of B-SNAK and the Stamps. (This will also be the title of the blockbuster sequel to Akeelah and the Bee that I'm gonna write. Betcha! I'm gonna do it next. Right after this.)

Taking it back to 1998 {oodly oodly oodly oodly}:

She's having a little get-together, she says. Do I want to come? I won't have to buy anything, but it could be fun if I like rubber stamping. I think to myself, "I do like rubber stamping! I have a stamp of some old-timey shoes, and a bowler hat, and a pocket watch. I could take those with me! And I won't have to buy anything!"

I won't have to buy anything, the first one's free, and trail mix is good for me.

These are ways of thinking that are so, so dangerous. Case in point (and I think this is important): the Trader Joe's Salty, Sweet & Nutty Trek Mix. "It's healthy! It's a Trek Mix! It's got nuts!" Sure. Nutty! Ok. What they mean by "Nutty" is "Peanut Brittle". The nuts are, in some good proportion, housed in rocks and rocks of sugary brittle. (It should tell you something when its form is rock. Nothing good ever comes in the form of rock, in my humble opinion. Not music, not cocaine, not an oversized diamond that makes everyone at least a little uncomfortable -- if not downright small -- when near it.)

Point is: I shoulda known.

I'll never forget the moment that that Stampin' Up demonstrator stamped a teddy bear onto some cardstock, stuck it onto another piece of cardstock, folded it up, and... "OOOOOH!" We were floored that she'd made a greeting card - just like that! "We're gonna save hundreds and hundreds of dollars never having to buy a birthday card again!" "This is the greatest thing we've ever seen!" "How can I do this too?!" Suckers, all.

Present day: Between me, B-SNAK, and another couple of very good friends with very serious problems, we have thousands of stamps. Thousands. That would be bad enough. But, what's worse are the Inks. Papers. Stickers. Postage stamps. Tags. Collage sheets. Brads. Scissors. Eyelets. Markers. Pencils. Watercolor pencils. Adhesives. Ribbons. Rub-ons. Sponges. I could go on. I really could.

I used to be bi. She's right. Now? I'm a polygamous crafter. Straight up. My stamping may've taken a back seat to knitting and quilting, but it'll be making a comeback here pretty soon. You'll see.

I did have to buy some stuff, some of it was free, and for the most part it's all been quite good for me. Being a polygamous crafter may stretch you thin. But that mutherfuckin' Trek Mix? Now, that shit'll kill you.

P.S. and FYI

P.S. I left a very important piece of information out of my post about wanting a craft room. I left it out because I thought, "Why include The Woman Who Never Steers Me Wrong in a rant about Pottery Barn, when I could just give her her propers the right way?"

So. To follow: propers the right way.

What would you say the chances are that you know an incredibly exceptional person? High? Not so high? Ok, well, what are the chances you know an incredibly exceptional person who has, in addition to being exceptional, also created the most incredible craft room you've ever seen? Well, I'd say the chances are quite small. That's what I'd say. So, what if I told you that the Woman Who Never Steers Me Wrong (Except For The One Time With The Knitting, But She's Not A Knitter) is that person. Seriously.

Exceptional person + creator and owner of one kick-ass craft room = the WWNSMW (EFTOTWTKBSNAK).

I realize I don't know you and/or exactly what you've seen in your life, but I'm here to tell you her room is at the tippy top of the best you'll ever see. If you like your crafts organized, woo-howdy, you will really like what she's up to.

(I'm realizing now that if I can convince her to let me take and post pictures of this room, I haven't really done the best Expectation Management here on the front end. I kind of accidently sold the shit out of it, huh?)

But her room has shelves! And systems! And dowels! And bobbins! And...oh jeez, I think I'm getting faint. Maybe she'll just let me show you. If she does, it'll be kinda like naughty pictures for nerds. Or geeks. Or people who just like their things to look real nice. Won't that be awesome?

FYI: Here's what I just realized that's hilarious. When you turn "But She's Not A Knitter" into an acronym, you get "B-SNAK." Ha HA! Guess what, ali b? You just got yourself a nickname! Well, a better nickname. One that can actually roll off the tongue (the WWNSMW? You don't even really try to say that, right?).

All hail, B-SNAK and her glorious, glorious craft room!

P.P.S. Take that, Pottery Barn.