Crafting and canopies

One year ago, I joined throngs of crafters who started small businesses to escape the 9-5 grind and share our crafty goods with the world. In addition to making pretty things, I’ve spent the past year learning about marketing, production, sales, and budgets, which I’ve actually found interesting and challenging. After a long winter hiatus, I returned to selling my jewelry last weekend at the kick-off event for Seattle’s festival season, the University District Street Fair.

Whether in ignorance or denial, I didn’t let the volatile, unpredictable May weather dampen my anticipation for the start of the busy selling season. But this weekend’s weather was trying even for this Kansas native. Day one brought winds gusting up to 24 mph, pummeling my canopy to the brink of collapse. Even in clement weather, there’s plenty of work just maintaining the display and chatting it up with customers, but the stress of pending burial beneath yards of polyester was a strain. At the start of day two, my canopy was still standing in spite of enduring a long night of wind and rain. Hoping it would shelter me one more day, I bolstered it with an ingenious mechanism involving a dismembered Swiffer pole and lots of duct tape. But Sunday’s challenge wasn’t wind, but rain. “What next?”, I wondered. Locusts?

The canopy limped through the day, valiantly keeping me dry, if not warm. What was more astonishing were the thousands who joined the festivities in the full-on, unrelenting rain. Who ARE these people? On Saturday, a friendly group of tourists from Thailand stopped to ask what we were celebrating at this festival. “Capitalism”, I thought to myself. But Sunday showed me that we were actually celebrating spring, whatever it might bring: rain, shine, or both. Seattleites spend several months a year in GoreTex, and by May, we defiantly get out whether the weather cooperates or not.

At the end of a taxing, but fun, weekend, I wrung out my clothes and jumped into a hot shower with a martini (yes, I can drink in the shower). With aching feet, I sat down to a hot bowl of chili and Greg’s corn bread to reflect on the first show of the year. In spite of the weather, I pulled out a profit, most of which will go into a new canopy. Several of my loyal supporters stopped by to cheer me on. I even made a few new friends in my eclectic block of non-profit organizations (special thanks to Richard from the Mountaineers and the woman in leather from the King County Republicans who bought a necklace for a friend). And I managed to restrain myself from consuming an unreasonable about of Kettle Korn, the crack (or krack) of street fairs.

Stop by and visit me at the Fremont Fair, June 16-17. And look for me at Fremont Sunday Market, but not until it’s clear, warm, and dry.

La Boheme

Earlier this week, Greg took me to see Puccini's La Boheme at the Seattle Opera. First, the important details: Greg scored free parking; I wore a little brown wrap dress with big white polka dots that I found for $25 last fall (think Minnie Mouse with cleavage); and Greg was dashing in a cool charcoal knit coat, a recent thrifty find.

McCaw Hall, recently rennovated, is a lovely space that greets its audience gently, neither too ornate nor overly stark. We checked out the art that adorns the lobby, including a large Mark Tobey collage, and my favorite, a Sarah Sze sculpture hanging in the atrium. We admired the Sze work from all angles: afar, underneath, and up-close as we ascended to the upper levels. From a distance, the geometric shapes combine into a delicate tornado. Up-close, you see that the structure is ornamented with measuring tapes, water bottles, carpenters' levels, extension cords, and plastic plants.

La Boheme is a great introduction to opera. It's light and funny, requiring little suspension of disbelief while carrying the audience through a romantic story to the heroine's imminent death. In a nutshell: poet meets crafter, they fall in love, and enjoy Bohemian Paris in a killer loft with great light. Mimi, the crafter, gets sick. Rodolfo, the poet, pushes her away so that she can hook up with a wealthier suitor to pay for her prescriptions. As Mimi gets sicker, she chucks her sugar daddy to return to her true love. Mimi dies, audience cries.

A timeless tale of the lack of access to health care and meager support for the arts. Beautifully performed with impressive sets. Now we just have to figure out how to get tickets for more performances next season. And try not to get tuberculosis.

A trip to the library

Recently, Greg and I traveled to a branch of King County Public Library to do some research and enjoy one of the last vestiges of socialism in the US. Greg had legitimate research for an ongoing project on the human impact of war. I just went along for the ride because there's always something fun to see and do at the library.

I hit the magazine racks for eye candy, inspiration, and to admire the collection's scope and coverage in this well-endowed library system. But a dark side lurks in the stacks of this cozy suburb. In place of a number of notable titles, I noticed laminated signs alerting patrons that subscriptions to those particular magazines would be terminated if issues continued to go missing. What do these patrons need so badly that they're willing to break the public trust to steal from a revered public institution? Cosmopolitan, ESPN Magazine, Martha (gasp) Stewart Living. A few years ago, The American Library Association surveyed libraries to determine which items were most often stolen. Among them, police officer examination study guides. So much for socialism.

Sheep were my next stop. In spite of the fact that I only recently verified that lambs are baby sheep, I have a recurrent fantasy of living on a little farm to raise sheep. Our bucolic weekend on Lopez Island rekindled the dream, where I spotted three lambs frolicking in a field, bucking like tiny, white, fluffy broncos, bringing me to giddy squeals. Hoping to look further into a possible career in agriculture, and find some more baby lamb porn, I found a helpful primer, “Small Scale Sheep Keeping for Pleasure and Profit”. A few tidbits I learned:

• Lambs’ tails are usually docked to avoid disease and soakage in urine and feces. This is accomplished by placing a tight band around the tail. It hurts until their tail goes numb and eventually falls off. A friend who used to work on a farm told me that she would find lamb tails laying around in the field. I'm pretty sure I would faint.

• Donkeys are great for guarding the flock. Llamas are even better. Somehow I don't think the pug would be particularly effective.

• Lamb is in high demand during particular times on various religious calendars. I think I'd stick to milk or wool. If I couldn't handle lamb tail detritus, slaughter might be out of the question.

Further research is in order. In the mean time, I'm looking forward to attending the Wild-N-Wooly sheep shearing fest in Bellevue later this month. And another trip to the library.

I hadn't planned on an exciting day, but as I reflect, I see a chilly gray day filled with a few of my favorite things. I rode the bus downtown to tutor Leonardo at the jail, had lunch with Greg, and visited an Asian grocery in the International District. Along the way, I gathered a few useful tidbits to share with you:

• For you vegetarians who have been craving organ meats, you'll find vegetarian kidney at Viet Wah Super Market. Other sweet and savory treats: frozen dade (some kind of larvae. If you know what kind or how to cook it, do tell), big pomelos, cow penis and uterus (the yin and yang of beef offal), pretty little black sesame candies, cuttlefish balls, veggie chicken ham, cream puffs, and dried mussels.

• Crafty upcycling ideas from jail (via Leonardo):

• If the correctional officers take away your playing cards, make new ones out of milk cartons.
• No mirror? Make one from the reflective insides of a potato chip bag.
• Sculpt decorative flowers from toilet paper. Great Mother's Day gift.
  

• Miscellaneous:
• The formula for simple interest is i=prt, where p is the principle, r is the rate, and t is time.
• The deadline for King County Metro's Poetry on Buses contest is April 30, 2007.

Being here

Yesterday was sunny, warm, and dry. The cherry blossoms and daffodils blared with color, and we opened the sunroof as we drove home from brunch. I think ahead to spring, when we'll take in our vitamin D the natural way, and shed layers of fleece and Gore-Tex for a few unreasonably perfect months. This is only a teaser and we still have chilly rains to endure, but I'm dreaming about those sunny days I'll spend in the backyard making jewelry and listening to podcasts while Lupita suns on her stoop.

As idyllic as that sounds, I want to break this habit of always looking ahead, always thinking about what's to come, rather than where I am. I'm learning the cost to the present when I continually focus on the future. I often feel I'm in a prelude, a preparation for the real fun and authentic experience that lies ahead. If we're headed to lunch, I'm thinking about what we might have for dinner. If I'm reading blogs, I'm thinking of the posts I'll write someday. If I'm laying around reading a book, I'm easily distracted by dreams of future travels and adventures that I'll take once I'm really living.

One crafty side effect of this habit is cleverly disguised as lifelong learning via a steady stream of 'how-to's'. Before doing something I've never done, I tend to plan and prepare so that I might eventually do X the RIGHT way. How to cook. How to blog. How to make a pincushion. How to patch that gaping hole in your heart that makes you hungry for some unknown invisible experience that will make everything else make sense.

During our sunny drive, Greg said "I like our life". Later that day, Robin, whose wisdom and empathy is second only to my mother's, reminded me to "cultivate joy and gratitude". As I look back on the weekend, I see my rich and filling life, not a ramp-up to the real thing, but the real thing itself. One evening, baby Sam slept, wriggled, and cooed in my arms for two whole hours while Greg and I enjoyed Ria's company, a great dinner, and a very nice glass of wine. The next afternoon, we lunched at a sports bar to watch basketball and indulge in a favorite treat, beer during daylight. That evening, I spent an evening with a wacky group of crafting librarians, noshing and sharing ideas and inspiration. By the end of the weekend, I was full, a little hungover, and kind of smelly, as if I'd just returned from a weekend of camping. I had dug around in a fragrant, mossy heap of companionship, love, food & beverage, and emerged rich, spent, and content, not at all concerned with what Monday might bring.

Smarty Pants

Today I had lunch with my dear friend, Steve. We've been friends since I was his RA at the dorms at Wichita State. He's from Conway Springs, a small farming community west of Wichita, the thriving metropolis where I grew up. Seattle is home to many former Kansans. Tip: when meeting someone from Kansas, reconsider your inclination to whip out the Wizard of Oz allusions. We've heard them.

Back to lunch. I've noticed a dearth of good sandwiches in Seattle (also a glut of teriyaki. Coincidence?). And clearly my expectation of finding a decent vegetarian sandwich is unreasonable. But today I have new hope.

Steve took me to a new favorite in Georgetown, Smarty Pants. At our server's suggestion, I ordered today's special, a West Coast Brat, a reuben-esque sandwich grilled up with Field Roast, swiss cheese, and cole slaw on marbled rye. It was [insert your favorite synonym for yummy here]. Grilled but not greasy, saucy but not goopy, fresh, savory, and good. While most of the sandwiches on the menu are meaty, patrons can substitute Field Roast on any sandwich.

But wait, there's more. Full bar. Yes, it's true. A really good sandwich place with lots of options for everyone, and beer and booze if you like (and I do). What else could I want? Friendly service? Yep. Laid back, hip but not pretentious? Uh-huh. I'm going to start getting out more.

Bread and blogging

My partner, Greg, is quite a good cook (although getting him to cook can be challenging). Yesterday, our friends Mark, Erin and baby Maia asked us over for dinner, inspiring Greg to make this beautiful French bread.

Mark asked us to bring a salad or vegetable, so I pulled out my favorite roasted cauliflower recipe. Greg didn't mention that Mark would also be making a simple pasta dish to go with the salmon, so we showed up with our contributions to a nearly all-white dinner! Atkins notwithstanding, it was a yummy dinner and we had a fun evening chatting, eating, and playing with Maia. We also learned how to play Quiddler (Erin kicked everyone's ass), Erin made me my first salty dog, and shared her recipe for honey whole wheat bread.

Our evening brought me to a new perspective about this whole blogging thing. Instead of openly embracing this blogging urge, I keep ruminating over the 'why?' and 'what?'. Does the world need another blogger bearing her soul? Can I really just write this stuff without any planning, sense of scope, or single unifying theme? Like little Maia, I study situations closely, considering my options before taking my own tentative leaps. But I can take other lessons from her as well. When the music plays, just start dancing. And when dinner is all white, enjoy it along with the good company that you keep.