Fait Accompli !!

Zee Szveaterrrr----she is done!

(pause for Colbert Report-style ovation)

Now we await the reaction from the recipient after she receives it, and I'm just not going to stress about that. Waaaaay too much to do for that.

And the WWOTP IPA---I came downstairs yesterday morning to find a rather large mason jar on the hall table, golden with the hoppy nectar, ready to be savored. Peg worked her alchemical magic and did the bottling mid-week, and another home brewed batch of Wicked Women on the Porch Imperial Pale Ale is about to be consumed. Not quite this early in the morning, I'm only on my first cup of coffee, but definitely towards sundown.

And The Goon Squad was here almost the entire day yesterday, and it smelled like they were priming something, and are almost done with the basement renovation. No ovation for them.

Busy day ahead this morning, so I won't dilly-dally too long here, I have a trip to the House of Vintage right away to restock and re-merchandise. Being a lovely cool morning in the low 50s, it is a sharp contrast to a week ago setting the booth up, when it reached 90 inside the shop by noon, and just went up from there. Rose Festival tourist overflow is winding its way along Hawthorne, and Hawthorne is becoming known for its great hub of thrift shopping, and I have many more treasures to provide those bargain shoppers. And some nice books to sell to Powells. (heh heh heh)

No time to gloat over the bee-utiful Noro sweater---I'm going to take a sunny picture of it later today, and of course, will share it here. Since it's a new yarn from the Japanese Noro company, the nice people at the Yarn Garden said I should bring it by for them to see when I finished the t-shirt style summer weight sweater. Okay, I'll gloat later, too. Gotta go!

Bubble, Bubble, Toil & Trouble

Safely bedded in the dry, dark and friendly basement sits a rather large and active carboy of spirited cloudy mashy brew. Soon to be ale. Yet another batch of Wicked Women on the Porch IPA, with its hoppy, lemony zippiness and satisfying kick in the keester.

And before anyone thinks that home brewed beer is a scary proposition, I had the delight of sampling an Organic IPA at a local area brew-pub last night that bore a suspiciously similar taste to our very own WWOTP IPA. So how did this brew-pub get our secret recipe? This smacks of brew-espionage to me. I see more sampling and batch-tasting in my immediate future, just to determine what goes on here. And the brew-pub had an excellent wheat beer, amber ale, and then I lost track. And quit drinking other people's beer.

How do people suffer through those 24-packs of red-white-blue label cans of factory swill?


Although it appears I was lost in space for three days, I was earnestly working on The Sweater, only one short sleeve to go, taking pics for Etsy, doing some cost analysis of supplies and expenses so far, boxing up more to take to the Groovy Rhubarb space, and writing. Like, as in fiction, sort of like starting a book. A (novel) mystery (maybe?). "I'm scared, Brad, hold me!"
I hate to mention something so early-begun so early, so as to not jinx it, but I am surprised by the concept, and have to drive it a bit to see where it goes for me. And that's all I'm-a gonna say.

Speaking of trouble, Mr. Torso was in the pool with me at the gym yesterday. Sometimes he joins me in the steam room, too, and then we sometimes share the hot tub before he goes and swims hundreds of laps in the fast lane. I know he wears goggles, and wears a close-cropped haircut, but any other description would involve extensive details of his amazing torso, and I would have to admit I have no clue what his face looks like. Am I being too much like a guy here? And is that bad?
So this is where I have to confess to a torso weakness. Not surprisingly, most straight women admit in mixed company to noticing a man's eyes first, but then amongst friends, they talk in lower voices about lower anatomical areas. I notice a guy's eyes first, too, but then...how does he fill out the shirt? That sounds really bad, I know. Even if I'm not wearing glasses or contacts, somehow I have 20-20 vision when it comes to a fabulous torso. How can that be? And, honestly, that's about as far as I notice much. Obviously have not watched enough "Sex in the City" or bad soft-porn. But I did drop an entire large tray of freshly baked bread and other treats upon walking out a busy restaurant door and seeing a spectacular man in front of me stretching with his shirt completely open. As long as I worked there, I could never live that down. And now I share it with you. (I need a moment.......)
So Mr. Torso is a swimmer, and he likes steam and hot tubs, and I can't even tell you a rough estimate of how old he is. Under 35, over 20? And he forgoes that pesky chest waxing ordeal, thank all the greek gods I can think of. So...should I say hi and mention what a great swimmer he is? And not make a Freudian slip with the word lap or stroke or steamy dreamy?

And the whole world knows how I got busted at Fred Meyer's last weekend scoping on this hunky guy in the produce and natural foods department. Dark hair, tied back in a short tail, tan or olive skin, about 6'3", lean, clean but casual, probably between 30 & 35. Meaning, I have no business even looking at this guy. I was going about my usual invisible shopping errands, "Oh, it's just Mrs. Robinson shopping, don't mind me," when--- suddenly---there he appeared, reaching into the cold case right next to me for juice, and my left brain went on break. C-ya!

What the F happens here? I can see it all, my eyes following him as he browses, he looks like a swimmer, or a model, and I'm sure my mouth is hanging open, struck speechless, and I re-position my shopping cart as he circulates around the produce aisles. This sounds so self-deprecating, but pudgy women over 40 really get used to being invisible, or in the way of younger and thinner people needing your space. So I'm sure I was solidly staring at him. Good god. I pretended to look at a shopping list when another woman a tad older than me caught me scoping. She didn't even meet my eye, but she did check him out thoroughly. So, after about 7 or 8 minutes of this, and I know I'm being so silly, he's at the self check-out lane and having trouble with his card but the line to get help is three deep, so he waits, and I move my cart again, and from almost 100 feet away, he turns around and looks directly at me. Remember, no left brain function. I reach for my cell phone, and pretend to answer it. Could I be a bigger dork? (The answer is 'no')
My neighbor Steven giggled at me, and thought it was a good sign that he didn't call security.
It was only a few minutes. I had a ready excuse---"You look just like my son's friend" or, "Sorry, you look just like my sister's baby daddy," or the best--- "Wow, I thought you were the guy I shagged last night at the Bagdad". But, not needed. He was gone. So I put my silent cellphone away and finished my shopping. "No waiting in the 10 DORKS OR LESS line!!"

Always happy to amuse.

Oh good, rain is coming

I say that not because I am a native Pacific Northwesterner, or because I'm tired of the beautiful early summer weather we've been having, but because the garden needs a really good rainwater soak, and I need to stay indoors and really get some work done.

There were these 15' high walls of windows at my middle school, mostly 7th & 8th grade, and they looked out over these rows of big maples, elms, a playground (before the parking lot went in) and rolling spots of sun-dappled grass to sit and have intense conversations with your best friend. It was in those classrooms that I realized what a window-gazer I am, perched two or three stories above the ground and looking out and away into the blue sky and canopy...I'm out of my body and hovering there in mid-air myself.
The rotation of the earth has its way with me and I have to be outside, that's all there is to it.

There's that feeling like I have piles of neglected algebra or geometry homework to do and Mr. Rolf is going to get all tight-lipped and stern with me.

Pa-shaw, it's only some laundry to fold, paperwork to finish, some dishes and vacuuming, the usual suspects. How can you toss your satin black cat off a pile of pink sheets fresh from the dryer when he looks so adorable nested in them? He always picks the pink ones, and all my sheets are cotton, so that's not it. Another photo op.

Update on the Noro Betty sweater: finished the front piece this morning, now just two short sleeves to whip up, then piece it together. My left index knuckles are going wonky with all of this tiny intense knitting, and moving that huge bookcase on Friday with 90lb Edina, the House of Vintage owner, sent my knuckles into walnut-sized. But. Must. Finish. Sweater. Then---I will allow the knitting to go on a summer hiatus, while I work on the button carding, jewelry making, sewing projects, sweater embellishing, and over-all turbo charged production of all things Groovy Rhubarb. and also painting. And writing. And more photography. Which reminds me---

Check out this new 'zine, called LAB. Many of the talent and references are Portland-PNW oriented, is it here in PDX? Not sure, but one of the contributors is an intern at Wieden-Kennedy ad agency, did work for Nike, and some logo work familiar to folks up this way. Doug Fir, for instance. I downloaded both released copies of this new 'zine and spent some time reading, marveling, and seeing into the future of print/web-based art. Guess that makes me a wanna-be, but I'm getting it started, and am certainly in the right town for this kinda thing. If you want to be amused and baffled and inspired, link to LAB. I found a page from Keri Smith's book, The Artist's Survival Guide, that radically cheered me up on a blue day and reminded me why you should never tell anyone what you're doing unless they also tend to bubble over and tell you all sorts of project ideas. Or your tractor will be up to your head gasket in swamp. Surely a metaphor everyone can understand.

Must press on, end in sight, stay strong.

Portland Rose Festival is City-wide

The annual Portland Rose Festival began on Thursday May 31st, and is in sunny, full-swing this weekend on the waterfront. But as we all know who live in these here parts, the true Show is in all the neighborhoods' gardens, and that is where you will enjoy the treasure of this time of year. Not that I have anything against the Tall Ships, cute sailors, international tourists, fire-roasted corn on the cob or street falafel (but don't get me started on funnel cakes or overpriced warm beer), but it always leaves me wondering, "What does all this Waterfront Village hoo-haa have to do with roses?"

I can show ya roses...as well as all the other local color at its peak this weekend.

So pop a reasonably priced cold one, and stroll through these Portland Rose Festival highlights...
(left column, please...)

(fanfare) The Booth is Open!!

Da-ta-ta -dah!!!

Yes, I've become a resale tycoon in the making. It is a modest little booth. Pricing things you remember paying full price for 25 years ago is tough, but some things are actually worth more. Not kidding anyone, just mining this accumulation of riches for some liquid assets is worth it, no matter how much that Japanese Import Roxy Music album was in 1982. Some vinyl junkie could spy that, and get on his cell and tell all his friends to come down.
I did snap a few pics, but first I have to figure out how to get them out of my phone.

Remarkably, it was so easy to just pile LPs into the big canvas book bags and lug them to the car, I thought it would be harder. Friends tried to get me to leave them behind when I left Boca Raton, but no one would have given me a dime for a bunch of 70s & 80s LPs there. And I wasn't emotionally ready to part with them then, still inhabiting my mental 20s on the cusp of 40. Well---I'm truly on the other side of that dilemma now. I also have a great tall book-sized shelf in the booth, so I can start with the book-age as soon as I can start boxing them up.
After years of wanting to surround myself with wonderful and meaningful things, this spring I want to create SPACE. Space for new ideas, new projects, new identity, new work, new pals and friends, new meanings. As my old pal Matthew would say, "There you go, all woo-woo again," and he would be right. He too is proof that there is Life After Borders.

Speaking of...I found a stash of business cards from just a couple of years ago in an old purse, and as I looked through them while tossing them in the paper recycling basket, I realized that none of the Borders business cards I had from colleagues, co-workers, bosses, and muckity-mucks were people who were still with the company. Ah---haaaa. So, The Kids Are Alright after all. Meaningless, really, but reassuring to me anyway. We all tossed our Corp frame of Reference and Priorities for the next thing, whatever that wound up being, and none of that whole "End of the World As We Know It Armageddon" occurred. Those conference calls and phone trees and suits' visits all kept on happening, more new initiatives, more new incentives, more spun bullshit---and it went on without our holding it up anymore!! When I tell people I feel newly divorced, they snort and make some comment that indicates to me that I gave far too much to that company. I don't want to be bitter, or angry, or feel a loss in myself.
But I really like this Merry Divorcee thing...reputation be damned.

I have a store again!

Signed the lease today, I am now a vendor at the 'House of Vintage' on Hawthorne.

Tomorrow morning, I load up the Kia and make like the flea market of olde, except that it's inside, with 80s music and more ugly 1960s lamps than I ever saw in all of my childhood friends' parents' basements and rec rooms. With the big GothGirl space at the front.

Perseverance, and good timing. I am so excited! Starting out with LPs, some 1970s rock& roll paraphernalia, books, fabricky items, old video tapes, things that I've been carting around so long that they have become 'vintage' since I got them...the mid-40s usual realization that it has been almost 30 years since high school, ohmigod, why do I still have some of this stuff?

To sell, to sell, to young 20s hipster types to whom this era of
brown and yellow draperies or orange and olive lampshades has a delightful charm. Oh, I can show you 70s...

I considered "The 70's Will Never Die" as a great name for a booth, and it's not too late. The owner is very easy going with being creative, and encourages merchandising that increases sales, so that's cool. And since I am in a starter size space, it's small enough that I'm not in overwhelm about filling it up, and it's easy to completely change around to keep it fresh. The time commitment is minimal, so I can still do all of my other creative and money making projects, like blogging, trying to get writing jobs, setting up my Etsy sales site, and most likely, getting a part time job. I get to lead four lives at once, at last! And there is that new novel idea that came to me yesterday, a murder mystery, no less, increible!

There's still time, I keep saying to myself. All of these interlayered happenings feel more genuine than most of the work I've done over the last few years, yet the experience along the way taught me so much that I know will help me run my own business. Fifteen years ago I would have wanted to do my own little bookstore, maybe a spirituality artsy poets dragged through Asia a few times kinda store. But things are different now, after the bookstore manager's experience. I don't want a little cafe or restaurant of my own, either. So already have done that, too. To feel really in tune with all my interests and expressive needs, I need to do an assortment of things. Perhaps this summer is the time and the right mix of circumstances for me to really launch this muthaship. Six months ago I found out I was losing my job. And it certainly was not the end of the world. This summer is going to be so cool!!
stock pic

Sweater Love

I'm up to my eyeballs in them---all lined up in a row on my front porch railing drying in this sudden and windy heat wave. Lucky for me, because you can imagine the smell of damp wool/silk/mohair/angora lying helplessly flat on every horizontal surface indoors. Rather not.

It's so much better this way, and as yesterday was just as beautiful as today is going to be, I'm glad I did the first batch then. Lucky lucky me, I get to play with sweaters I didn't have to spend months knitting in the first place, cutting, applique, felting, ribbon & wool embellishing, funky patches & unmatched buttons, lace inserts...I'm dizzy with excitement.

But today is more business than pleasure, I have to get some business cards together, take some pictures and finish the pitch portfolio already. I worked on the business plan last night after Sunset Porch Time, and I want to walk down to the Hawthorne & 48th Ave antique mall before it gets to 90 degrees today. If only I had a better quality printer...

You just never know where the inspiration will come from, or what it will actually look like when it gets here. I had been thinking it would look a certain way, BE a certain thing, and that isn't what happened at all. And as electrifying as it has been to sing out with it to people I know, and to see them happy that I'm excited and jazzed, I have to also deal with the quizzical looks, uncertain smiles. pointed questions, and, frankly, their obvious doubts about the sense of what I'm talking about. This has been tough for me. Most of these folks have only known the workaholic for Borders me-person. This Earth Martha Hippie is catching them off guard.

Am I off my nut?

Especially when I realized that doing this vintage thrift thing is a lot like what Betty did when we were kids, dragging my brother and me to garage sale and estate sale and roadside liberation of old furniture, making us work in her booth at the flea markets, haul shit around and sit on it to keep it from falling over, fighting with each other while we waited for hours in the parked car while she wheeled & dealed some old lady out of precious heirlooms. This is a curious turn of events at this point in my life. It feels like I'm doing it my way, though. Maybe I'm just kidding myself.

Yesterday I popped into Powells' to pick up a freebie paper, and saw a sign posted for a bookseller for the Hawthorne location. No less than five employees were hanging out chatting, holding up the counter or sitting with their feet propped on the desk tiddling on the computer, and I had a brief flash of "not a bad way to make $11 an hour" as I flitted back out the door. There is always that. Books, retail, but without the corporate culture thing. I don't wanna go there. (keep moving, keep moving, sweater love, buttons, retro booth, business cards, paintings, jewelry, writing, go go go go go !)

Just about half done with Betty's Mom's-Day & B-Day combo sweater. Half of the front panel and the two short sleeves left to do. The yarn makes such a beautiful variegated colored pattern, with slubs of satiny strand colors strewn in like jeweled grains of rice. I love it, but will be so glad when it is done. I've got so much else to get in motion, this necessary but beautiful task of finishing this gift feels like goofing off. It certainly looks that way to everyone who passes by, seeing me on the porch late in the afternoon yet again, knitting (of all things) and maybe a beer next to me in the shade, "when is she going to get a job?" is all over their faces. Or so I think they're thinking. The Boss Lady has not completely left the building. Right now, she is reminding me that the sweaters are sitting there needing to be brought out of the water and taken to the porch to start drying. Gotta go. Lo-o-ove those sweaters, though.