Sunday, February 22, 2009

TMI

I picked my underwear out of my butt a dozen times today. I tried every adjustment possible - nothing worked. This day was just one in a series of bad underwear days. A lot of things can challenge even my best day - no skim milk for my tea, over cooked eggs at the diner, having to call my teenage son 10 times before he gets out of bed. These are minor, temporary setbacks. Underwear in my crack - well there's a day that just doesn't end.

I knew these were problem pants when I stepped into them this morning. The first sign was the fact that they were the last pair in the drawer. Sign Two: The long string of bare elastic dangling from the leg opening. The one that wouldn't break off and kept getting longer and longer? Sign Three: The waistband that tore on both sides as I pulled them on. I knew, even as I zipped my jeans, that I was headed for a day of underwear hell.

In my decades of wearing cheap underwear, I've devised a number of ways to release a wedgie other than picking. I practiced them all today. Next to the classic pick, the most effective is when I pretend to tuck in my shirt, reach into the back of the offending pants and push them out. Another involves tugging my jeans down in the hope that the underwear will follow. The least effective and most distracting is this weird hip roll thing I've perfected, which I'm sure causes people to question my history with the pole.

I know. It's time to go shopping. I've tried. Here is what I found. The People In Charge Of Underwear fall into these distinct camps:

1. Pantie People - purveyors of flimsy scraps of fabric, embellished with scratchy lace and bows. There's not enough fabric to cover one cheek and enough pink to rot your teeth.

2. Thong People - who have somehow convinced millions of women that fabric crammed between the cheeks is comfortable. I tried them when they first came out. They are not. I spent the first week perpetually horny. After that wore off, I realized I was an idiot with an inadequate sex life.

3. Cotton Brief People: These are makers of functional, comfortable foundation garments. These come in a variety of colors and hang out of the back of your jeans when you lean forward. And not in a good way. They're a step away from the last category:

4. Granny Pants. These are the biggest pants in the world. Please, God. Please don't let my ass ever get big enough to fill them.

Tomorrow is a big day. I'm heading out with a sense of purpose. I will find underwear that don't ride up or fall down. They won't have lace, bows, hearts or teddy bears. The back will cover both of my cheeks. The front will be wide enough to cover my stuff. The next time you see me, I won't be picking my butt, rolling my hips or have my hands in my pants. A lot of people will be relieved to hear this.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

My Studio. My Place. My Crib.

Hey, I thought I would show you all where I spend my days. And many of my nights. Welcome to the third and hopefully, final home of Museware Pottery. There are many wonderful things about our new home but at the top of the list is the fact that it is heated. This winter - 70. Last winter - most days around 50.


This is our main production table. It's where my production manager, Nicole, spends most of her time. She's a machine and has turned the art of hand painted pottery into a science. She loves her job and tells me she'd come here even if I didn't pay her. Her Mantra: Don't be jealous of my skillz. See that big tree in the background? His name is Benjamin. I named him back in the day when I was reading The Secret Life of Plants and having regular conversations with him. Oh, and sleeping under a pyramid. I bought him in 1975 and placed him on a doily on my coffee table. It's hard for me to imagine my ever owning a doily.


This is our "kitchen." We call it that because it includes a refrigerator and microwave but very little cooking takes place in it. The water that flows from the faucet smells slightly swampy and always makes us think one of us farted. She who smelt it, dealt it.

The shelves on the left house my collection of mosaic glass - the remnants of an earlier creative obsession. Seven years ago, no surface was safe around me. I couldn't look at a piece of pottery without imagining it in pieces. One bottle contains the remains of a hideous bull fighter figurine found at a flea market. When the guy who sold it started to wrap it, I told him not to bother - I planned smash it. He looked stricken, like I was about to destroy a rare artifact. Because $3 can buy a thing of historic value.

This area is is behind the production table and is where we keep our tools, paint supplies and working bisque. See that tool chest? It was a Christmas gift to myself two years ago. $250 for the entire thing. At Sears. It's a Craftsman. Three pieces. Ball bearing drawer slides. That noise is the sound of me beating my chest. Men gaze at it with complete envy. Don't ya just hate it when all they care about is your chest?

Now this is where the magic happens. This is my workspace. The table is 5' x8' and full of junk. My actual work area consists of a small area in front of my chair. I usually blame the mess on a lack of storage. Total crap. Give me a warehouse and I'd still have junk on my table. Before having my son 15+ years ago, I was compulsively neat. My house looked like a magazine. I am apparently healed.

Our kiln room is efficiency expert Lara's domain. Lara is wicked organized - she's been with us - wow - 8 months and I haven't once had to organize her kiln carts. You've got to know I just issued a huge compliment. No one can touch me in kiln cart organization. Don't be jealous of my skillz. This room is exactly large enough to house three kilns. One foot less and it wouldn't have worked. As long as she stays tiny, she won't have to worry about brushing her cheeks against 1835* stainless steel. When we run all three kilns along with the room vent, the temperature only gets to 90*. That's a lot cooler than the 115* we've suffered in the past. While I have not seen how heat effects Lara's temperament, I can tell you it turns me into a biting, evil shrew.
Thanks for stopping by.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Wicked Scary.


Thystle, who perpetually has her finger on the pulse of the world of hip, told me about this cool site where you can upload a picture and create an Obamaesque icon of yourself.

This Scary Face self portrait is the result of fruitless photo shoot a couple of months ago. For the life of me, I just don't see Lauren Holly here. You?

Sunday, February 8, 2009

New York, Yew Nork

Last week I spent a week in New York. Because enough hasn't been written about the Big A, The City That Never Sleeps, I'm compelled to add my take: There are a shit load of people in NY. From my room on the 21st floor, on 34th and 8th, I could look down upon enough tiny people to populate my entire town. Most of them were walking.

Unless being led around by their dogs, people in my world walk under these circumstances: 1. Dead car. 2. No car. 3. No license. While there may be exceptions - those who trudge through snow up to their knees along unplowed terrain because they want to, these people are generally crazy and should be avoided. If you get too close, they may ask you to join them. My best friend, Janet, falls into this category.

My trip into The City was flawless. I hit the road at 7:15 and arrived in NY State at 11:30. Drove right past my hotel on the way to the Javits. Pulled into the Javits Center and right into a parking spot. After dropping off my load, I asked one of New York's finest for directions. He was pleased to tell me that I look just like Lauren Holly. I had no idea who she was (it's lonely under my rock) but since it's rare for someone to say that you look just like some dog, I received his compliment in a most charming way. When I arrived at my hotel, there was a parking space out front. I handed my keys to some guy and watched it drive away.

I won't bore you with show details. The best part about it was the great company in my booth - Larry of Clay Design and Victoria of Dream Fabric Printing. All three of us are pretty much non-stop talkers. Sometimes we actually listened to one another. They were great company and I can't wait to see them again in August.

As planned, I had dinner at Chez Veasey, home of the wicked famous Lorrie Veasey and Sexyhusbandomine. Here is the real scoop on the Veasey family: Sexyhusbandomine = Hunk. And he fed the kids and did the dishes while we talked. He should host a husband/boyfriend bootcamp. I'd immediately sign up Ireland. Oh, and those cute kids she blogs about? Seriously cute. And polite. We may think Lorrie walks on water, but she's a regular gal like the rest of us. I hugged her and those Beautiful Berthas moved right out of the way just like regular, non-famous boobage.

Cut to the last day of the trip. I call for my car - which sounds almost as cool as my agent. Two hours later, I'm still waiting. I'm beginning to wonder if the guy in front of the hotel drove it to Jersey and cut it into tiny pieces. Eventually it shows up. Whew. I'm not an idiot. I drive to the Javits and find it in absolute grid lock. No way to get anywhere near it. I drive around the block and approach it from a new angle. Not happening. As I prepare to make another 1/2 hour pass around the block, my gas light comes on. I see a entrance to the parking lot. I don't wonder why no one else is taking advantage of this clear passage. I just drive right in.

"License and registration, please." Do I know what I just did, he asks? I just ignored a Do Not Enter sign. (Ok, I am an idiot.) As I reach for my papers, I hear him say "Hey, you're the one who looks just like Lauren Holly." I flash him my most convincing LH smile. I still don't know who she is. That's ok, he says. Why don't you just back right into that space over there.

I heart New York.

Friday, February 6, 2009

WHAT is UP with you people?


Don't you guys have a life? I take a couple of stinkin' days to get some work done, open my reader and find SIXTY-FOUR posts to catch up on? I mean, seriously. Fricken A. I just went back to check the number and now it's 65. WTF. Do you people not sleep?

Ok, since it's obvious that I'm playing in the big leagues, where I clearly have no business, I quit. I quit trying to keep up with you. Especially you, Dooce. Here is the question: How can you be pregnant, run around after a 5 year old, keep a house, two dogs and a husband and still find time to write 31 posts in less than two weeks? There is something that is just not right about that. Someone in that house has got to be suffering. I'm not posting and everyone in my house suffers. You make me look bad.

And YOU! India! 8 posts when you're supposed to be lying on a beach? I haven't found time to read them, so I don't know if you've been kidnapped and are blogging from a dark room in some basement or if you found some pay per word program and are laughing all the way to the bank.

So without mentioning any real names (Thys, Mud, KWR, Suburb - you know who you are) this is what I have to say: Knock it off. Go to work. Clean your house. Go out and get drunk. Have sex in the back yard. Step away from the computer

Whew. I feel better.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Reaaly Late Notes On Atlanta

Ok. I'm running a little behind here. I wrote this post weeks ago and it's been languishing in my drafts. At the rate I'm going, I figure old news is better than no news.

Three weeks ago, I took a weekend business trip to Atlanta. With the exception of arriving late in Charlotte and having to run to catch my connecting flight and coupled with the fact that I did not end up standing on a wing in the middle of the Hudson River, the trip was flawless.

You'll recall from my last post that my wardrobe was a burning issue. I traveled in jeans. The bad news is that I broke my vow and bought a pair in a larger size. The good news is that while I am no longer an 8, I am also not a 10. By the time I reached Charlotte, the fricken things were falling off of me and dragging on the ground. I ditched them in CLT and donned a pair of black slacks. (That was for you, Thystle.)

The Atlanta airport is huge. Had I known there was a train that runs from one end to the other, I'd have avoided walking the 6 miles between one gate and the rapid transit system that took me directly to downtown. By the time I reached it, my feet were screaming get the F off of me. It dropped me less than a block from from America's Mart, the biggest fricken design and gift center I've ever seen. Which was less than a block away from my hotel. Round trip MARTA fare - four bucks. This was a seriously good deal which did nothing to prepare me for my one hotel meal.

On Sunday morning, I decided to continue my morning breakfast routine - two eggs, over easy, wheat toast, beans and coffee ($3.24 plus tip at my diner.) The same breakfast in the Hyatt dining room? $24.79 plus tip. WTF? Exactly what can be done to eggs to make them worth my entire breakfast budget for a week? If I hadn't known my waiter was completely innocent, I'd have dipped my cloth napkin in my $4.75 cup of coffee (are you fricken kidding me?) and snapped his skinny ass with the end of it. I know. I got issues.

I arrived home Monday morning in a summer weight jacket. The guy next to me on the plane was wearing flip flops. The shuttle drove right past my car - buried under 9" of snow and plowed in on three sides. Dropped me off forty cars away. At a deserted bus stop. At 1:15 am. Just so you know, two overloaded rolling suitcases full of pottery do not roll in the snow.