Crafty Wonderland Super Colossal Sale

Beautiful old building used by Norse people in Portland. I'm part Norwegian. Somehow I think I'm just not Norse enough to hang out there socially.

This line of people looks innocuous enough until you walk around the corner of the building and observe that the line extends all the way down one whole city block. There was a perpetual line of people waiting to get in for over five hours. As though it was some crazy hip night club and not a craft show.

Four feet is kind of short for a person, it's breathlessly inadequate for a booth size for two crafters (Lisa E. and I shared a booth) let alone one. The lone crafter next to us was feeling claustrophobic too.

A non stop sea of people all day long. I have never been to a craft fair, as a vendor or as a shopper, that was this packed. The word sardines comes to mind. Luckily, most of the people at the show were not stinky.

Some highlights of our craft show experience:

• It was insanely packed in Norse Hall all day long. Next year, either the venue needs to be twice the size it was this year (but not with twice the vendors), or there need to be half the vendors so that the vendors can actually breath. It was unhealthy packed in there. Which is great for business to a certain degree except that when I took a break to look around, I gave up trying to look at crafts after about ten minutes because being jostled by way-too-cool citizens is not my idea of a nice shopping experience.

• The music was mostly good with some Clash, some Johnny Cash, and some music I'm not nearly hip enough to have recognized. But the Christmas music that was played periodically was obnoxious. Most notably queasy making was the awful rendition of "All I want for Christmas" which I always loath in the best of circumstances...this version went on forever with more missing tooth noises than any other version I've ever been forced to endure. Why anyone thinks it's cute is a mystery to me.

• The quality of the vendors present was really high, from what little I was actually able to observe. The ladies that put on the show really know how to pick interesting and different work.

• Portlanders have an endless amount of money to spend on really bad haircuts and jewelry, but not so much money to spend on other things. I'm glad my friends have repeatedly talked me out of cutting myself some short bangs. There were so many super short bangs present and 99% of the people sporting them looked dreadful with them. If you have a really long narrow face it is an especially unfortunate look. It was either uber-short bangs or the crazy shag cut that predominated the floor.

• There were some gorgeous coats there. Also, there were some of the most gorgeous and stylish plus-size ladies I've ever seen and they shamed me, yes they did. I am a fat old hag with a frumpy wardrobe while these specimens of gorgeousness were like amazonian queens who refuse to be put down by the barbies in the world. I am humbled. I now know that there is no reason why I should not wear a cape or a fabulous classic tweed coat, so long as I wear some make up with it and carry myself like I am dynamite.

• There was one lady present who was so glaringly out of place I couldn't stop staring at her. She looked like Donatella Versace with less collagen in her lips (Donatella's lips may have no collagen in them, but they look like they do), she looked so completely Southern California. I knew, in a vague way, that there is a huge difference between Portland style and LA style, but never was it made so clear. I vastly prefer the Portland style, short bangs and all. (The lady in question didn't deserve to be stared at by me, by the way, she flashed me a very sweet smile on more than one occasion which I returned in kind.)

• People LOVED the bath bombs. I brought forty eight of them and sold at least 36 of them. The grapefruit-ginger were completely sold out. One particularly nice (very bearded) man returned to our booth to smell them a couple of times, bought one, then returned a half an hour later to buy another one.

• People also LOVED the pot holders. I almost immediately sold out of the pin-up ones. I sold a lot of pot holders. No one bought any aprons. No one bought any of Lisa's gorgeous felted purses. But apparently Portland has been short of pot holders until I came along.

• My humor just might be too edgy for everyone besides prison inmates. Philip finally printed my "needle junkie" knitting needle t-shirts and I sold only one. One lady commented that she thought it was too real looking, too "real life" for Portland. This reminds me of the fact that when I was a teenager living in Ashland (southern Oregon) I only knew Portland as the great big heroine capital of the state. Other teens would visit and tell tales of all the drug using going on up there, especially the heroine. I have been thinking that Portland would be the perfect place for my t-shirts, but now I'm not sure if any place is the best place for them. Now I'm wondering if me and my humor should be canned.

• Everyone, everywhere are having babies. Babies are EVERYWHERE. I can see how overpopulating the earth may just be a real issue. It isn't just the Catholics. It isn't just the poor uneducated people in third world countries- in Oregon it's EVERYONE. No judgments here people, just an observation. I've never seen so many kids and babies at a single craft fair.*

I cannot count on my fingers how many people have told me that Portland is the best place for my products. That on 23rd street I would sell out! That on Mississippi street I would totally ROCK! That anywhere in Portland my stuff would sell like crazy. All the time I had my store people would tell me that. (not just you, Angela, LOTS of people). I have been thinking that that must be true. People will get me in Portland...in my mind I kept thinking that if only I could do a craft fair in Portland I would do really well. Dustpan Alley would just take off... I no longer believe that. I had the edgiest crowd of what I thought would be my target customers, hundreds of them, and I didn't sell a single apron and only one edgy knitting shirt. There is only one place my aprons have ever sold so well that it was uncomfortable keeping up with the demand: my own store in my own little uncool town. You know what's weird? People would visit from Portland and buy them, but when I take them to the people in Portland, they don't buy them. ?????

But it doesn't matter anyway. None of that matters. Because I am not going to pursue a life of crafting for a living. I will make some stuff, I will hopefully sell some stuff but it is so amazingly clear that the life of a professional crafter is not for me. I hate doing craft fairs. I hate staying up until two am to sew things that people don't actually want to buy. Hell, I don't like staying up until two am to sew things that people do want to buy.

I may have made enough money this month to avoid having to get a job next month, which is great since no one is hiring in January anyway. So I'm amazingly thankful for the money people have spent on my stuff this month. I'm not at all ungrateful. But I've also never been so damn tired in my life. Except for when Max was eighteen months old and doing the dishes felt like running a marathon.

Which leads me to the other realization I've had this week which I've mentioned in passing: I am in the middle of a low level persistent depression and I can now tell for sure that my medication isn't working how it should be. Every minute I haven't been sewing this month I have spent lying on my bed willing myself to get up and go to the craft room to make something, or to do the dishes, or some laundry, or SOMETHING other than laying on the bed looking at the ceiling feeling listless and bone tired. Returning phone calls requires a half an hour pep talk first, then another half an hour to recover my energy after it has been sapped by talking to another human being. I can't bring myself to sit down and sort through the bills which means that everything will be late this month.

I am not feeling sad though. Depression does not always mean feeling sad. One of the hallmarks of depression is listlessness and a lack of energy. Sometimes when depressed people talk about not being able to get out of bed in the morning, they don't mean "because I am so sad" but "because my body feels like a carcass full of lead."

Anyway, I promise myself to address this just as soon as this week is over and I'm looking at Christmas and the Holiday Market from behind me. To my friends and family: there will probably be a great shortage of cards and packages this year. So sorry. I will let them know by e-mail just as soon as I can work up the energy to do it...



*In California it isn't nearly so unusual to have just one kid, but now that I think about it, I don't know a single other family here in Oregon with just one kid who isn't planning on having more. In fact, here in Oregon, it's even kind of weird to just have two kids. In this state it seems that most people have, or are planning to have, or would have if they could have, at least three children or more. I have met more people here who have three or more children than I've met in all my years in California. I'm not saying it's better or worse or bad or good, just interesting how different it is here. In California, the people who had more than two kids were kind of viewed as freaks. Here in Oregon, I'm the freak.**

**Let's be honest, I'm the freak everywhere I go.

Bath Bombs

(plus some philosophy on one's life calling and how dense humans are as a group)

These bath bombs look like confections. I'm very happy with them. So pretty and they smell wonderful too! I have finally listed them in my Etsy shop:

Dustpan Alley at Etsy

Thank you Pam and Kelly for making my day and buying all of my bath bombs in my Etsy shop!!! I have just relisted more of them and I'm off to make a second batch.

Here are Lisa and Lisa shaping the mixture into balls. You have to work quickly or the substance starts to get crusty and hard.

This is how they look when they are done well- meaning that you didn't get the baking soda compound too wet or too dry before forming the balls. On our first try we didn't get it wet enough and even though we could form balls with it, they spread out and the exterior cracked so that right now they look like cracked meringues. They will still fizz in the bath, they just don't look as nice.

This one is grapefruit-ginger. It smells really good and refreshing. It has more grapefruit oil in it than ginger so it is predominately citrusy but with a warm spicy finish.

It becomes obvious that we favor citrus around here. Bergamot is the main flavoring ingredient in Earl Grey tea and I never would have thought of it as being in the citrus family, yet it is. It smells sprightly and fresh and mixed with a small amount of rose it is heavenly! More romantic and sensual than the grapefruit-ginger, but not heavy and cloying at all.

The bergamot-rose is perfect for helping to alleviate depression (but don't stop taking your medications, OK?, because it isn't strong enough to do what your meds do) it is cheering and soothing and how can you go wrong combining it in a bath? Unless your bath sucks like mine. In which case we need to make a pact together to get better bath tubs. In all the years I didn't get therapy or take medication to help with my brain issues I managed to get through life with a heavy regimen of cognitive behavioral therapy (which I thought were pep talks to self, but I found out in therapy that I'd been self administering CBV all along...very cool) and a lot of bath taking.

I took baths at least every other night. Baths with a glass of wine or a cup of tea, a book, and (of course) some essential oils dropped in or some kind of bath salts or herbs. I'm not kidding when I say that taking baths, the kind where you read a book or magazine in, are really good for your mental health.

I was lucky enough to have had lots of wonderful bathtubs in San Francisco. Claw foots that were meant for soaking in. With the backs curved just right and deep enough to fill with hot water. Bathing has been an important ritual for people even when getting clean wasn't.

I've finished putting together the bath salt kits as well but have yet to photograph them or get them up on my Etsy shop. We stayed up very late working on them the night before last. I know that many of you who come here have done lots of work putting products together, and many of you have put together tutorials and patterns for crafts of various kinds, so you will appreciate how much work goes into them! I hope the salt kits sell because I really love them.

Did you hear that? That is not the talk of a good businesswoman. I've been thinking about this lately and even though I've mentioned it before I think it becomes ever clearer to me as I go along my mostly-merry way: I am a lousy businesswoman. It is fascinating to me to be finding out things about myself that I never expected. I mean, finding out I was crazy wasn't really like finding anything out-more like corroborating evidence. But finding out that I suck at spacial arrangements is a revelation. I really assumed all my life that I was pretty good at it because I have such a very distinct style (which I feel good about) and I have an eye for beautiful things. But that is not the same as being able to arrange things in a room in a way that is both functional and pretty.

I kind of knew all my life that I wasn't cut out for a life of business, but I see it now in a new and brighter light. I'm not trying to put myself down here, just looking at the facts and hearing my own words come endlessly tumbling back at me as though someone else said them and hearing how strongly I don't identify with sales and business.

whoa-random thought just in: I couldn't sell hotcakes for the Devil to save my life.

That just totally cracks me up. Where do these thoughts originate from? What weird vortex in my brain sits around formulating these thoughts?

It's funny how life will continually send you clear messages and how easy it is for us dense humans to continually ignore the writing on the wall, in the sky, on the counter tops, in the fire, and on our own foreheads. What would my life have been like if I had, early on, committed myself to a life of writing which I knew at ten years of age was what I was meant to do? What if I had stuck to the obvious screaming purpose? I'm not one to sit around all the time asking "what if" or "if I could only redo my life...". I mean, we make the choices we make and a lot of times going off the track means we enrich ourselves with adventure (or misadventure as the case often is) which can only help to deepen our wisdom.

(Or the gashes on our foreheads where we've been banging it against the brick wall of our own decisions.)

I wouldn't change anything I've done. Well, except for one thing. But we're not going to talk about that at the moment. I just can't help but see that I have continually gone off course and then asked the Universe "Why didn't that work out?!!!". I wonder how long I'll retain this little bit of clarity before I find myself off the track again? As I was making all these wonderful bath products in the last couple of weeks I started romancing the possibilities there...which is what I always do. "I could build a soapy empire!" or "I've always wanted to be an apothecary...it's like my true calling!"

How is it that a person can have a strongly entrepreneurial spirit but not the business acumen to carry out any of their brilliant ideas? It's like being born with the spirit of a ballerina but the body of Polish grandmother. I should be used to finding new contradictions in myself, lord knows it's one of those things I've always been well equipped with. What's one more?

I'm not sorry about it. Just like getting my psychological assessment didn't disturb me, it's comforting to acknowledge my own limitations. I've always been happiest when working within known boundaries. The trick is to always have this in mind as I go on my little adventures. I need to remember that I can do anything I want, so long as I remember that it's my job in this small life to report what I find, share what I see, and record the adventure. That is my calling.

I am very good at product development as I love to research things that interest me. I am creative enough to be good at visualizing how a product can look good. I am skilled enough to design things that are quality, that are purposeful, and that are stylish. But it isn't my calling to make a business out of that. Where's the company who wants to hire me for that? Has anyone ever come knocking for these skills of mine? No.

Besides, what I want most, is to stay home, continue to be an urban homesteader and to inspire others to do the same.

Ultimately, there's only ever been one calling for me and it's been written on the wall in my own blood for twenty seven years. I'm very excited about all these bath products, but mostly I can't wait to get you to make some of your own. I have the words. The words to tell you that you can do it. The words to tell you why you want to.



Note: it must be said that if my current endeavors can help keep me at home (writing and homesteading), then I hope that my previous life as T.H.M.R.* is on hold for a while. I'm not holding my breath, but who knows?

*The Human Money Repellent. (I suspect this is the affliction that has ailed most writers, with special preference for poets.)

The View From The Top

Me, headed to the top. Popular misconception: that hell is in the depths of the earth. I would argue that hell is much higher up than that.

The weirdness of enclosing the outside walls of old buildings with new walls.
aka: Bizarre-chitecture*

Some highlights of my adventures helping to set up the downtown holiday market:

• I was asked to paint some drywall and was given the following tools with which to accomplish the task: a scummy crusty roller that was grey with age and use; a paint tray with no liner that had some minor rust issues; a can of sour primer that had curdled and gone brown on the top 3" and whose smell made my stomach try to slink away from me. Tools notably missing: anything to open the paint can with, a suitable sink in which to clean up paint mess, a warning to not wear my best shoes. It was clear that fresh primer was not in the budget and deciding that there was no way I was going to get personal with paint that smelled like maggoty milk, I purchased fresh primer myself. I'll consider it a contribution to my community.

• After covering my hands with primer I next had to tackle the not insignificant task of trimming off the lower branches of the 15' Christmas tree that was delivered to the site in order to spruce up the dubious back room. Naturally no tools were provided for this so I jetted home to get my own. The job required that my hands be 100% smeared with pine resin. It must be noted, though, that the tree smelled really good.

• Once the tree was standing (and it took three of us to achieve this, did I mention that it is a 15' tree that weighs about 300 pounds?) I was asked to trim it with the lights. Me+heights=poison. I did not make anyone aware of this little equation, however, because everyone was working so hard and stressing so much it seemed surly to point out the inappropriateness of having a heights-phobic individual climb a 15' unsteady ladder to trim a very tall tree. I think the only thing that kept me from getting panicky was the attention I gave to two curious tree huggers- a late season lady bug and a very green bug whose name I don't know. Worrying about crushing the bugs gave me something other than the crazy shiftiness of the ladder to worry about.

• Watching the interesting religious ladies set up their charming tables was definitely a highlight. Having a fascination for anachronistic modes of dress, especially when it involves covering hair chignons with quaint starched caps or with black drapey coverings, may seem strange. Yet I love to see women dressed like this. I think it's ironic that while I admire them, (and I used to dress almost exactly the same as them -long skirts, work boots, bun in hair covered by scarf), they would not share that same admiration for me. I imagine they wouldn't appreciate me describing the way they dress as stylish, since they dress the way they do to honor their husbands and God and to be modest and eschew vanity, none of which are hallmarks of being "stylish". I can't help but wonder what kind of women they are when you get to know them.

I also think they wouldn't appreciate my tendency to swear and to take the Lord's name in vain. It wouldn't make it better knowing that I do so not seriously, as a sinner might, but with insouciance and frequently like a heathen might.


About bath bombs...THEY ARE SO MUCH FUN TO MAKE AND USE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Philip worked very hard last night on labels for my bath salt kits and for my little bath bombs. I was going to do some really fancy wrapping on them but in the end I prefer them to remain simple. This means I can charge less for them as well. I was going to charge $5.00 a piece with really wonderful packaging so that they would be little exquisite presents in themselves, but when I sat down to do something wonderful with them all my ideas fizzled away and nothing seemed quite right. So they are simple, attractive, and only $3.50 each. I will put some on my Etsy shop today.

I am definitely going to do a tutorial on making bath bombs. I am trying to figure out if I can put together a kit for making them as well. Now, I've been thinking about Pam's request for fruity smelling bombs and did a little research and if you want to use 100% natural scents, the only fruity essential oils to be had is citrus. Max would like an apple scented bath bomb but to have that means using synthetic scents. I don't think Max minds, but I do. Anyway, that's what I have to report on that front. Do you and Frankie like citrus, Pam?

I have to go work on the brochure for including in the salt kits so that I can list them in my shop and bring them down to my table at the holiday market. I hope you all are having a wonderful morning.



* A word Philip made up to describe the curious style of add-ons favored by many in McMinnville.