Welcome To My Padded Cell

Getting up at 5am is an ass-kicker. I remember my life as an insomniac, back before I got pregnant and suddenly couldn't get enough sleep and not even the thought of Bush becoming president could keep me up past 9pm. Now I don't sleep as much as I should be but it's because I don't want to go to sleep. I fight it like toddlers do. I feel my lids growing heavy by 10pm and I prop them open with eyelash curlers so that I DON'T EVER GO TO SLEEP AGAIN.

It's truly ridiculous. I want to stay up late because I need to do what I call "unwinding" which consists of drinking beer while watching television episodes on DVD until I literally pass out on the bed and have to wake up later and get into my pajamas. I usually crash out between 11pm and 12:30am. My "unwinding" time is the only time I feel I can sit in a catatonic state not talking to anyone or doing anything besides drooling and pretending not to be half asleep every time Philip comes to gawk at his dozing crazy wife "not sleeping". It's almost as though I need to spend time in a padded cell, but there being no access to one, I do my best to improvise.

Max is not a good sleeper either. Never has been consistently a good sleeper, though for the last year and a half there's been a lot fewer night wakings from nightmares, and he's been getting up later (between 6:30am and 7am instead of 5:30am.) Now he's having a really hard time getting to sleep so he comes into my room to interrupt my very important catatonic state to announce for the thirtieth time in the last hour that he is still awake.

He waits for my response. I'm a solutions type of mom, I almost always have some solution to suggest. In this case I come perilously close to apologizing to him for passing my sleepless genes to him and telling him that there will come a day when the only thing that will interrupt his awful sleepless cycle and prevent him from going mad in a very traditional delusional way will be an extra strong dose of codeine.*

I once went three weeks with no more than one or two hours of sleep a night. I can tell you from personal experience that this is a very unhealthy experience. It is said that if humans go too long without sleep they will go insane and then die. We need to turn our internal computers off. Mine doesn't have a very good off switch. Apparently, neither does Max's. Now, why couldn't I have given him some gene upgrades? What's the use of being capable of building a human being if we can't build them better than ourselves?

I have only experienced one serious bout of insomnia since I had my kid. It was also a three week intense stint. I don't recommend it. I have come to value getting at least seven hours of sleep. Even if it's not quality sleep. There was a guy named Gerard in my dream the other night but don't worry, I didn't dream cheat on my man. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But what the heck?

To be perfectly honest, I like getting up at 5am. It is nicer to see the sun rise after having slept through some of the dark than to stay up through the dark until the sun rises.

So, obviously, the trick is for me to be like my own parent and give myself the sleep smack down: GET YOUR PIG-ASS TO BED OR ELSE YOU WON'T GET TO EAT ANY CHEESE ALL DAY TOMORROW!!!!!! Nothing scares me like a lack of cheese.

It seems I should go to sleep at 10pm. But that's only minutes after my kid has finally stopped interrupting my evening drool-fest.

Suddenly I see our real future: the kid lives at home until he's 43 (that's when he's says he's leaving home, I didn't tell him that only serial killers and/or virgin men live at home until they're middle aged, there's plenty of time to bust that bubble) and the three of us (Philip is unshaven, wearing a "wife-beater" tee and I'm in a Mrs. Roper style Muu Muu and have an impressive perm) and we're all three watching the Price is Right at three in the morning. Eating cereal with no milk. The only non-drug addicts up at that hour.

*For anyone who's suddenly on high alert- I never have taken more than a few sleeping pills in my life. I don't propose or desire that my kid take any unless he ends up experiencing the involuntary extreme sleep deprivation I experienced. I don't advocate a careless or frequent use of sleep aids. But I also don't advocate a sleepless life which is similar to experiencing torture and for any person who experiences routine sleeplessness I think they deserve to do what they need to do to get some rest. Even if they end up hooked.

I also would like to take this opportunity to mention that before any time I have resorted to manufactured sleeping aids I have exhausted all the natural remedies at my fingertips. Except for warm milk drinking because I think milk is gross by itself or with honey or whatever. Yuck. I have tried nearly every herbal, supplemental, physical, and spiritual method of obtaining sleep.

Aside from the times I haven't slept much at all, I generally don't have a good quality of sleep when I get it. Even now.

How sad. Huh? Are you crying yet at this dismal tale? Are you sorry yet that you read my sleep saga today?

My Soul Costs One Dollar

Up until two am again. Working. I was sewing until my machine broke. MY MACHINE BROKE TWO DAYS BEFORE MY PORTLAND CRAFT SHOW WHICH IS EXACTLY FOUR APRONS AND 23 POT HOLDERS BEFORE BEING READY. But I'm not stressed about it at all.

Instead of sewing I packaged up the 48 bath bombs I made yesterday with Lisa E.'s help. Then I mixed up bath salts in two new scents and made Philip stay up to make labels for them. He also had to start work on silk screening some T-shirts for the show which he might not be able to get done in time because the emulsion was delivered two days later than he expected it to come.

So we were up until 2am. Neither of us are at our best when we keep a crack addict's hours. It's much worse for Philip, though, who requires a lot of sleep to function well and not scream obscenities every few minutes over the smallest things.

People have always made the mistake of thinking that Philip is really a mellow guy. The problem, I realize now, is that they are always seeing him next to me. I'm not the most easy going mellow person on earth (world class understatement), so next to me even Speedy Gonzalez is going to seem like a catatonic Rastafarian. Philip is not a mellow guy. He has an incredibly short fuse. When he gets no sleep he's a like a hand grenade with the key pulled out that may explode at the slightest change in the atmosphere. He's very skilled at hiding this fact around people he doesn't know well.

He doesn't deal well with sudden movements, loud noises that he didn't create himself, fast moving dangerous objects, chaos, changed plans, missing shoes, or people who are more awake than he is. That's why we need to build a sensory deprivation tank for him to live in. Especially for days when he hasn't gotten enough sleep. Those are inevitably the days when Max has an extra dollop of wacky burning energy in his blood and decides to focus it all on Philip.

If anyone saw us on mornings like this, you would all think I was the mellow one. Someone would give me a medal for not slapping my menfolk silly. I have such forbearance. Like a saint.

I hate to tell you all this, but there will be no farmer's market tote tutorial any time soon. Not for a Christmas craft. I feel that I have let you all down pretty seriously. But this morning comes to me as a reality check. I will do the drawing early next week for the TWO prizes. The reality is that I have been busting my keyster to be ready for craft fairs that I will never be ready for, I have mostly been ignoring my noble duties as a mother*, and as a wife, and as a human being.

In fact, I finally made good on my threat: I SOLD MY SOUL TO THE DEVIL.

(Do you think I should have held out for two whole dollars and two months of good sleep instead of one dollar and one month of good sleep?)

A few things have become crystalline clear in the past week:

• Working retail sucks.

• Working outside the home sucks.

• Coughing til you throw your shoulder blade out sucks.

(Like the word "sucks" much Angelina? I love talking like a sophisticated seven year old. Oh, and hey, while we're talking to ourselves, why not put a more positive spin on things? You don't have to become one of those annoying people who never say "sucks" even when they're wearing a hair shirt, but for Pete's sake! You're going to rip a hole in your brain if you-

Oh, sorry.)

• I don't want to craft for a living.

• I want to concentrate on writing and making a living doing it. Because I'm better at writing than I am at selling crafts.

• I want to be a stay at home urban homesteader.

• I want to get healthier this year.

• I want to go back to therapy.

• I want to review my medication and maybe up the dose for the first time ever.

• Because I don't think it's working as well as it used to.

• God Dammit, I want to get thinner.

Part of why I am best off staying at home is because I think I will fall apart if I have to leave it to work for someone else who is bound to be a fundamentalist of some sort. Or an ass.

I do know exactly what I want. Do you all know what you want? Do you all have a strategy for getting it that doesn't involve prostitution? I want to know what life you are all striving to live? What are your goals? If you're already living the life you want to live, how did you do it? How did you get there?





*Although yesterday we had a great time hanging out together in my studio- Max played with cars, drew pictures, and watched Rugrats while I worked. He also (for the first time ever) helped me make his cornbread. It was an awesome afternoon. If he was like that every single day I would have had myself 12 babies.

PSYCHE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Head Trauma

There is a giant club swinging at my head. Who can I thank for this gift of mucus and sore throat and this head that feels as though it has been clubbed and then stuffed with cotton batting? Perhaps the girl with the soft ball size tonsils that sat on Philip's lap* at the toy store this week-end? Just when I thought I was in the clear to work my ass off in semi-comfort this whole week I have to come down with a doozie of a cold. There's no time to stop. Life does not wait for colds. Life runs right through them and often will bless you with a secondary cold just for the fun of it.

I was up until two am last night sewing. Aprons. Although I love aprons I sometimes hate them. I hate them when I have to sew the same one four hundred times. I want to make the new one but am not sure I have time to find out it's total crap. I am doing the Crafty Wonderland Holiday Sale in Portland this coming week-end and suddenly find I need to sew a ton of shit for it. What the hell have I been doing in the last few weeks? And how can I know what will sell? What to focus on? Angela says to make lots of Peace aprons. OK, but what about the pin-up fabric aprons? I would think those would do very well in Portland. I have limited time. And a cold. What to do?

Philip has a cold too. Max doesn't have a cold.

Incidentally, the gingerbread house making went quite well. The kids had lots of fun making them and only one of Philip's eyes is permanently crossed from all the frosting negotiations. My kitchen is a total wreck though. Oh well. The kids had fun. That counts for a lot. They will remember this kind of thing when they grow up. (Because I will remind them nonstop.)

I have been wondering this week what kind of a response I would get in this town if I told everyone I was Muslim? My mom thinks I need a religious alias to keep the proselytizing Christians from trying to save me. (Oh yes, there has been some "save this bitch from Satan" activity going on of late.) She says that they give up trying to help her find her way to Jesus when she tells them she's a Buddhist (which she is, mostly). She suggested that I could tell them I'm a Buddhist too, or a Muslim. I immediately had a vision of me being lynched. There are plenty of open minded people in my community who welcome people of all faiths, but those aren't the people I would worry about. It has recently come to my attention that McMinnville is truly the Bible Belt of the Pacific Northwest. Not being Christian here is like being a pagan in the deep south.

There is always the obvious path to take when you are the bright red bird in a sea of black crows: keep your mouth shut and try to blend in. I could do that.

No I couldn't! When standing around with a bunch of people talking church talk (it happens more often than you would suppose) it is impossible for me to just blend in. I don't even want to blend in. I don't want to live my life in the shadows, discreetly, like a lone Jew in a Nazi town. This is the United States and if there's one thing I am supposed be able to do here, besides carry dangerous weapons, it is the freedom to not go to church. Or share the same religion with my neighbors.

The truth is that I am fascinated by religion and I love to talk about it with people and I don't want to become a person who is unwilling to hear other perspectives at all just because there's always the risk that someone will mistake my curiosity for an interest in being converted. And they do. They do. Something about me and my openness makes naive Christians cherish a false hope that I am a lost soul just waiting to discover a jealous** God with a martyr for a son.

I've thought a lot about my inability to keep quiet about the things I think, the questions I have, the topics I open in public and how I could be making different choices. In the end I have to bring it all up. To hold it back would be like trying to hold the tide. So I will have to take the heat for it.

Time for work.

*aka: Santa's lap. Yep, Philip dressed up as Santa for the toy store this week-end.

**Jealousy and martyrdom being two of the least attractive of human traits.

Life Makes Its Detours

Just when things seem slow enough at the Holiday Market that I can work on this week's tutorials, I sell just enough that I have to make more things for my booth instead. This week-end I sold more bath bombs so I had to make another batch last night; pot holders have suddenly become the rage, and I sold one men's apron. I don't have very many so I'll have to get busy making more. That's not a complaint. Only an observation that there is a lot to do in a very little amount of time.

I have two of the five spice blends completed. Today I will finish the other three and I will also make the liqueur, so hopefully I will be able to post both tutorials tomorrow. These two are: herb salt for roasting potatoes (or other roasty things) and an herbed dry mustard mix for making into a mustard vinaigrette.

Last night I: made a drafted pattern out of my new draped apron, made a batch of bergamot-rose bath bombs, cut out labels for them, made black bean chili with too many jalapenos, made cornbread my kid wouldn't eat, labeled some more bath salt kits, also labeled two more bottles of already scented salts, made three pot holders, and cut out a ton of new pot holders.

I had a dream that some of my freshly made bath bombs flattened out like pancakes while I was sleeping. I told my dream self that it was just a dream and that I would wake up to perfectly round bombs in the morning but my dream self still believed the dream. Frankly, I prefer dreaming about Mathew Perry. I suspect he doesn't particularly enjoy the thought of weird fat girls dreaming about him...but don't worry Mathew, it wasn't inappropriate. Much.

I got word from Monica of Happie Zombie that the coast where she lives is a mess from the storms and they've lost power. So think good thoughts for her! Here in McMinnville the storm wasn't really that bad. It rained torrentially yesterday and I did end up soaking wet after picking Max up at school and running a very short errand on the scooter. No trees seem to have fallen here though and the wind wasn't really all that ferocious.

Does anyone know if Michael Jackson is still alive?

Also- what do you suppose Barry Mannilow is doing right this minute? Does anyone know if he's gay? Because I've always kind of had a hard time imagining him with women. Whoa, I wonder if Neil Diamond is living a quiet happy life or if he's come to a bad place post fame and fortune. What do mega stars like that do when their gift is played out? What will I do when all my gifts are played out? My gifts are pretty non-stellar and not particularly the kind that would make me into a star so I wouldn't have to get used to being adored and pampered everywhere and have underwear thrown at me only to find myself forgotten fifteen years later. Do you think Neil Diamond grows vegetables? What if he is living some really cool low key life and loving the quietude?

Deep Dark Secret #337: I loved Barry and Neil when I was a kid. Oh yeah, and the Bee Gees. Can't forget that I also really liked to "rock" out to Lionel Ritchie. And I thought Taco was just about the coolest though I always felt slightly uneasy that anyone would willingly call themselves "Taco" and his nose was suspiciously small. One year for Christmas I got an olive colored velour shirt and a Kenny Rogers album and both those gifts got a lot of play.

You wouldn't think people like me would have any secrets, huh? You'd think that in the course of my constant chatter I would have already revealed every secret already. Always be wary of constant chatter. Sometimes the people who talk the most reveal surprisingly little.

I believe it's important for everyone to have a few things about themselves that they will never tell. That will remain private all the way into the cold cold ground. What eats at me are the things I don't want to keep secret that I can't tell because to say them out loud would alienate exactly every person I've ever met. The things most humans know but will never say. The things that lurk around the parameters of their consciousness, casing the brain joint for cracks and leaks and weakness.

You all have them in your head too. Whether you are aware of them or not is only for you to say.

I have just had lots of coffee and my stomach is screaming out for food. I had better get myself in the shower because today is another day of work at the Holiday Market and I'm not ready for the challenge.

When Pasta Can Only Be Homemade

(very small Eat Local Challenge update)

(plus a whole lotta other business)

We love pasta like some people love beef. We don't love beef at all. Back in the days before we took on this food challenge thing (a whole two months ago) we ate pasta several times a week. It was the easy "go-to" option for a quick dinner- you just grab a package out of the pantry and either whip up a quick sauce or pop some out of a jar. Now, when I want pasta I have to make it from scratch. So when I think about how this challenge has changed the way we eat I have to say that pasta is something I have to think about ahead of time and therefore, is not on the menu nearly as often as it used to be.

However, this doesn't really bother me as much as I might have imagined. Making pasta is a semi spiritual experience and is also breathtakingly simple. It just takes planning. I have been craving it for the last week but have had no time to make any. I am a woman on the run. How any woman would willingly choose such a stressful jam packed life is a huge mystery to me. Lots of women don't have a choice and apparently I am going to be one of them, but millions of women out there could choose to slow down their lives if they wanted to. Millions of women could stay home and make better food than they can ever get out, take care of their home and enrich their spirit with endless homesteading activities and they can choose that whether they have children or not. They could choose it not to please some stupid man, but to please themselves.

I am a firm believer in all of us following the paths that suit us best. That is what I view as true feminism. So while I have a hard time imagining any woman actually wanting to go out and have a fast paced demanding and stressful career away from home, I actually do realize that for some women that is the ultimate in fulfilling their own potential. I suppose what seems unfair is that so many of the women who would (if they could) choose to stay home, can't because either they are the only breadwinner for themselves or their family, or because they're dirt poor, while there are many women out there who have plenty of money pouring in from their spouses and who could (if they wanted to) stay home but don't because that's not the lifestyle they want. Why do things endlessly arrange themselves in this unfair manner?

Incidentally, I mostly refer to women staying home because in my practical experience, most of the men I've known suck at being house husbands. This is not universally true though and a man can be a great stay at home Dad or house husband without being gay. However, these amazing men are in the minority and I'm willing to bet my house on the reality that the reason women have traditionally been the ones to stay home is because they ARE BETTER AT IT not because we have been the thousand year victims of male domination.

I can just imagine some woman in biblical times deciding to go be a carpenter like that interesting neighbor of hers with the unlikely name of Jesus, and discovering that her husband can make a fabulous flat bread, but not simultaneously with all the other household things he should also be doing like teaching the kids that cobras are not good play mates and scrubbing their three extra garments clean in the one stream in town where everyone washes everything. I imagine her coming to the conclusion that her man is not very capable of multitasking and life is just better when she's doing it all.

What I've observed is that men can be superb cooks, they can be extraordinarily good at gardening, which may explain why so many men go into these professions, but when it comes to having to manage their own time and juggle three or four activities at once, they really don't shine.

This working part time (for other people) thing is killing me. If I can't somehow find a way to stay home I will get very deeply entrenched in depression and I do believe that my nerves will knot themselves in an impressive mess. It's not the working that does me in. I would characterize myself as an extremely hard worker. It's being away from the center of my universe which is my home and garden that really messes me up. It's vacating the heart of my family and just visiting it on the run that is so unraveling to my mental health.

The ideal life would be to stay home, make homemade pasta frequently, make quilts, make my own bath products, and get paid to tell everyone else how to do it too. To get paid to write about the things I do for myself and my family that are fun and rewarding. To get paid to inspire others to explore their own potential to be more self sufficient. In truth, I would happily just do it for free, as I do now. I would just keep on going down this path but I would remove the financial strain and constant worry. I actually dreamed last night that Philip got a six digit paycheck. (Not going to happen, EVER). So, my only hope is to get paid to do what I already do.

Sometimes I feel like we're on the cusp of everything getting a little easier. As though the great unfolding of our lives is about to reveal a modest pocket of fortune in which I am not forced to give up my health insurance.

Working at the Holiday Market (which is a six week long craft fair being run like a retail shop so that vendors don't have to be in their booths all the time, or very often at all in most cases) is a mixed bag. They've done a really shiny job of making it look great and choosing really good quality products. The mixed bag of it all for me is that I am committed to spending so much time there that I have plenty of time to examine all the goods and I spend so much time at the cash register that I can tell who is doing a smashing good business and who is not. I, am not. So of course I have lots of opportunity to wonder (as usual) where I am going wrong.

So who's doing well? Bumblebee Hill Farm is a wonderful booth full of pretty soaps, mostly lavender wreaths and pretty potpourri arrangements, sweet sachets, some lovely ceramics, and pretty gift baskets. She's doing a brisk business and has to frequently restock. Lavender=money. She has the touch though, there's another mostly lavender company that isn't doing quite such a brisk business and I would say that it's because the packaging is too antiseptic. The soap prices are too high. And it isn't creating an imaginary world in which we are all seeing ourselves taking long baths in the afternoon and arranging bouquets throughout our homes...

Who else is doing well? The Free Trade booth run by a church. I don't personally care for what they have but what they have (ornaments, doo-dads, coffee, chocolate, and more doo-dads...) is stuff that everyone else loves and there is an endless stream of people going through their booth buying them out. This is a very religious community I live in and so it helps that the proceeds from this booth are for sending their church people on missions. (This is what I've heard, but I don't know this information first hand and it's possible it's incorrect)

Warren the honey man is doing very well. He has a huge selection of beautiful beeswax candles, bottles of local honey, and that's it. But the quality is great and his booth is very well supported by the community.

There are others doing quite well, but the main point is that I find it both inspiring and also deflating to be there first hand to see what sells and what doesn't and plenty of time to ask myself once again, what the hell am I doing trying to sell anything in the first place?! Mostly people in this community don't get me. I have sold all three of my "Vim and Vigor" DIY bath salt kits but none of my "Melancholia" or "Anxiety and Hysteria" ones. I think people don't get that it's meant to be kind of funny. I need (probably) to use words like "Uplifting", "Happy", "Relaxing", and "Luxurious"...you know, gentle words that float you on a dream.

Always I am jumping around the mouth of hell and wondering why people aren't flocking to get their piece of it. I should do some word changing and see what happens. I should do the "Melancholia" one with two separate labels. One with the original label and then one that says "Get Happy" and see which one sells, if either of them do. If I was to cater to the gentle dream I'd just be another company doing it. I'd probably still not do well with it. What would be different about me? I like the gentle dream too, I find myself wanting to hang around in the Bumblebee Hill Farm booth all day because it's so pretty. But I always want to bring something more to the world-the bite of truth with the dose of satire.

The other thing that happens to me there, a more positive result of spending time not cleaning my house or making my own pasta, is that I've had time and the opportunity to see a whole lot of things I'd like to try doing myself. Making rosemary wreaths, for example. Making my own soap. Making new accessories out of old broken vintage costume jewelry.

A special note for my sister Tara who has at times suggested that I make and sell my pickles and preserves professionally: I have been endlessly fascinated with the Zook family's booth full of homemade preserves and candies and have had a chance to chat with Loila, the main lady behind it all, and I've also had a chance to chat with the cookie lady...apparently it isn't that difficult to go into the food business here. Just thought I'd tell you. I hear your voice echoing in my head all the time.

In other news-the kid is recovered. After more than 14 hours of vomiting he was able to keep down two Popsicles, slept all night, and woke up perky and with an appetite. Truly a 24 hour stomach flu. There is always the chance that he could be sent home. But I am hopeful that he's mended. I think it was the two and a half hour nap we took together yesterday that really helped. Max and I are two people who don't nap. We don't go in for all the rest in the middle of the day crap. So when we do, our bodies are on a desperate recall mission. I have not really gotten queasy but I have not felt 100% for over a week now. Oh, well... since I started working actually. Interesting.

It is now time to get dressed and go to work and not get my laundry done.

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.

Dog Eared

Remember when the mail used to arrive in the mailbox instead of being shoved through a hole in the door where the dog turns into a vicious rabid beast and tries to rip fingers off of the postman? Back when there was no dog to haul favorite publications into "secret" corners where she drags all forbidden treats to maul them in private? Ah, those were good times. Philip isn't a magazine whore like I am, but there are three publications he looks forward to: The Rivendell Reader, Dirt Rag, and Bicycle Quarterly. This last treasure was hauled off to the "secret" corner and was violated by my dog's teeth.

Indeed, they can look so beseechingly up at you and you wonder how the heck such a compact package of muscle, teeth, claws, and dense black fur could bring upon one house such mayhem, such disorder, such complete destruction of personal property.

No I don't. I don't wonder at all. The only thing I wonder about is how I fell under her spell in the first place. It's the irony of the black dog.* The irony being that in twenty five years of being terrified of dogs, I was always most terrified of black labs. And now I have one. And I love her.

I can feel that this post is going to wander all over the place. I want to report that Max has had two temper tantrums and neither one brought about a blood bath. One of them was a spectacular show of screams and wails and hyperventilating, a show which only last week would have brought on the side show. So that's promising. Hopefully not misleading.

I have been so happy canning food and picking produce at the farm, riding my scooter on the back roads in the countryside, and watching my jars fill up. This is the kind of thing I love to do the most. I was bound to crash from that high. It's inevitable. I started thinking about how I have to look for part time work. I checked Craig's list for jobs. Then I checked the local newspaper listings. And then I got really depressed and panicky at the same time. My favorite emotional cocktail. I don't want to work outside my home. It's not because I think I'm some kind of princess. It's not that I don't want to help Philip keep us afloat.

I started thinking that here I have this company, I have stuff to sell, I have this business that I've painstakingly built into a multi-dollar institution. I realized that what I ought to do is go get some wholesale accounts. There are lots of cool stores in Portland. Then I was thinking about how I want to produce my apron patterns to sell to quilt shops. So I actually did what I've been meaning to do for all eternity and went to a couple of local print shops to find out how much it would cost to print one. The answer is: they will happily take your left breast for one large printed page. It has become immediately apparent that I can't produce them commercially to sell wholesale. It's too expensive. I don't know where other people get them printed and how many they have to print to make it affordable, but they aren't doing it through my local copy shops.

So my bright idea plummeted and my mood went south with it. I got to feeling like every which way I turn, I am no longer capable of earning a living. Even if I want to. I could work at a mushroom farm for $8.00 an hour and put Max in daycare. That sounds like fun. (Actually I keep thinking about it. Unfortunately I don't think we could afford daycare with a salary like that.) I'm not qualified for most jobs now. It's the classic risk of staying home to be with your child for any length of time. You lose your spot in the professional world.

I would much prefer working on my business. I would like to find out how to promote my web-store, how to bring customers to my shop directly rather than shoot myself in the foot trying to make it doing wholesale. I would like to have my company do well enough that I don't have to work for someone else. First of all, to do that requires time and energy. Two things I won't have any of if I work outside the home even part time.

Secondly, I have not regained my confidence. Remember how I'm the HUMAN MONEY REPELLENT? Is my company worth working on? I've been doing it for three years and it's gone almost nowhere. They say a business takes a long time to establish, but how do I know if it's headed in the right direction? How do I know if it's worth giving CPR to it? This used to be the kind of stuff my gut would help me with. I have no inner compass anymore when it comes to business. The only thing my gut is telling me is that I SUCK AT BUSINESS.

Which reminds me: I found out yesterday that I can take a seminar on running my small business and making it more profitable for the small class price of $595. Doesn't it seem like anyone (like myself) who really needs a class like this is probably not in a position to hand over what amounts to their life savings? It seems to me that a good business decision would be to keep my $595 in my pocket.

Anyway...Philip thinks I should work on my business. Since the refinance went through we have a little leeway before the other shoe drops on our life as poor people. His saying I should work on my business shows a level of confidence in me that I don't think is much deserved. I'm scared to make the wrong decisions. I'm worried that I've already been given the message to stop trying to make money with my own designs and get myself to the mushroom farm where I'll at least get exercise. Is there any reason I should believe that if I do some more work on my company that it'll start picking up?

I started writing mental letters (a favorite past time) to Moda:

"To whom it may concern at Moda,

I think it would be a big mistake not to hire me to come up with great ideas for your "Sliced Bread" line.

Sincerely,
The Human Money Repellent"

I do have lots of great ideas. My head is full of them. (Even as I write this I am wondering if that's actually true.) If I can't use them, wouldn't they be a great asset to someone else?

I really don't know what to do. I don't know what's the smart choice. I know I can't do everything. I know a direction has to be chosen. I think this not knowing what to do is payback for all the times I have been exacerbated by other people not being able to decide what to do. Here's me: with their shoes on.

Why oh why did Max's Magic Eight-ball kick the bucket??!!!!

Philip has basically decided for me. He wants me to work on my company. So we agreed that I would spend the next week finishing up my canning projects, then clean and begin the torturous process of cleaning up and organizing the garage, and then I will hunker down and start to clean up and organize my business (which requires that the garage be cleaned and organized since it's filled with my business and store things). I just hope I'm not wasting more time and energy on a horse with a broken leg.

I need an expert to step in and advise. If any of you are experts, please step in and advise. Otherwise, just watch and see what happens like I'm going to be doing.

In other news, it is a gorgeous day out there. Fall is here. I feel it in the air and fall is a great time to not be depressed. I love the cold as it creeps into the sunshine. I love how it grabs at your bones and fills them with crisp energy. I'm going to go pick more tomatoes and enjoy my last few days of "care free" homesteading fun. Doing the things I'm best at doing. And listening to the first four songs on the Wilco album that features Billy Bragg and is nothing but Woody Guthrie songs and poems made into songs. The same four songs...OVER...AND...OVER.

The poor neighbors.

*I really think this should be the title of a book. Since I'm not writing any books but keep coming up with great titles for them, I wonder if I could come up with a career based on selling book titles to authors?

Update: I have had a chat with a good friend who has helped me begin to clear away all the extraneous crap that stands between me and doing what I want to be doing. What I need to be doing. I can tell you that I am already breathing more deeply. She's going to help me come up with an ORGANIZED plan. This is why we have friends. I will report more on this at a later time when I am not in need of blasting music before the kid comes home from school. I don't know if there's an end to this tunnel, but I do know there's some light somewhere ahead of me in it. I hope it's not "white" and filled with Jesus.

Progress in inches

(and the impression of sudden sorrow)

This has turned out to be quite a day. I finally got my inquiry letter sent out to my first choice contract sewing company. I sent out two packages today too that have been hanging in the air right above my head for weeks now. The first one is to Emma from My three loves with whom I am exchanging a quart of my home canned pears for a knitted scarf with bobbles. She's been waiting a LONG time for me to get my act together. (Thank you for your patience Emma!). The second package is for Frankie, the charming daughter of my blog friend Pam of Pam Kitty Morning. If you recall, I made her some black heart key chains.

The toaster caught on fire too. Our toaster was free fifteen years ago, it was old when we got it, and it's been on the fritz in the last couple of days. It's one of those handsome chrome ones with the cloth cord. Well, Philip wasn't used to the fact that it has gotten too tired to spit the bread out ever again. So he went off to do something and forgot all about it. Until he came back to a huge toxic cloud of hanging smoke and flames bursting out of the tired little appliance.

I also placed an order I've been wanting to place for the store.

I made a couple of phone calls I have put off making. I realize these things are very small. Like little tiny inches marked off a hundred yard run. Never the less, they make me feel good.

The county says Max's vaccinations aren't up to date and if we don't prove that they are or get him updated by the twenty first of this month he will be booted out of school. So I made phone calls for that too. Several.

Today it seemed like life kept kicking the ball into my court and I just kept kicking them back. That's just about as much sports talk you're ever going to get out of me.

I finally got on my Vespa to see if the battery has died since I haven't ridden it for three months due to the burnt out headlight and my inability to replace them. I know, it shouldn't be that hard. I've ordered them from two places who have both failed to get them in. I even took a trip to Portland to get one from their service shop; which just happened to be closed the day we came due to some one's ill timed wedding. Yep, the battery is dead.

I got lots of research done. The tedious kind that makes your eyes glaze over and kind of glue themselves permanently open. Sometimes I really enjoy this part of my work because I'm like a pit bull with information. I don't let go usually until I find answers or a dead end. Sometimes, though, I would rather be reading other people's blogs.

Lastly, I just sent off an inquiry to Mary Jane's Farm about submitting articles. Because I promised myself I would do it. So what if nothing comes of it? It's an amazing publication and completely up my alley. Only I'm pretty sure they don't publish any swear words. Or religious slurs. So I'll have to cut out all the "Oh Jesus" comments. They are like a farmy Martha, where everyone gets their hands dirty. Only more practical, more approachable, more real. None of this posh Hamptons crap. It's all about eating and growing organic, enjoying where we come from as well as where we're going. I'll confess that I'm always a smidgen uncomfortable with things that are too nice, too gentle, with no rough edges. But that isn't because I hate wholesomeness. No. It's because I'm always going to be a little rough. And not in a rugged handsome way either.

Life just keeps unfolding under my eyes. Like it does for everyone. Philip came home, while I was in the middle of writing this, crying in jagged sobs. I can count the times I've seen him cry on my fingers. He hit a cat with the car on his way back from the store. He was devastated that he probably killed some one's cat and wanted to stop but was too shaken up. Two women saw it happen and as he drove off appeared to be looking for it. I always like to look for strength in small comforts at moments like this.

There aren't a lot of comforts in this one. I knew he couldn't go back out there tonight. I knew one of us had to. So I took the mag-light and a towel in case I found the cat. The mag-light was also for possible tussles with crack fiends in the dark corners of the apartment buildings in front of which this sad thing happened. The same two women who had witnessed the accident were coming back from the "Plaid Pantry". They showed me where the cat was and said she barely made it to the curb before falling down dead. The small comfort in that is that she didn't suffer long.

I told you, I look for what I can. I wanted to cry when I saw her. She was black and sleek. I laid the towel over her and went to knock on doors. I didn't really want to, truth be told. The apartment buildings in question are the really depressing kind; big slate grey nineteen seventies boxes with small windows over which sheets are thrown to double as curtains. Maybe during the day I wouldn't be worried about who might answer their doors. I was worried tonight. I knocked on four doors. No one answered the first. The second door was answered (after a long pause) by a bloodshot eyed scruffy dad who reeked of stale cigarette smoke. I only know he's a dad because before he opened the door I heard his kid calling for him. He had no information.

I really wasn't surprised. He looked so checked out that he wouldn't have known the difference between his hand and mine. The next door I knocked on was never answered, though I heard a lot of noise behind the door. The last door I knocked on was opened by a man who was really friendly and had some information. He's pretty sure the black cat that Philip hit was the same one that had been abandoned recently by tenants who had moved out. This man said he took her kittens to the humane society. He also said how kind it was of us to try to find the owners of the cat.

I went back to the cat. I have to admit that I wasn't particularly keen to pick her up. For once in my life I'm not going to tell every detail. I wrapped her in the towel as gently as I could and carried her like a swaddled baby the three blocks home. I couldn't leave her there. Unclaimed.
Without being able to tell anyone how sorry we are that this happened; without being able to soothe the poor cat and make amends to her; we won't be able to move on from this unfortunate moment. It hangs in the air like a half finished song. I can't stop thinking about how Philip and this cat were kind of thrown together in a karmic tangle. As accidents go, no one is more to blame than the other. The cat ran out from underneath a car into the road where Philip, who wasn't speeding, tried to swerve out of her way. Now they're caught together here in this hour and it's important to find a way to move forward.

So I decided that she should be buried in our yard, in her towel shroud, and we will get the statue of the Virgin Mary, like I've always wanted, to mark her spot. I know it isn't much, but she'll rest somewhere kind, and she'll be remembered.