
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Another Weekend Project

Finally Finished Some Stuff

When Jacquard asked for some altered artwear, I dug it out and worked on it a lot more--adding stitching and text. The text is about why it's better to drink wine than to drink beer, as our neighbors do. They tore a plug out of The EGE's grass when, mowing drunk, they wandered over into our yard.
I couldn't find the fold-over elastic required, so I used regular elastic. That was a big mess, so I ripped it out. I ripped out the side seams and made it smaller. It was still too big, so I ripped them out AGAIN and made it smaller. Now it's not so low on my hips, and I don't think I'll have to shorten it--a long, tedious process requiring that I re-stitched all the cut-outs along the bottom.
It was made from 7 or 8 t-shirts I got from Goodwill and overdyed. Everything was done by hand until I got to the seams--they're supposed to be done by hand, but I was tired of it by then. All of those reverse appliqué x's and o's were stencilled with a freezer paper stencil and Jacquard paint, then stitched by hand and cut out.
The elastic I tried to use in the waist was some I already had, and the only thing I had to buy was one skein of embroidery thread when I ran out. I did buy some of the craft thread she rec. in the book, but I never even tried it--I used embroidery floss because the craft thread comes in only a few, very dull, colors. Ick.
All in all, it cost about $11, and I have enough of the t-shirts left over to make something else. You could do it for nothing if you already had the t-shirts. Sure, it takes a lot of time, but it's fun. And it's wonderfully comfortable--I wore it the other night at the lawn concert. Strangely enough, no one seemed to notice it--I was hoping I'd get to talk about recycling and stuff, but nope. Maybe it's not very noticable.
Comfortable and colorful, though--and those are my two requirements for clothing, so I'm a happy stitcher.
You're Right! I'm a Fabulous 1930's Husband!
![]() | 67 As a 1930s husband, I am |
Monday, July 07, 2008
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Blast from the Past, or Omigod, A Memory.
So this week, as we're on our way out the back gate, I realize I don't have a pocket and so drop my keys, the abbreviated set, into my bra. I may be white, honeys, but I'm not so white that I don't know the benefits of wearing a brassiere, my dear. Kleenex, keys, money for yoga (I love to terrorize my yoga instructor by folding up the money and putting it in my bra right before I walk in the door and then making a big deal of taking it out and smoothing it out and handing it her, just to watch her shudder. She IS that white.)
In case you're all confused about the white reference: The EGE has female relatives of prodigious bosoms (like: many have had to have medically necessary reductions), and they have stored all sorts of things in there. Money, of course, and the requisite keys, but also small handguns (think Nancy Reagan's "tiny little gun," only with more oomph). Not like White Women, who are much less creative with the carrying and will take a purse when all that's really required is a B-cup or larger.
So. I drop the little keys in there. And some Kleenex, of course. And we're off. And we get there and settle in next to our friends, and more people arrive, and soon, right in front of us, is C, a friend of mine from high school, someone we see now and then at HEB. He's the one person from back then I ever see, and it's so apt: he was my Very First Date, in the 9th grade, and then morphed into a good friend, and then was around when I met The EGE--turns out they'd worked together during the summers in college. He tells people he introduced us, which is cool with us, although there are several other people who make the same claim
And they're all wrong: I saw The EGE dancing and stared at him until he couldn't ignore me. I didn't need no stinkin' help, thank you very much.
Anyway. So it's a long history, although we don't see each other outside of chance encounters in the produce section.
But we say howdy and all, and I suddenly start to grin. Because I remember (hark! a memory!) a summer many, many years ago--lord, it must have been 35 years ago, when we were all at the pool. And, for some reason, I was trying to keep a set of keys away from the guys. I, silly child, put them down the top of my swimsuit--white though I was! I must have seen it somewhere!--and was all happy with myself, knowing that these guys were Good Guys and were NOT about to reach in there and retrieve the keys. I was so cool.
Except. I was kind of skinny back then. Like really. And not so much like Dolly Parton, in any kind of way. So the keys didn't really have much purchase in there, if you can imagine.
And my friend C just kind of sighs and rolls his eyes and picks me up by my elbows and gives me a good shake, and the keys fall to the ground.
Guess how long it took before they quit giving me grief about that.
So I remember this tonight and tell The EGE, and he says "You ought to tell him," and so I do. Except I lean over and am telling him and get to the part where, "And I dropped the keys down the top of my swimsuit. . ."
And C rolls his eyes and says, ". . .And I picked you up and shook you, and they fell out."
35 years. Like it was yesterday. And still with the eye-rolling. He helped us finish off the bottle of wine, and The EGE took photos of the new baby in his family. A good evening, indeed.
A Whole Slew of Journals

When it fills up, I'll have to start with the oldest ones and toss some more. These used to be sooooo important to me that, at one point, very early on, I rented a huge safe deposit box to store them. I got over that just the way I got over thinking my hip-length hair was something I'd never give up. Life is change.
#87--this was an experiment in padded fabric covers with leather spine and corners. There were a couple of these. I abandoned this style immediately on the day one volume fell on the floor of the restroom in the courthouse during a murder trial. Although the restroom looked spotless, as courthouse restrooms always seem to do, I was aghast and could never use the notebook again. Shudder.



and this is the front title page.








Saturday, July 05, 2008
This Whole Giving-Stuff-Away Thang is Getting Old.
I've got two more denim skirts, two full-length ones that I started embellishing. I hesitate even to offer them--one of them is so way-cool that I'm loathe to get rid of it, but it needs someone to finish it, someone who remembers Rubberstampmadness in its heyday with great fondness. I did so much work on it I should just keep it. But if I don't finish it and wear it, what's the point?
I'll figure something out on Monday. In the meantime, Suze, please get in touch. And if anyone wants that Levi's skirt, let me know.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Just a Little Bit of My 4th of July
One of his brothers once sidled up to me and asked for The Recipe, for what made it so sweet, and I leaned over and said, soto voce, "He stirs it with his dick."
And bless his brother, who paused only a moment and then said, very cheerily, "Well, then! Some damn fine dick it is, too!"
I love that man.
Anyway. So then he calls today to find out exactly when we're eating The Barbecue To Die For, the one meal all year long that leaves me cursing my life as a Near-Vegan, the one day when I wish I loved parts of long-dead animals, complete with gristle. Because, honeys, his brother can do Brisket To Break Your Heart. And his cousin? Can make Ribs That Make You Whimper.
Lord. Those Zachery men.
And when The EGE calls to find out the time, the eldest brother, it turns out, is NOT hosting the annual blow-out. Because The Man Who Delivers His Meat is late.
Am I the only one snorting here?
And so, instead, The EGE, still happy and cheerful, delivers the Kool-Aid of Joy to the house of his mother. And, much later, comes home bearing food (no, not barbecue--he stops at Rosa's and brings home taco salads Our Way, meaning just beans and cheese with no meat) and gossip.
Oh, honeys--The Family Gossip. Oh, my. Once upon a time, I had a sister-in-law (one of the many, many of these who have passed through the family) who Loved to Gossip. I was young. And Not Buddhist. And so had no compunctions about listening and, indeed, pitching in where I was able (I'm missing a whole shitload of Girl Genes, though, and have never been so great with the gossip, not that I haven't given it the big try, way back when). But she's been gone from the family for lo! these many years. And the gossip? I don't know if it's been slim because I keep myself to myself or because people have all gotten older and less inclined to trash each other verbally. But it's been sparse in these parts.
But tonight, The EGE comes home with lip-licking tales, indeed. And I'm salivating, I tell you--this is stuff that ties in with our own drama from decades ago--things that we remember from when we moved here and let other family live in our ex-home. Lord.
BUT! I can't enjoy it quite as much as I should be able to, given that it's about people who caused us lots of grief (read: caused the utility companies to threaten to put a lien on our ex-home, which we still owned until, finally, in a pique of Screw You, Then!, we sold it outright and put an end to the nonsense. But that's neither here nor there.) Because it's soooo Not Right Speech. And I do try to practice. You know I do.
I failed miserably tonight. I wallowed in hilarity at the horror. I reveled in the fact that we're now far away from the drama. I relished being justified in the time I confronted one of the many Ex-Women in the Family and ranted at her for a good half hour, reducing her to tears without ever cussing or raising my voice, simply because I had the Power of Being So Right on my side.
Plus she was a truly skanky ho' woman.
Ooooh. I didn't go there. Did I? Oops.
But never mind. I kept saying, "And then? What happened then?" And he'd tell me more.
And I'd moan, "Ooooh, I'm going to hell. Oh, wait: I don't believe in hell. Omigod." Like that.
All I can say in my own defense is that I feel guilty.
And oh, so glad not to be involved in any of it any more. It's enough to make me say, "Thank you, jesus!"
But it was so, so good. Kind of like barbecue, but without needing napkins.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
My Favorite Books About Journals & Diaries










Some Random Things

Making a Big Fun Mess





Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Terrorizing the Cat
I'm in the bathroom, brushing and flossing and brushing and--you know. And Lennie Lulu, the Little Princess, is looking at me. And for some reason, I start to sing "Tomorrow," from Annie, which I have never seen, thank you, jesus. And she's just entranced. She stands on her hind legs and reaches her paw up to me tenderly, as if to heal me. Because, y'all, you KNOW I cannot sing for shit. Never have, never will. My singing? It's a painful thang.
And of course this amuses me so very, very much that I KEEP singing to her, many, many verses of "Tomorrow." Except I know only the one. Well, OK, pretty much only the part of only the one. As in, OK, singing the word "tomorrow" over and over and over, at increasingly high pitches. Or notes. Or whatever the fuck you call it.
So, later, she's sitting in the kitchen. And I ask her if she's eaten. And she licks her lips. And I say, "Well, it's a good thing, or I'd have to sing to you some more" (sometimes she won't eat unless The EGE presents her food to her in a certain way).
And she looks at me, alarmed, and puts her ears back and races from the room just as fast as she can.
I'm fucking Rodney Dangerfield here, in my own damn house.
New Art Journal Group
Aieeee! Makes you feel like you're back in junior high, trying to start that geeky club no one else thought was any fun. Who knew everyone else had outgrown dinosaurs?





