goth_hobbit

So far as I'm concerned, there are very few things that can't be improved by drag queens. I learned to to glamor makeup on myself from a drag queen. Some of the best nights of my life were had in their company. To severely paraphrase an old soda pop ad: Drag Queens add Fun!

Late to the party, but... For someone who supposedly has my facility with words, and supposedly knows the right thing to say, sometimes I just ...don't. I find myself without words, and reverting back to behavior of almost 20 years ago, when I was considered to be an honorary ghost of the coffeehouse where my friends and I hung out -- people didn't see much of me, because I was hiding behind one of three tall guys. I was the disembodied voice that came from behind one of the Dans, asking for a refill and more cream. And I'm kind of in that position at the moment. I don't know what to say. But I get it, even if my tang is getting tungled on expressing it. (1/2 smile)

Did the board just eat the great big entry that I just posted? 'Cause it isn't showing up. I'll deal with it later. Grr arrgh...

Hah! This time it worked! Take that, Bullwinkle Murphy...

Well, I have confirmed that the lengthy, insightful, and occasionally witty blog entry that I composed last night / this morning (it was sunrise when I finished, so...) has, in fact, been eaten by the database. Grr arrgh, indeed. I suppose that it gives me a chance to write something perhaps better, especially in light of this morning's phone call (that’s, what ...five for this week?) Let me start with some background: the man about whom I am very serious is separated from me by about 900 miles. Twenty hours drive time -- even if you drive like I do, Nebraska never ends -- or two and a half by air from where I live. (Although, after having gone to Minneapolis four times in the past 12 months for an average of three weeks at a shot, “where I live” is subject to a broad definition at this point.) He’s a graduate student at University of Minnesota in the process of finishing up his second MS. The field in which he is studying is biostatistics, which is a branch off of the larger discipline of mathematical biology -- a subject which fascinates me and apparently causes our friend Vanessa’s head to explode if she tries to comprehend what he’s doing. His first Masters was earned here, at University of Colorado - Denver; computer science with a bioinformatics focus (bioinformatics being the computer science powered side of mathematical biology.) Since he truly loves mathematics, and the CU Health Sciences Center biostatistics program was in its infancy, he elected to go to U of M for his next step -- which was supposed to be a PhD, but U of M decreed that he needed a biostatistics MS before entering their PhD program. So, he’s getting the second MS out of the way, and applying to several different PhD programs, including U of M’s. He also had a First Author publication before he got his first MS, has been an author on three more papers since, with another in the works. The man is both smart and driven. No, I’m not at all proud of him; why do you ask? At any rate, the bane of his existence of late -- and therefore mine by proxy -- has been his PhD applications, handled by a service known as SOPHAS; the Schools of Public Health Applications System, also known as “the circle of Hell that Dante left out because it was too grim". (Thank you for the turn of phrase, dearest.) Or, as we have taken to calling it: SOPH-ASS. If it seems that neither one of us is particularly impressed by their service, you’re not wrong. Don’t take my opinion as gospel, though; here are D’s own words on the subject: “I have now spent as much time on the application process for various PhD programs as I would on the average class over the course of a semester. Also $500 or so, counting application fees, getting re-issues of transcripts and GRE scores, etc.” The financial aspect, although annoying, is an investment. The time that he has had to put into this is unforgivable. SOPHAS is the brick wall against which D. has been beating his head for the past couple of months, in addition to carrying a full-time class load in something rather more demanding than Underwater Basket Weaving (we will not go into the special Hell that is his Analysis course at this time), his TA duties, and RA work. No grad student has the time to devote to the sorts of hoops that SOPHAS demands an applicant jump through, which leads me to think that the people responsible for this service have never tried to go for any degree over baccalaureate. Add to this the fact that SOPHAS appears to like having all submitted applications achieve a certain degree of ripeness before sending them on to the schools themselves -- with no regard to whatever deadlines the schools themselves have set for applications and admissions. In other words, if D. had submitted his applications in the form of cream, the universities would have finally gotten them in the form of blue cheese. This is why, every time I’m there, I spend an absurd amount of time in the kitchen, cooking enough food to provision the Shackleford Expedition to Antarctica. Twice. Every meal that he can just pull out of the freezer is equal to roughly two hours that he can spend on homework, other work, or sleep. Plus, it equals $20 that he doesn’t have to pony up to Pizza Luce. (Not that I have anything against Pizza Luce in the slightest; they’ve been our salvation after a couple of horribly delayed flights, since Luce delivers until 3AM. However, even their menu gets old -- and expensive -- after a while.) So, the latest part started on Tuesday afternoon. D. called -- unexpectedly, since we had talked the night before. He got home from class / office hours to find a message on his answering machine. From The Ohio State University (yes, they capitalize the “the”.) OSU wanted to get all of his application materials straight so they cold enter him in a fellowship competition. His reaction was a three-way tie between “#&$*&%!^ SOPHAS; they had to call because those morons sat on everybody’s application until the deadline went by”, “OMG, they really really like me” and the pragmatic “my GPA and publication record tripped a flag for the fellowship requirements; SOPHAS is handing them a bunch of applications that are technically late through no fault of the applicants, and they need to get the ball rolling as fast as possible.” It’s a good fellowship. OSU would be paying him as much as U of M is, only without having to take on TA and / or RA work; his job would be to attend class and put his dissertation together. OSU has a couple of well-recognized names in the field: Stanley Lemeshow is pretty much to biostatistics what Stephen Hawking is to physics. OSU probably has more immediate name recognition than U of M, which could make a difference when it comes time to look for that first faculty position. Columbus is cheaper in terms of cost of living than Minneapolis. And did I mention that it’s a really good fellowship? But... D. confessed to me that he now has empathy for what I went through, being bounced around from address to address as a kid. I could have lived a long and happy life without ever having him know what that felt like. Sympathy I can live with, but he didn’t need to have personal experience. He uprooted his entire life: sold a house that he loved, moved away from his parents, old friendships, from here and all that makes Denver into Home. The rodina. A place where, as he puts it, the streets know our names. Yes, his military career had him moving from place to place; yes, he has chosen a new career that has the potential to be highly nomadic. Yes, as a professor and researcher, you have to go where you can do the best research, and yes, you probably won’t be able to spend your entire academic career in one place. That, however, is the rational side of his brain talking. On the other side is a four-year-old kid pitching a grand “do’WANNA!” fit. He wants to stay in Minneapolis. I want for him to be able to stay in Minneapolis; joining him there, obviously. He has been visiting friends there for over a decade; it was one of the reasons that he applied to the university in the first place. Those friends, most of whom I had never met until this past June, have accepted me into their circle nearly effortlessly. One of those friends (one who I did know previously) was part of the Muddy’s Java Cafe tribe, lo these many years ago; when I was there in December, Lexi and I talked about the possibility of getting work studio space together. She and her ex-husband Michael made sure that I got out to play as much as I wanted. One of D.’s classmates loaned me a car for while D. was out of town; I can’t drive D.’s car as it’s a stick shift. To leave these connections behind and go to a place that neither of us is familiar with would be painful beyond words; both of us place a high value on friendship, and especially the concept of chosen family. The fact that several people who he has known since high school seem to have taken the “out of sight, mostly out of mind” approach since he moved hurts him; since there have been times in my life when I had to turn to friends instead of family to keep myself sane and healthy, I understand, and ache with him. (Of particular ironic potential is the fact that one of the school that he has applied to is the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center, but that’s a whole different issue, and deserving of its own post, which I will make within the next 24 hours. No, really; I promise.) He wants to be able to put down roots again, even if it is for but another year or two; a desire with which I am in complete agreement. He wants to be able to buy a house again; not a huge one, just big enough to comfortably house two humans with pack rat tendencies, a seven year old Olde English Bulldogge, two sixteen year old cats, and a ferret without everyone tripping over each other and the furniture. He wants a yard for Maggie-pup; again not a huge one, just a space that she can call her own -- like she had here in Denver. (Yes, we dote on the fuzz and consider the impact that any plans will have on them. Deal with it.) He wants a home that is Ours in the way that his condo almost was, but without the stamp of his ex-wife. He knows that I’ve come to love Minneapolis, and wants me to know the city as he does; not as a frequent visitor, but a resident. It is at times like this when I see the mark of his family history in him, whether he sees it or not; his father’s mother came from a little village in Lithuania which no longer exists, but her family had lived in that area for 500 years. Roots mean something to him, and to me as well. And right now, he literally has no idea which of six cities he might be living in come autumn. Now, imagine dealing with this mostly through 900 miles of copper and fiber optic cable. So that’s where we are; up in the air, clinging to one another as the only guaranteed thing in the other’s live at the moment. Next up: today's installment of "Tales from a Harried Grad Student", which hopefully isn't going to disappear into the Twilight Zone like this one did last night. (Helpful suggestion du jour: text editor or word processing programs are your Friend.)

By all rights, I should be in bed right now, but I'm at the point of "too awake to sleep and too tired to be properly awake". This is not a good state for coherency, but an excellent one for random thought-dumping. A month on the road, almost exactly. Driving from south Florida to Minneapolis, and then to Denver -- alone, no less -- is not the sort of thing that I would recommend doing on a regular basis, but it gave me much-needed time to sort some things out in my head -- when I wasn't dodging 18-wheelers, that is. Trying to get used to the idea that Granddad's car is now my car, as he doesn't need it anymore. Granted, he hadn't driven it in about three years, but Mom offered him the option on a regular basis. Trying to get used to the idea that the heirloom vase that was always Granddaddy and Grandmama's is now mine as well; not so much a possession as a trust, and certainly worthy of its own entry. Trying to get used to a lot of things, in fact; some of which I will have help in adjusting to, and some of which I'll have to process on my own. There is quite a lot that I want to say, some of which will have to wait. I can say that the more I see of Minneapolis, the more I like the city. I have good friends there, and people who have potential to become good friends. There's a thriving arts scene, lots of interesting architecture, and beautiful scenery. I spent almost three weeks there this time, and I'll be there for almost a month on my next trip. I'm looking forward to it, even if it means my first taste of a Northern Plains winter. My Dear One says that I still move like a dancer, and told me that one of the many things that he finds so attractive is my grace. Given that he knows that I had a reputation for being able to trip over the pattern in the linoleum when I was younger, this means more to me than almost any other compliment that he could have paid me. Thinking about the future occupies a great deal of my time lately. The immediate future involves holiday shows which I need to firm up, and all of the work that I need to get done for them, as well as the hope that grinding myself to a nub will prove to be lucrative. Long-term plans are forming as well; some of them I can shape, but others depend on things which are out of my control. Oddly enough, it's the ones over which I have the most mastery that are causing me the most stress, because they're the ones into which I have to put the most effort. In that respect, the stress that these plans are causing isn't odd at all. Such is the way of these things. Further typing is going to have to wait for another time, though. Sleep is calling my name, and while sleep may not completely knit the raveled sleeve of my cares, it will probably manage a solid basting stitch. Enough to go on with, at least.

Most of the time, what I say and what I want to say remain separate things. Most of the time, that it. Sometimes, something happens at one of my shows that strains my self-restraint past the breaking point. Like tonight. There's a particular variety of Passionate Young Person that I've come to avoid, as I used to belong to an artist's co-op studio and gallery full of them. They're rarely older than mid-20s, and full of the cleansing fire of their convictions. They either mellow out as they get older, or the fire gets banked and they turn into the kind of nanny-state left-wingers that strike me as being neo-cons in Birkenstocks. The ones at the co-op were the cause of me losing my lunch more than once; they were all either strict vegetarian or vegan, I am not, and there were several times when I went looking for my brown bag in the communal fridge, only to be told that my horrible carnivore poison had been thrown away, as it was polluting their vegetarian atmosphere. That's a verbatim quote, by the way. The girls in the co-op viewed every male as a potential rapist, unless said male could provide two notarized statements and a doctor's testimonial to prove that they were gay; even then, they were suspect. Everything was a !Cause!; there was no issue too trivial or obscure that it didn't warrant a three-hour debate, art had no purpose whatsoever unless it served a political or social end, and Lord help you if you disagreed with them about any of this. It was the most humorless bunch of people I've ever been around. Needless to say, I didn't last long. A few weeks ago, a young woman of this type came in to the Cafe during the time I was set up. She looked over my display, and commented that I didn't have any import silver. I confirmed that no, I didn't, but before I could explain about my concern over metal purity (and the fact that I can't solder on a lot of the imported stuff without it falling apart), she proceeded to rake me over the coals about how I wasn't supporting indigenous tribes in their attempts to become self-sufficient, and how I had no social conscience, and I was thieving food from infants in the third world. She then whirled around, exited, and left me to pick my jaw up off the floor. She came back in tonight. Once again, she looked at my work, satisfied herself that I had not repented of my evil ways, and said (you'll have to imagine the disgusted look on her face) "So, I see you're still stealing food from children in economically challenged countries." I don't know what she expected me to do. Cry? Apologize? Be too stunned to answer? I was once, but not this time. I smiled my best evil smile at her and replied "Well, yes; but you'll be pleased to know that I've added taking candy from underprivileged urban babies to my daily routine. They don't need the sugar, with the rates of early-onset diabetes on the rise; and besides, all this heartless capitalism gives me a sweet tooth." She left. Bewildered. Sometimes, you just have to fight fire with sarcasm. Edited to add: I think I just got the most completely obnoxious comment to date. "So, you're the owner but not the jeweler." My hackles went up. Usually, it's "do you make this?", which is fundamentally different. I told him that I was, in fact, the jeweler; he gave me the skeptical "you are", and I offered to show him the scars from cuts and acid burns if he needed more proof than my word. He suddenly looked uncomfortable and changed the subject. It's not the first time I've run into "you're a girl; you can't possibly do all this", but it's the most blatant example in a long while. Jeezus fucking H. Christ. The stupid; it burrrns, Precioussss.

Oh, indeed. I volunteered at the co-op; there was no way on Earth I would have actually lived on-site. I would have gone out of my gourd. As for the bead thing ...I don't know, unless it's that someone who doesn't know the what the necessary skill sets are think that they're largely interchangable. Heck I don't even work in copper, so I couldn't do cloisonne -- at least not as it's traditionally done. I can only assume that these people crawl back under their rocks at night. By the way; I love that you work in glass; it's a skill that I admire. I'll probably never goof around with it any more than enameling or using dichroic cabs in my work, but it sure is pretty.

Oh, congratulations! I keep eyeing the real estate listings; a townhome would be nifty, except for my need for good studio space -- which translates into "uncarpeted", "well-ventilated", and "fire-proof-able". Someday soon, though, I hope...

Oh, chocolate zucchini bread? Could I be nosy and beg you to post the recipe? (I need to make quick breads again. Now that it's gotten chilly, I want either pumpkin spice, or the banana / zucchini cobble up that Mom dubbed "Banana Nerd Bread".)

Most of the time, I don't talk much about "what I do all day", as I'm convinced that most people are going to find it amazingly boring. Take today, for instance. I spent most of it hunched in an unnatural position over my workbench, because I was constructing those pain-in-the-ass settings known as step bezels. You can purchase a form of bezel wire to do this (note: in the jewelry industry, anything that can come in a roll is referred to as "wire", whether it's round, flat, square, or something else), but I've found that the ledge in pre-made step bezel is not always in the right place for the stone that eventually has to go into the setting; it's almost always too low, or too sharply angled for a deep-cut stone. This is why I tend to make my own; if I get the ledge too high, I can always take a setting bur and grind it down a bit, but you can't add extra height to the factory-made stuff, except by doing exactly what I just spent a good chunk of the day doing. First, you make the bezel, which is made of a very thin, flat strip of fine silver (.999, as opposed to .925 sterling.) It's just slightly bigger than the stone that you want to set; almost too tight for the stone is what you're aiming for. However, bezel wire is usually too thin to cut a seat for the stone -- high-speed burs are aggressive, and can chew all the way through the metal even if you are careful. So, you create a step to support the stone from underneath. In theory, this is a relatively simple process of bending a bit of wire so that it's the same shape as the bezel, fitting snugly inside, then soldering it into place. However, this theory falls into the same category as battle plans that never survive the first skirmish with the other side. First off, the step is never the right size. Never. It will always be slightly too big or too small. Too big is correctable with a bit of judicious filing; the key word being judicious. Shave off too much in any one spot, and you end up with a step that's too small, and the only remedy for that is to start over. (You will have a little piece of silver that will eventually make good casting grain, but that's not the point of the process.) Next, you have to get the step correctly placed inside the bezel, and this is an exercise in patience. Even if you cut a shallow channel to hold it, the step wire isn't going to stay put. Minute adjustments will inevitably cause the step to pop out of place; if you're lucky, it stays in the bezel or lands on the bench. It's far more likely that spring tension will cause the step to become airborne and land someplace where you won't find it without resorting to extreme measures, at which point it's back to square one. Once you get the step placed where you want it, you coat the piece that you're working on with soldering flux and start heating it up. Here's where you keep your fingers crossed that either the expansion and drying of the flux -- or the heating of the metal -- doesn't displace the damned step yet again, forcing you to stop and re-adjust it. Actually getting it soldered on the first try seems anticlimactic after all of the prep work. This goes triple for any step / bezel combination that requires angles... like a 7x5mm emerald cut. Just as a "for instance". And yet, despite the pain in the ass factor, I keep making them, because I love the look. The stone is protected, and it goes well with the antique feel of many of the pieces that I make. Not everything I did today required step bezels, and I probably would have gotten a lot more done if I hadn't been making them at all. Still -- two rings, most of a bracelet, and two pairs of earrings; not bad for a day's work. And another couple of twists to the ever-present knot between my shoulderblades, but that's an occupational hazard.

In the bottle: Musk and patchouli, with a slightly bitter myrrh note. Wet: The amber comes out almost immediately, and something in this is reacting to my chemistry like a leather note. It’s heady, warm and spicy; I get a color association of rich sable and midnight blue. Dry-down: There’s bit of a powdery note taking the edge off of the spice, but this is by no means a bad thing. Wet, Schwarzer Mond is unbelievably rich, going to my head almost like brandy on an empty stomach. A bit of moderation helps me to appreciate the notes. This is where the musk truly blooms and the zdravetz starts to emerge. The opoponax adds a rich, earthy note ...and I think that I either want this fragrance to artfully ravish me, or I want a specific someone to put it on and do so. Mature: The scents have blended to the point where it’s almost impossible for me to pick one out from another. The musk is still there, with a little bit of patchouli spice; everything else is a glorious chorus of notes. This is a warm scent; one that I can describe only as large and enveloping. It’s not necessarily a man’s perfume, but there is something unabashedly masculine about the fragrance. It carries the impression of a male of strength and confidence without braggadocio. Throw is on the light side of moderate, and it has fantastic staying power. The Bottom Line: The sub-description is “the keeper of secrets”, and it truly fits -- because I smell libraries in this scent. Schwarzer Mond captures the scent of book and wood and hard-won knowledge gathered night after night. I will be hoarding this one.

In the bottle: Cool aquatic florals Wet: The sweetness of the lotus blooms, tempered by the musk and cucumber. Dry-down: The jonquil, orchid, and mugwort have come out. the effect is a rich, truly dark floral with no bitterness, mint, or earthiness. The cucumber is creating the most amazing effect of a cool, humid, moonless night; the color association is deep twilight green-tinged blue. Mature: This has turned into a truly twilight scent. The cucumber keeps everything cool and damp, while the florals and musk blend into a glorious combination. I don’t get much from the pear, but the jonquil, mugwort, jasmine, and lotus are more than making up for it. Throw is light, but makes up for that in staying power (six hours and counting!) The Bottom Line: If Tia Dalma wore perfume, this would be it. It is the absence of light, which does not always mean darkness. It is deep hued and dark, but by no means sinister. This is a feminine fragrance; the scent of a woman who knows her own mind and is confident of that knowledge, and strength without brittleness. I’m entranced.

Last night, I had a horrible nightmare, of the sort that I haven't had since I was a little kid, and it still has me rattled. Maybe some background is in order here; when I was a kid -- about five years old -- I got a "bug jar" for my birthday. I was fascinated by nature; I thought that National Geographic specials were the best thing on TV, after Mutual of Omaha's "Wild Kingdom". (I also had a bit of a crush on Marlon Perkins, but only because he was my Granddad's age and got to play with tigers and otters.) Anyway, the jar wasn't meant for long-term habitation; I used it to catch fireflies so I could see them up close, butterflies on occasion (I'd put a flower in the jar and let them fly in); even a praying mantis once. I'd look at them for an hour or so, watch them explore the inside of the enclosure, get a close look at them, and let them go. I never wanted to keep them for long; I understood that they were wild creatures and needed to be free. I felt privileged to have their company for a bit, and wouldn't let my cousin David -- who had a bit of a destructive streak at that age -- hurt or torment them while they were captive. One afternoon, I found a Cecropia moth, or robin moth, on the back fence. It's highly unusual to see them during the day, because they're a nocturnal species. I ws astounded at the size of this creature; the moth had a six-inch wingspan and bright red and white banding on the body. It was the biggest winged thing I had ever seen that didn't have feathers. I gently got it into the jar, and proceeded to observe it. About this time, my Mamaw, who was normally a font of good sense, saw my strange visitor, and decided that I "needed" to start a butterfly collection, starting with the moth. I argued with her; I wanted to let it go, but I hadn't quite developed the iron streak that runs in the women of my family. She wouldn't hear of it, and kept me from releasing it several times. The problem was that Mamaw had only the vaguest notion of how butterfly collections are started, and knew nothing of the infamous "killing jar". My formerly innocent toy took a darker turn as the moth was held captive for the next two weeks. I learned three things during this time: first, that an agitated moth will beat its wings constantly, and in a species this big, that is no small thing. The constant flutter drumming against the plastic of the jar seemed to follow me wherever I went. Second, I learned that this moth was female, as she started to lay eggs after a week. Mamaw transferred her to a shoebox while I was visiting my Granddad and Grandmama; the beating of her wings against the cardboard was not an improvement. Third, Cecropia moths live for about two weeks. She must have just emerged from her cocoon and completed mating the day before I found her. For two weeks, the sound of her wings invaded my dreams, and I had nightmares about being surrounded by nine-foot tall moths, in an upright circle, beating at me with their wings. They were all facing inward, hovering vertically, reproach in their eyes and attitudes. After a couple of nights of this, I was afraid to release the moth; convinced that she would try and kill me for allowing this to happen, for doing this to her. Two weeks of the sound of her desperate wings during the day, and nightmares all night. She died while I was out of the house, not outside where she belonged, but trapped in the darkened confines of a box. Mamaw, making good on her promise, mounted her on a piece of cardboard. In a bizarre twist, the pin she selected was one of her sewing pins, and the head was almost the exact same shade of yellow as the eggs the moth had laid. I hated looking at the display. The night the moth died, I had my last nightmare. The moths that had surrounded me were dead; lying on their backs, wings spread and eyes dulled, in a circle around me. I was free to go, Yet, I knew that as I stepped out of the circle, if I so much as brushed one of their wings for the briefest moment, the most minute instant of contact, they would come back to life, and kill me. From that day forward, I've been scared of moths. I was convinced as a child that all of them knew what I had done, and were just waiting for their moment. Miller moths provoked the worst reaction; I was convinced that they would fly up my nose and suffocate me. Butterflies didn't scare me; my childish logic was that their wings folded upwards rather than backwards, and therefore they couldn't fly up my nose. Still, it was years before I was comfortable around them. Grasshoppers in flight also scare me; their wings make almost exactly the same whirring noise that haunted my days so long ago. Last night's nightmare was about being trapped in my bedroom by Cecropia moths. Dumb? Maybe, but it went straight to the five-year-old part of my brain and held on. Especially since that was the first dream I've had involving them since I was five, making it all the worse somehow. It's also no surprise that one of my favorite Buffy episodes is "Nightmares". The scene where Wendell explains about his recurring dream about the spiders resonates deeply with me. Now, how do feline antics come into this? As I was pouring the details of my dream into an e-mail, Panther attacked a picture across the room to get at something behind it. That something apparently turned out to be a moth; not a Cecropia, thank Excolo (to borrow a phrase from Indicolite), or I'd be about six counties away by now, barefoot and heading northeast at warp speed. But a largish one nonetheless, which has since fluttered out of sight. Is it any wonder that I'm still wide awake?

Huh. I just re-sent an e-mail to Sara, as I didn't get a response from last week's query. I figure that my initial e-mail probably ended up caught in the spam filter. Has anyone else had troubles sending mail to the Lab from Gmail? I just got a CnS from them that arrived in my Gmail box with no issues, so I don't think it's a problem on my end. I could be wrong, though. Anyone? Bueller?

For someone with as thoroughly Southern an upbringing as I had, I have a remarkably wide-ranging taste in foodstuffs. Granted, some of this can be attributed to my childhood; one of my aunts is Thai, my dad was a gourmet cook, my father (no, not the same person; my father couldn't cook to save his life) would just about commit larceny for good Chinese and Greek cuisine (he would buy an entire tray of homemade baklava at the annual Greek festival), Granddad got me hooked on lychees and pine nuts ...basically, food is the one aspect of my young life that was culturally broad, relatively speaking. So it should come as no surprise that I like things like good bagels and curry as much as I do grits and boiled peanuts. Anyway, the local bagel shop sent me an e-mail coupon for a special that's guaranteed to keep me in boiled baked bread for a couple of weeks; buy a baker's dozen, get a half-dozen free, and I took them up on it earlier today. On Talk Like A Pirate Day, natch. I got to chatting with one of the staff, and mentioned what day it was. Soon, the entire store was ringing with "avast"s and "yarrrr"s. However, they hadn't gotten one of those coupons before this afternoon, and soon the manager was roped in. "Today be 'Talk Like a Pirate Day'", I said to the rather confused looking woman, "and I be plunderin' yer store with a coupon!" She took the amusement in stride, and confirmed that the e-mail was valid. The staff filled up two boxes with baked goods, and I was on my merry way. When I got back to the house and started unpacking, though, I found out that I had caused a minor distraction, to the tune of two extra bagels. Now, normally, I would feel as though I should go back tomorrow, 'fess up, and pay for the extras. Given the day, though, I'm tempted to just sum it up thusly: "Pirate."

There are times when my shows at the Cafe are busy, productive, and profitable. Today has not been one of those times. So, I'm going to listen to Poison on the jukebox (somebody's got a fun sense of music tonight; from "Another Brick in the Wall" to this), and document some of the questions I get asked, and what I sometimes wish I could say in return. Just for the hell of it. Question: "What have you got here?" What I say: "Handmade jewelry." What I'd like to say: "Papayas, fishing tackle, and old socks. Oh, and the gnomes that I'm babysitting. Watch your ankles; they bite." Question: "Do you make all of this yourself?" What I say: "Yes, I do." What I'd like to say: "No, I'm just carrying it for a friend. You know, like 9 1/2 months pregnant women who get asked if they're going to have a baby." Question: "Is this stuff real?" What I say: "Do you mean precious metal and gemstones? Yes, it is." What I'd like to say: "No, it's all created by a prototype hologenerator. Like Star Trek. Either that, or you're having a very strange hallucination. Let me know if Hunter S. shows up, okay?" Question: "Why are you here?" What I say: "Because I've known the owner of the Cafe for years now, and it's a convenient place to set up." What I'd like to say: "Because it's my turn to babysit the gnomes, and do you know how much amusement park tickets cost these days?" Question: "Do you do tattoos?" What I say: "No, I don't." What I'd like to say: "Well, I've got a planishing hammer, a pearl reamer, and a Sharpie. Hold still..." Question: "Don't you have any guy's jewelry?" What I say: "Many of my designs are made to be unisex; it's just a matter of finding something that you like in the right size. And several of the antique reproduction rings are men's rings." What I'd like to say: "Giant snarling wolves, skulls with Viking helmets, and demons, right? Bar-fight rings, in other words. There are lots of large-scale manufacturers doing that with varying degrees of success; what part of original design and antique reproduction did you misunderstand?" Question: "Can you make me something in brass, with like, rivets 'n stuff?, 'Cause it'd be, like, industrial and kewl." What I say: "I only work in precious metals; otherwise, I'd have to buy a whole new set of tools to avoid cross-contamination." What I'd like to say: "And you wouldn't want to pay for the labor anyway." Question: "Your prices aren't exactly competitive. Can't people go to (insert name of import store) and find exactly the same thing? " What I say: ::launches into Canned Explanation of cost of silver, cost of labor, use of genuine stones, the fact that much of the silver jewelry comes from countries that don't enforce standards of metal purity, and many pieces are outright counterfeits; that I purchase raw materials directly from refineries and manufacturers in countries that enforce karat standards and do all of the work myself -- so, "no":: * What I'd like to say: "Someone's stepping on my copyrights? Sweet! Filing a lawsuit is a lot less work than busting my hump over the workbench, and usually more profitable." *(this usually results in a blank look and a response of "uh, no, I guess they can't, then...") Question: "Don't you have anything more Dark and Gothick?" (pretentious spelling and capitalization added deliberately) What I say: *points to various bats and replicas of jewelry originally owned by people who are now quite thoroughly dead* What I'd like to say: "It costs extra to make the earrings recite Poe. Double for Bram Stoker. However, the originals that the replicas are made from are haunted, if that helps." If there was one thing I learned from Jim, my Old Goat, it's that a sense of humor is a valuable addition to an independent jeweler's skill set. (Note to whoever's running the jukebox tonight: this cover of "Marianne" is disturbing. Instead of Andrew Eldritch's basso drone, it has calypso guitar and breathy-voiced girl channeling every French chanteuse who's ever lived. The effect is discordantly perky. Isn't she paying any attention to the lyrics?)

Yeah, I got your commiseration PM. Ouch. I was in the same boat a couple of weeks ago; a good friend who's an amazing photographer was in the booth next door, and we griped to each other about people's appalling lack of judgement with regards to quality. No, heavy frames and custom mats really are better than flimsy, mass-produced mats and poly bags. (Not even Mylar; geez!) And yes, there's a lot more work involved in a pair of earrings with lost wax cast components and soldered posts than in a pair using stamped brass and fish-hook wires. And the same goes for lampworked beads versus craft catalog specials. I think that glass art is amazing, and I'd like to learn stained glass sometime. Lampwork ...well, I think that my guy would put his foot down on account of I already come up with interesting ways in which to injure myself without adding molten glass to the equation. As for the open studios: my hat is off to you. I couldn't do it, because 1) my studio is at home, and I wouldn't want that many people using my bathroom, and 2) there would be even more Dumb Questions, which would just be asking for trouble with such a handy array of tools available.

It comes from years of practice. But seriously, I never had to put up with such questions when I was working for the Old Goat. Probably because people wouldn't have dreamed of saying such things in front of someone who looked that much like an irascible elderly Dwarf. (Think Gimli's father with glasses, short hair, and a neat Van Dyck beard, and you've got a pretty good image of Jim.) Oh well. Coming up with new "responses" keeps me occupied, and well away from charges of aggravated assault.

I know that I should be seriously thinking about bed, but I'm just too damned wired. And pissed, and upset. You know the point where you can't either cry or scream? That's where I am. First off, my ferret, Sinead, has early-stage insulinoma. It's like reverse diabetes; instead of the pancreas producing too little insulin, it produces too much. Anyway, Sinead had a massive blood sugar crash tonight. She wasn't just drooling and spacey; she was shivering, almost limp, and had the hiccups. Not a good combination. I was out of town for over a week; my housemate was taking care of the critters. They're his fuzzies too, after all. I asked him if he had been keeping up with Sinead's evening pureed poultry ration. He said no, he hadn't. I'm torn between being angry at him for flaking out on it, for being so linear that he can't intuitively grasp why it's important; at myself for letting myself forget that he is that way, and at the fact that the communication skills both ways have not improved after years of time and practice. I'm angry at myself for not providing him with an illustrated chart outlining why the dietary change was so damned important ...and I'm angry at him for needing one, and not being able to simply realize that it was necessary without the detailed instructions. I got the Inner Bitch on a choke-chain and didn't raise my voice. He still got defensive and tried to put the onus on me for referring to it as her evening treat. If it's a treat, it's no big deal, right? But I know that I had explained that the extra protein was necessary to keep her insulin production from spiralling upward. If I called it a treat ...well, it's a treat to her, and it makes her sound ...less sick. Call it sympathetic magic, or positive thinking, or self-delusion. If it's a dietary change to manage a chronic condition, it doesn't matter. I knew what was going on, and I thought that he did as well. An insulinoma is to the pancreas kind of like a faulty accelerator in a car. Not the most accurate analogy, maybe, but it works well enough here. The pancreas can rev up, but it can't de-accelerate, so to speak. Even the best kibble probably has more carbohydrates than a healthy ferret really needs, just because of the composition; starch is what holds it together. So the carbs break down into glucose, and nudges the pancreas into action. But with an insulinoma, the pancreas doesn't switch off when enough insulin is produced. By adding more fat and protein to the diet, the ferret is less dependant on the kibble for nutrients, thus taking in fewer carbs, and you achieve a sort of stasis. There are little fluctuations, but they're manageable. Catch it early, and you can get the problem under control; but if it gets out of control again, it's much harder to get things back in line. Sinead's stasis got interrupted for almost 2 weeks. And she was probably getting more than the usual amount of Ferretvite, which -- while it does have extra fat in it -- also has malt and molasses. For the record, he is truly sorry, and he says that he gets it now, although I told him that it feels like locking the barn door after the horse is long gone. He is going to call Dr. Feldman in the morning, 'fess up, and see if Dr. Feldman wants me to bring Sinead in; so I may be cancelling tomorrow's show, depending on timing. I believe that he is both sorry and deeply grieved, but that isn't going to help the situation as it stands. Sinead was doing just fine, and I honestly thought that even if she wasn't going to avoid going on steroids forever, at least it wouldn't be immediate. Now, I'm not so sure. In the meantime, I made a late-night grocery run for more baby food, and discovered that the only meat varieties now have corn starch as well. It's a stop-gap supply, but it's something, and it'll work until I can hit one of the local natural foods stores to try and find something that's just meat and water with no cereal additives. I also picked up 2 quarts of Gatorade; one for me, and one for her, since it's a flavor that I know she likes. Pedialyte is probably lower in sugar, but it's got a bitter taste that she won't tolerate. It doesn't matter how good something is for her if it's all over her, me, the walls, and the floor, instead of in her. This -- among other things -- is why I made a second BPAL order tonight. I had already had a craptastic day that was pretty much shot to hell out from under me; holding my littlest fuzzbutt and trying to get her to eat -- she of the normally piston-driven tongue -- this was merely the bile-cream frosting on the already unpalatable cake.

I really ought to be doing constructive things right now, like sorting laundry and making a packing list. Instead, I'm hanging out on the 'net, eating cookies, and generally goofing off. And trying to put together some first impressions of various BPAL blends, because I doubt that I'll have time to do much serious reviewing over the next couple of weeks. I ought to be at the workbench getting things ready for the push when I get back, as I have two shows scheduled for the weekend after Labor Day. I should be making an order for the silver and stones I'll need, too. I should also wait on getting more stones until the September gem show, but it seems like it's been a hit-or-miss proposition lately; if I need it, none of my regular suppliers will have it. I ought to see if I can find my good leather bodice (and if it still fits around my post-second-pubescent cleavage), just in case Minnesota RenFaire is in the works for this weekend. Of course, with the way the house is right now, I'd be better off spelunking for needles in haystacks, and I'll probably just try and find a couple of coin scarves there to make me feel somewhat garbed. The company will be more important than the costuming, anyway (and I never thought I'd see the day when I'd say that about going to Faire. I was 12 when I went to my first one, and I didn't feel "dressed" until I bought a flower garland.) I ought to put the new cartridge in the printer and print my e-ticket, but that can wait until tomorrow. (For the record, no matter how late I stay up, it's not officially tomorrow until either I've had some sleep, or the clock hits noon.) Once that's done, it'll be a fight to avoid further procrastination by booting up Photoshop and printing out a couple of pictures from the last trip up north. Of course, the ultimate "what I should be doing" is getting my arse to bed so that I have a fighting chance of accomplishing my list of things to do tomorrow, but I'm too antsy to sleep. Too much stuff in my head, clamoring for my undivided attention. Too many "ifs" and "whens" and "maybes", and too little internal silence. All hail Insomnia, Goddess of Sleep Deprivation. Her supplicants are recognized by yawns; Her sigil is the sacred Coffee Cup.

(This was originally written on July 11th and should actually be the first entry, but it didn't get published -- probaby due to an ID 10T error on my part.) To someone who isn't here... I know that I said I would try not to turn into a hermit. Well, I tried. It didn't work. You know why; we discussed it when last we talked. And it's still eating at me. I walk alone these days, separated from people who both of us had counted on to, if not understand, at least refrain from hurtful behavior. They haven't, nor do I think that they will. To several other non-present persons, with reference to the first... When someone mentions a recent, much needed vacation, the correct response upon hearing where the person went is not "I'm sorry." How you feel about the location in question is immaterial; the person had reason for their choice of destination, whether you agree with it or not. Fine; maybe the place isn't a Vacation Mecca. Maybe the most famous local dish is something of a national joke. Maybe you don't appreciate what that place has to offer. It doesn't matter. There are a number of correct responses: what did you do, did you have fun, take any pictures -- any of those are right and good. "I'm sorry" is not. And then, to compound it by proving that someone who had considered you to be, if not a friend, at least a good acquaintance, has completely dropped off of your personal radar -- that only compounds the slight. So you're sorry that I went somewhere that I wanted to be. Well, I'm not. I saw a completely new place; somewhere I had never been before, and I saw it in the company of one who knows it, and considers it to be a Good Place. I saw beauty and wonder. I saw my delight at these new places mirrored in the face of that person, who has seen them many times; lives with them now, in fact. He can now see those things anew, because of my reaction to their new-ness. And we had the joy of seeing places new to us both; discovering them together. Those places will remain dear for that reason alone. You're sorry? I'm not. In the words of Gonzo, from "The Muppet Movie": I'm going to go back there someday; someday being sooner rather than later. And one of these days I just might not come back. Will you question my choice? Probably, but you don't get to second-guess me, nor ask me to do so to myself. It is not your decision. And if I also drop from your radar, then so be it. I will know that I have made the correct decision for myself. If you feel "sorry" for this, then keep it to yourself.

Many things are making me both sad and annoyed right now. First off, people who probably consider themselves to be friends are running roughshod over my business. I have a pair of earrings on perpetual hold (okay, since December) for someone who desperately wants them ...but not enough to put them on lay-away. I keep reminding her that I have them, she keeps telling me that she still wants them, but finances have been tight, things have been hellish ...and then she talks about a cute new outfit that she bought to wear to an upcoming show, which probably cost more than the earrings. If she had put them on lay-away, and kicked me five bucks with every other paycheck -- certainly less than she spends at the local hangout for coffee, or cigarettes -- she would have had them long before now. And I certainly could have used the $35 more than once since November. Her boyfriend / fiancee (depending on the week, resident pain-in-her-ass at other times) wants me to make specialty pendants for him and some of his friends, on the basis that they'd "sell like hotcakes". I very much doubt that; even though I mostly agree that TOPY crosses would go over well with the local industrial community, I'm not tying up more money into making something relatively esoteric for people who consistently gripe about how broke they are. The crosses would sit in inventory for six months while they all go "damn, I wish I had the money"; once I get tired of it and scrap them, the same people would gripe about how they were going to buy one. One of my good friends wanted to commission one for one of these people for his birthday; I roughed out a design, gave her an estimate, and she was supposed to give me a down-payment with her next check. Needless to say, it didn't happen, and she is someone that I consider to be chosen family. Yet, it seems that lately she gets in contact with me only when she wants something; a repair made on a dress because she can't sew worth a damn, to borrow $20 until her next payday even though she knows that I'm self-employed. Her work schedule has been such that we can't really hang out, but she hasn't even called me to check in more than once or twice in the past 2 months. I ran into her this evening; she was on her way home from an interview, and that's the most time we've spent together since May. I post something that it seems would be at least *hugs* worthy to my LJ, but have no comments. Not even from my SO. Yes, we talked for a couple of hours last night, yes, we'll be seeing each other in 2 weeks, but he made comments in a couple of other people's journals today on relatively frivolous things, and I can't help but feel somewhat ...slighted. It's probably the exhaustion talking, but only partially. Sometimes, I just want a little reassurance, especially from him; and when disturbing dreams keep me up half the night, the want is especially sharp. No e-mails, no comments, and no 5 minute "are you okay" calls. Sometimes I wonder if I've become such a hermit from work and finances that nobody will notice when I'm not in Denver anymore. Lord knows it's looking that way. People who I thought were at least good acquaintances have dropped off the radar for the most part -- or, rather, I've dropped off of theirs. I'm tired of unanswered phone calls, and I know that while my guy would like me to keep in touch with them since they're his friends as well, he also knows that some of them have been guilty of some damned callous behavior towards me since he moved. And, I think, if he wasn't giving them benefit if the doubt, he'd look back at some of the things that they said to him, supposedly in jest, and realize that there's more to it. It was supposedly a joke when they told him that he couldn't go, even while they were outwardly supporting his furtherance of his education. He couldn't get the PhD in the field that he wanted, not with the department here in its infancy. But these same people have shut me out of their lives, even knowing since Christmas break last year that our relationship has blossomed into something more than the deep friendship that it was. I can only think that he's not readily available for their anger at his "desertion" (in their eyes), whereas I am. And it makes me sad that I can't tell him how they're doing when we talk, because I know that he misses them -- and Home, Denver; the rodina -- terribly. My social life is most active on IM with my dear friend, chosen sister, and shared brain owner (who is, coincidentally, my SO's ex-girlfriend, and still his dear friend as well. He had hoped that we'd get along well, and I think that we've exceeded his expectations -- but that's another story.) The thing is, she's three-quarters of the way across the continent, and we get to see one another maybe once or twice a year. At least we can keep each other company in our isolation, but it's not the same thing as being able to watch bad movies and drink margaritas together whenever the whim hits. On the grand scale, life doesn't suck. I have a business that is starting to take off locally -- which gives me hope for what it'll do once I can take it to the 'Net, at least one good friend that I can talk about anything to, a wonderful and affirming relationship, and the distinct possibility of starting the next phase of my life in a whole new city that I'm looking forward to exploring more of before then. Right this second, though, I'm having trouble seeing the forest for the trees.

In the bottle: Fresh and lemony; reminds me of walking in the shade of a citrus grove. Wet: The lemon turns to a sharp note of lemon rind, with bitter aloe underneath. Neither the tea nor the musk appears at this stage. Dry-down: The tea starts to come out at this stage, adding a strange yet lovely aquatic note to the mix. It’s bitter, but not unpleasantly so. Mature: The tea has come out all the way, with the lemon as a top note and the aloe as an underpinning, but there’s very little sign of the musk. This is very odd; my skin doesn’t amp musk notes, but they usually bloom quite nicely after a while. All I’m getting is a faint, ethereal sweetness, keeping the bitter notes from being too bitter. Throw is minimal. The bottom line: Embalming Fluid is very much a summer scent to me. On its own, it doesn’t do much for my skin (unless it’s insanely hot), but I can see the potential for using it as a layering scent with certain florals that go a little too fruity for my tastes.

In the bottle: Very sharp and aromatic. Lavender, fern, and more lavender. (Huh; fougere isn’t listed in the blend, but I’d swear I can smell it.) Wet: The violets bloom almost instantly. I was a little worried, as my skin usually grabs on to the heavier florals – like neroli. Instead, they’re all playing very nicely together. Dry-down: Mmm. This starts to take on a more masculine nature as it matures. It’s almost aquatic, and very herbal. It reminds me of a post-shaving balm that someone very dear to me used to use, only without the musk. Despite the violets, there’s a very boy-scented feel to this blend. Yummy boy fragrance. Mature: As it matures, this chypre takes on a wonderful late spring rainstorm quality. You know; late May, blooming violets, burst of fresh greenery, and the warm rain that makes it all smell so wonderful. Aquatic and herbal; just a touch aromatic with a woody bottom note. Light throw. After a bit more time, the musk comes out and softens the scent very nicely. The bottom line: I love chypre-type fragrances. Buried somewhere in my possessions is an unopened bottle of Chypre from the 1900 Exposition Universelle in Paris that predates Coty’s famous offering by nearly 2 decades. Beth’s interpretation is the best I’ve ever smelled of the traditional formulas. The only problem with having an imp of a discontinued fragrance like this is that I know that getting my hands on more is going to be difficult at best. It’s not an everyday perfume for me, and that’s a good thing, because I’ll be able to make the most of what I’ve got. If Beth ever resurrects this one, I’m grabbing some.