Production Day
Yep, it's exactly what it sounds like–I have things that need making and I purposely rigged my schedule so there would be no shipments to pack so that I could get my lazy ass in gear and make things. Besides, I have been handed the most excellent reason to do R&D (read: Engineer and carry out Mad Scientist experiments): someone needs me to come up with a formula for a special reason!!
Joyyyyyyy!!!! I LOVE doing things like this, especially with the need to engineer the scent from things that will help with the condition! Thanks so much Moe for giving me a reason to mix up a men's goodie scent from scratch–I will be making up a nice, manly blend that is all-natural, something that won't hurt the new product line (nope, no linkee until all intellectual properties connected with it are secured). Besides, it means I can play with the new stand mixer my future mother-in-law gave me. The lady understands me all too well–when I asked if she'd be insulted if I used it mostly for making my stuff, she said, "Why the hell do you think I'm giving it to you? You better use it for that, girl!" Other than the fact that she'd just called my 40-year-old ass "girl," I was pickled tink.
Now, an hour after I pulled the mixer out of the box and began work, I have molten shea butter in the freezer. You see, that stand mixer was supposed to make it so I didn't have molten shea in the freezer–the idea was to make it so I didn't have to melt down the beautiful unrefined shea I work with and could just whip in the yummy, skin-loving oils I work into it. But nooooooo!! My fiance had to put the very bowl I need to do a good job on this task somewhere in the house where 10 minutes of searching couldn't turn it up. Shit. So, melt and mix and freeze and whip…well, I know it'll come out just as I need it to….right???
Um, no. Not so far. I had to heat it nice and high because the normally rockin' shea I get from Agbanga Karite has spoiled me for what I have on hand today–it's not quite as pretty as I prefer, so I have to filter it once…maybe twice…
After reheating 3 times during the filtering (the stuff kept hardening during the filtering) I decide, back to the regular process. I heat the shea to 170 to pasteurize and make sure all the natural components are melted, then I mix it well…then into the freezer…out of the freezer…onto the new stand mixer, which I should be able to use just fine even tho…
Um, no again. The bowl size I need to use to put a good whipping on this puppy means that it spatters. Shea that's still 160F is still hot as hell when it hits your skin in little tiny spatters. I decide to just Let It Whip (please God don't let me get that awful song in my head pleasepleaseplease).
Um…no. If I leave the smaller bowl that's not made for this mixer stand to its own devices it threatens to show up on DTW's airport radar. Not wanting to make an air traffic controller lose what's left of his mind, I stand there, just letting the bowl bump itself on my fingernails (more pressure slows the bowl, less makes it prepare for geosynchonous orbit). Once it shows signs of not cooling much more, back to the freezer it goes. I massage the oil on my skin in (FAR be it from me to waste good shea), set the timer, clip it to myself since I still haven't worn out that VR CD yet and it's just me, the cat and the dogs in the house.
Ten minutes later, I wonder what happened to the timer. I peek down to where it's clipped to my shirt. Then I put it to my ear. It's beeping. OK, so the VR's cranked a little beyond what'd keep me from getting a noise pollution ticket if I weren't six miles outside of town, tough shit–it's my hearing and besides it doesn't rock really nicely in the kitchen unless it's this loud.
Back to the kitchen–pop that slowly solidifying puppy back onto the stand. It should behave now–no nasssty pelting of sizzling oil, no more flying off the stand…
Do I need to say it again?
I didn't think so.
So, here it is two hours after I got the bright idea to do this job on the stand mixer. It's not flying off the stand, but it bumps around pretty badly anyhow and I've found I have to re-chill to make sure the blades of the mixer haven't heated the shea due to the speed they're moving at. But the whipped shea butter is beautiful, creamy, completely mixed with the emu, evening primrose, jojoba, and Vitamin E oils I've added to this batch, and it'll do the job nicely. NOW I'm happy with my mess.
All I have to do is make up the EO blend to put in now. That won't take me long; it should be a really easy, really quick job…
It’s all over but the After-Holiday sale
Well, it's noon EST and I'm looking at the pile of shipping I need to do, with the feeling I'd just rather crank Velvet Revolver and go play Gin and be a lazy bitch like I've been working up to this weekend.
It's not that I don't fully appreciate the fun I've had or the wonderful people I've met thru eBay–contrary to popular belief it's not full of bloodthirsty cut-throat thieves. After all, I'm there and I'm no thief. I've met some great folks–like the neat Aussie lady who lives in Arizona, the one who made Jav's new candle/coffee mug. The same lady sent me a candle in the same scent as a Christmas present–which, btw Laura Lee, rocks! Or the one who sent me a wonderful candle and bath bomb with my order, then proceeded to tell me what that fabulous scent was and where she gets it! Or the other one that showed me Eggnog is NOT a shitty scent for a candle (I have the votive to prove it–makes the house smell GREAT!) and the nice woman in Wisconsin (yeah, I know that's where all the best eBayers come from, but I just say that because it's where I was born and raised) who got tied up with a family emergency over the holiday and refunded my bucks because I didn't have my goodies before Christmas.
I could go on, but you all know who you are, the good people you meet on eBay…hopefully the asshats (MooCow, I still giggle like a silly bitch when I think of that word) know who they are too, like the one who spends two words of feedback saying "Nice sale" and the rest of the space plugging themselves! I do mention which eBay Store my customers got the stuff from but not "Come to my store where I sell what the person who bought from me sells the same thing only she sells better stuff so I'm fucking with her feedback!"
So, here I sit, surrounded by the scent of the Applejack and Peel fragrance oil I just loaded samples of to go out with orders, trying to resist the urge to go looking for my Badboys and just piss the day away, now that John's back at work and it's quiet enough to truly crank the speakers enough to melt my face while I sit here and babble. Guess I'm just tired.
Or I have scurvy.
What I Learned this Christmas
1. Those little Milky Way Caramels that they put out for Christmas seriously rock, but they should be bigger. MUCH bigger.
2. Making your own chocolate syrup rocks, but be sure not to let it boil over.
3. Getting rid of the smell of burnt chocolate syrup is a real pain in the ass.
4. If you expect things to get where they should on time, ship them Priority Mail–it's cheaper than UPS' accelerated shipping and far as I know no one burned down a Post Office this year.
5. Monkey Farts rocks! But it'll turn into soap on a stick in discounted-water and other extreme soaping methods.
6. The more you give your Mailbitch, the nicer you find your mail.
7. Mine likes Bayberry and loves the Lip Balm.
8. Making those hand-knit washcloths comes out stellar in the MAN-sized version! Twice the area–twice the suds–twice the soapy FUN!
9. Even during Christmas, there are hospitals that charge $3/day for phone service to your room, even if you're stuck in bed after gallbladder surgery. My future MIL is now out of the hospital and doing great, thanks Gods!
10. Do NOT slam anything into the front part of your cart while arguing with someone on Christmas Eve at Meijer's (think Super Wal-Mart on steroids). I did this, yes–a Smokey Joe grill into a dozen eggs…HARD. Pretty–NOT!
Be excellent to each other, people.
Memo from Santa
Memo from Santa:
I regret to inform you that, effective immediately … I regret to inform you that, effective immediately …… I will no longer serve the States of Georgia, Florida, Alabama, North and South Carolina, Tennessee, Mississippi, Texas,and Arkansas on Christmas Eve.
Due to the overwhelming current population of the earth, my contract was renegotiated by North American Fairies and Elves Local 209. As part of the new and better contract, I also get longer breaks for milk and cookies so keep that in mind.
However, I’m certain that your children will be in good hands with your local replacement,who happens to be my third cousin, Bubba Claus.
His side of the family is from the South Pole. He shares my goal of delivering toys to all the good boys and girls; however, there are a few differences between us.
Differences such as:
1. There is no danger of the Grinch stealing your presents from Bubba Claus. He has a gun rack on his sleigh and a bumper sticker that reads: “These toys insured by Smith andWesson.”
2. Instead of milk and cookies, Bubba Claus prefers that children leave an RC cola andpork rinds on the fireplace.
3. You won’t hear “On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner, and Blitzen…” when Bubba Claus arrives. Instead, you’ll hear, “On Earnhardt, on Andretti, on Elliott and Petty.”
4. “Ho, Ho, Ho” has been replaced by “Yee Haw” And you also are likely to hear Bubba’s elves respond, “I her’d dat”
5. As required by Southern highway laws, Bubba Claus’ sleigh does have a Yosemite Sam safety triangle on the back with the words “Back Off.”
6. The usual Christmas movie classics such as “Miracle on 34th Street” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” will not be shown in your negotiated viewing area. Instead, you’ll see “Boss Hogg Saves Christmas” and “Smokey and the Bandit IV” featuring Burt Reynolds as Bubba Claus and dozens of state patrol cars crashing into each other.
And Finally,
7. Bubba Claus doesn’t wear a belt. If I were you, I’d make sure you, the wife, and the kids turn the other way when he bends over to put presents under the tree.
Sincerely Yours,
Santa Claus
Question: Does this mean Bubba Claus can Git ‘er DUN?
What’s for Breakfast?
A 6-year-old and a 4-year-old are upstairs in their bedroom. "You know what?" says the 6-year-old. "I think it's about time we start cussing." The 4-year-old nods his head in approval. The 6-year-old continues. "When we go downstairs for breakfast I'm going to say hell and you say ass."
"OK!" The 4 year old agrees with enthusiasm.
Their mother walks into the kitchen and asks the 6-year-old what hewants for breakfast. "Aw hell, Mom, I guess I'll have some Cheerios."
WHACK! He flies out of his chair, tumbles across the kitchen floor, gets up, and runs upstairs crying his eyes out, with his mother in hot pursuit, slapping his rear every step. The mom locks him in his room and shouts"You can just stay there till I let you out!"
She then comes back downstairs, looks at the 4-year-old, and asks with a stern voice, "And what do YOU want for breakfast young man?
"I don't know," he blubbers, "But you can bet your ass it won't be Cheerios!"
I'll be here all week…
She’s asked for it
Yep, I'm referring to the woman who twists my working world around her little finger, The Mailbitch.
First, the name. It comes from repeated attempts to get her to do the job the fucking Government pays her to do–them and me, between the money I shell out getting my own ingredients shipped in and the money I shell back out for shipping things to others.
I think we must have called her supervisor no less than 5 times in futile attempts to accomplish this. I even marched my ass down to the Postal Orifice, massacred letter in hand fresh from my mailbox, to talk to him directly.
Ask Jav, folks–pissing me off is generally a bad idea. When I feel I'm right, 100%, unequivocally correct in the reasoning that has led me to my pissed-off state, I am not fun to deal with. Jav knows this–now so does my Mailbitch's supervisor. It did no good, but he knows it. Apparently all a Mail Delivery Supervisor is paid to do is make excuses for fuckup asshats who have little rotating lights and signs that say "Mail Carrier" on their SUV's, because that's what this dipshit does every time I talk to him. Poor guy looks like Eric Forman from That 70's Show, but I don't feel so sorry for him that I'm letting his overpaid ass off the hook either.
Over the last four years, this woman (I use the term loosely) has: thrown mail on the lawn–including my fiance's Gods-damned PAYCHECK no less, tossed our mail as far back as humanly possible in our huge mailbox (it's not a sport, lady), left mail that belonged either at the front door or in the mailbox at the garage door (Baby the Impala SS loves to eat packages and the dealership that takes my left tit for repairs loves them even MORE!), left same on the ground beside the damned door (next to the 10 foot porch that even I can hit if I throw at it), and about once a month leaves one of those yellow slips that say "You weren't home so your shit's at the Postal Orifice" when I know damn good and well I was home because I saw the ass-end of her SUV leaving the driveway as I answered the door when she rang the bell!
Normally I feel that we've come to a compromise: I leave her extra bars of soap and other goodies I make from scratch (employing something she doesn't have most days–a brain and a work ethic); she puts the mail where it belongs. However, the deal seems to be that she gets to deliver it whenever she pleases. You already know how much good it does to complain about it, so she gets away with it. Today, of course, is different–I have bottles coming in that I have urgent need for and she's late.
Tuesday we added a new part to the deal–I make her come to the door to pick up anything I paid postage on thru any online mail service (God, I want a postage meter! Please!!) and she lets me get away with making a neat pile at the door instead of going the half-block out to the mailbox with every single piece of mail I manage to have ready before she feels like showing up for the day's delivery and pickup.
Turns out that whenever we ask for a Click-N-Ship pickup, she gets extra pay! Very nice deal for her, but she's complaining! Why? Turns out she doesn't get that extra money if I haven't spent 20 minutes tooling around USPS.com trying to make that snarled excuse for a website give me the page where I can make her do my bidding (mostly). If I make it easy on her (like I used to) and just pop the puppies in the mailbox when they're set to go, she doesn't get more money on her pay.
This one time, the system works for me–I will gladly sit on my fat ass and order her to my door so I don't have to haul the mail out OR trot out there when she finally arrives to get OUR mail. She leaves it at the doorstep, saving herself screwing around with the mailbox at the road.
Suits me–I don't need a gripper on a telephone pole just to get my StinkieMail now.
Hey, yo! It’s Survey Time
~Reading the title and shrugs~ Nash and Hall are on TNA Wrestling, so Survey Time is coming up more often these days…
But I need some clues here. Due to the large pile of StinkieMail I've been getting lately, I have a shitload of scents to test in incense, soy wax and soap! So, here's a list of what needs testing and you tell me which you wanna see first, and which goodies to try it in. I have no idea where to start on this massive list so feel free to let me know.
Pomegranate Sweet Orange
Herbal Citrus
Sweetgrass
Stress Relief (needs soap testing–not likely to hold up in incense)
Black Cashmere (Donna Karan)
Pretty Red Roses
Pumpkin Spice
Pink Sugar (Aqualina)
Sandalwood (this one's different than what I have on hand–smells like well-aged essential oil, tons of other notes blended in)
Cranberry Woodspice
Sage and Citrus
Pearberry (a new to me supplier)
I'm testing Fig Clementine in soy wax right now–it's great in soap and I need to check it out in incense too because most citruses don't hang worth a damn in incense. But this candle throws scent like a monkey with a handful of shit, so I'm hopeful.
StinkieMail
I just got back from the mailbox–it's at the front of the property, my house is toward the back. So it's a short walk, almost like exercise, so I get a little ticked off when it seems like I have to pull fucking TEETH to get mail before darkness descends on the world. It's winter, so darkness does its descending before 5 pm most days. Tough. When I reserve a package pickup on the Net I get mail at 2 pm sharp–when I don't, it's late late late.
I hate that when I have StinkieMail coming.
The Mailbitch (I'm saving her for another rant) says she "luuuuuuuvs" the way my mail smells. I tell her it's because I can't buy most of the exotic, sensuous, niftoid stuff I put in things (like the occasional offerings I leave her) locally. This is partially true–there is what passes for a health food store in town and they do carry essential oils. Bad ones. Bad, expensive ones. So, screw them and I get mine from this great guy in Maryland. I can't get synthetic scents that are worth a shit anywhere in town. Sure, JoAnn and Michael's carries them but they're expensive and smell like flowered shit in good handmade soap. There are a few soapmaking suppliers within an hour's drive but with gas around $2/gallon here it's less expensive in the long run to order online.
So, I'm the recipient of a lot of StinkieMail–I have a few co-ops of folks online that I buy things from plus a few great regular suppliers. Since nearly all of them ship cheaply thru Priority Mail, those packages show up in the mailbox.
This week's mail was especially stinky–I got a bottle of something in on Monday, four pounds of scent in on Tuesday, a bottle yesterday, and today was nearly all StinkieMail: an ounce of Sweetgrass scent (with samples of Berry Peach, which isn't great, and Misty Rain, which rocks and is currently being skin-tested), an 8 oz bottle of Heather scent (I love it and it better rock in incense or I'm gonna be pissed), and NO JAV the Monkey Farts isn't in yet–it's coming Parcel Post.
By the way, the mailbox still has a light reek of Mulberry.
For the Flaky and Non-Flaky among us
For anyone that didn’t see the link, here ya go again:
The WeeWeeChu game
Thanks to Butch, the great guy who runs the above website. Best EO supplier on the planet, no exaggeration necessary.
One beautiful December evening Yu Chow and his girlfriend Tien Chi were sitting by the side of the ocean. There was a romantic full moon shining when Yu Chow said, “Hey baby, let’s play Weeweechu.”
“Oh no, not now, lets look at the moon” said Tien Chi.
“Oh, c’mon baby, let’s you and I play Weeweechu. I love you and it’s the perfect time,” Yu Chow begged.
“But I rather just hold your hand and watch the moon.”
“Please Tien Chi, just once play Weeweechu with me.”
Tien Chi looked at Yu Chow and said, “OK, we play Weeweechu.”
Yu Chow grabbed his guitar and they both sang…..
“Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, Weeweechu a Merry Christmas .. and a Happy New Year.”
Film at 11: Update
Nancy Seaman was convicted of first-degree murder yesterday.
Michigan does not have a death penalty.
Hooray for Boobies
I think the reason this one's going around in my head is that I do get it–I understand why breasts–boobs, hooters, knobs, jugs, cans, fun bags (did I forget any?)–have such a following.
I have to admit–I'm rather attached to my breasts. After all, I've had them since I was a teenager. Actually had more of them than I should–I've been told more than once to get them reduced–ohhh yeah, just TRY to get ANYONE to pay for THAT! I did try to get a reduction funded, before I'd agree to the back surgery that has done more to fuck up my life than my last four boyfriends. Nope–no matter HOW MANY family practice doctors, orthopedists, neurosurgeons, physical therapists or other concerned (with getting paid) parties have made copious notes in my landmark-sized medical records, every insurance company I've ever been covered by has said that they'd rather pay $20K for back surgery (and one eventually did) than pay $5000 to subtract some tit from me.
But, as usual, that's not the point here.
The point is, I'm not the one who's attached to my breasts. Well, not literally–figuratively speaking, most of the folks I know tend to describe me as, "Long hair, nice personality, and Oh My God you GOTTA see that rack!!" Even my female friends! Which leads to the inevitable, "I know this guy…he'd be perfect for you…" Translation: I told him about your boobies and he's drooling and won't leave me alone until you agree to meet him.
Don't get me started on my fiance.
OK, guess I'm already on the subject, so–Well, he's rather fondle of them too–even tho he did ask if I'd ever thought about having them reduced (Keep in mind this was on our first date–he dropped the idea rather quickly thereafter, expressing his fond(le)ness for them) once.
To tell you the truth, I don't know how I'd feel about losing a cup size or two–I'm used to dealing with them and even tho it'd go a long way toward helping with day to day pain levels, I think I'd miss them being the way they have been all my adult life. I have noticed that I allow for them when passing people in close quarters, and I really think my balance would be affected if they suddenly changed–I don't look like I'm about to fall over now but I could seriously change my posture the opposite direction if they suddenly shrunk. I guess it's like anything else–you get used to life being a certain way and a drastic change would mess up more than you think, even if you sit and consider exactly what might be affected.
This is all academic, but I do still think about altering them…about once a year, when I see one of those email questionnaires asking things like, "Coffee or tea? Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt? If you could have plastic surgery once, what would you have done?" and other things that come on those odd buggers. But I usually decide what you read above–I'm me and while there's much I would change, that's not one of the things.
Goth Night Before Christmas
Thanks to The Woobey Queen for this one
A Gothic Night before Christmas
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through our house
was blasting the “St. Vitus Dance” by Bauhaus;
Torn fishnets were draped on my forearms with care,
And two cans of Aquanet applied to my hair;
My thoughts were of graveyards, and horror and dread,
Black visions of pain and despair in my head;
And Bianca, whose face was as pale as the moon,
Had thrown up her arm for this evening’s swoon,
When out by the gravestones there came such a clatter,
I sprang from the coffin to find out the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a ghost,
Expecting to find a dark devilish host.
The moon on the breast of the uncaring snow
Threw ominous shadows on objects below,
When, before my tormented eyes did traverse,
But a gorgeous black Crane & Breed carved-panel hearse,
With a gaunt, shrouded driver, who filled me with fear,
And eight skeletal creatures that might have been deer.
More rapid than vultures his coursers they came,
And his deep Andrew Eldritch voice called them by name;
Now, Murphy! Now, Morgoth! Now, Torment and Woe!
On, Dreadful! On, Lovecraft! Mephisto and Poe!
To the top of the gravestones where fog wisps its breath!
With a weight on my soul I consign you to death!
As dead leaves that before hellish hurricanes fly,
When they flutter like giant bats’ wings to the sky,
So up to the crypt-top the coursers they leapt,
While dearest Bianca, like death, still but slept.
And then, to my horror, I heard on the roof
The clicking and scratching of each bone-white hoof.
As I drew in my arm, and was whirling around,
Down the ebony chimney he came without sound.
He was clad all in black, and he looked oh-so-goth,
A billowy ensemble of crushed velvet cloth;
His boots were knee-high, quite buckled and zipped,
And the Spandex and fishnets ’round his legs were ripped.
His eyes glowed with bluish fire, deathly and cold,
A black eye-liner’d face neither youthful nor old.
A broad lipless mouth drawn with torment and hurt,
And his sorrowful face was as white as my shirt.
A smoldering cigarette tight in his grasp,
Its smoke curling eerily ’round his cloak clasp;
His gaunt frame was topped with long ebon hair,
And a sharp scent of brimstone and cloves choked the air.
His arms were outspread in the shape of a cross,
And I quailed when I saw him, feeling sorrow and loss;
He narrowed his eyes with a twist of his head,
And I felt the full weight of his angst and dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his task,
Left some Dead Can Dance CD’s; before I could ask,
A single tear fell across his aquiline nose,
And then, like an angel, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his hearse, to his team he then hissed,
And away they all drifted like early dawn’s mist.
But I heard him intone, ere he vanished from sight,
“Gothic Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!”
Christmas Hunting
I found out at 5 pm last night that I had one last craft show today.
Considering that 98% of everything that I show at these things is handmade, that's not much time when you know how close to "out" of everything you are. Nothing like good, old-fashioned PANIC to make someone short-term insane. I do function well under pressure, always have–seems like stress brings out the best in me. Seems like it brings out the worst too, which bites, but is all part of life.
F'rinstance, since I had so little notice, I was up until 3:30 am making new stuff and preparing everything I had cured so I could put it out today. I even came up with a great idea for a permanent product line–the first pieces are already done, I just need to puzzle out what's going to come out next. It'll resolve a lot of what I'm not happy with in the stuff I make and give me a better way to present it all to boot.
Anyhow, I get to bed around 3:45, finally asleep about 4:30–who can sleep when they know they MUST be up again by 6 to get ready to go see if anyone likes the stuff their twisted little mind came up with this fall and winter? I can't–hence the 1 1/2 hours' sleep I wound up with. So, I'm back up at 6, out the door by 8:15–
–to a snowstorm! Yippee. People just LOVE hauling themselves around when even the county hasn't bothered to get out and clear the roads. As the car's lurching itself thru two counties and out into the sticks to the show site, I'm wondering if at the end of the day I'm gonna be hauling as much stuff home as I hauled to the show, meaning most of the people who did brave the roads and come to the show didn't like my stuff. Again. It's been a rough year economically, so show revenues are down.
Fortunately, for the most part, folks liked my stuff–I hauled home enough less of what I brought to make the day worthwhile. I sold a crapload of incense, quite a bit of soap, and enough of the other goodies I came up with to make me glad I stayed up as late as I did getting it all ready to go. Of course, there were moments.
The worst one is where two ladies had apparently come hunting instead of shopping–they moved like they were driving deer instead of enjoying Christmas shopping. After I let them know samples of everything were on the nice little tray I use so that folks don't just rip open containers of things that should stay shut, they're grabbing bottles, complaining because they're sealed shut (I seal most of the skin stuff up best I can so people don't stick fingers in lotions and body butters and other things that are meant to stay clean until someone buys them) and tossing them onto the table. Once they'd ripped off the tops of anything that would cooperate, they proceeded to pick out charcoal incense sticks…by throwing or dragging them in front of my fiance, onto the beautiful white and gold damask tablecloth my future mother-in-law donated to the cause of making the table look classy and elegant.
Nice–not only have they managed to make carefully sealed up candles and bags of scented goodies look like a tornado had hit the entire stock and totally taken out displays that took three of us over an hour to make clean, fresh, warm and inviting, they proceeded to trash the one thing we couldn't make presentable again that day! Nothing like someone crapping on hours of hard labor to make someone understand why people want to own Uzis.
I was straightening out candle wrappings and trying to get that damned charcoal off the tablecloth without taking it off and hosing it down, trying very hard not to bitch under (or not-under) my breath about dipshit bitches who have not done anything with their own two hands in 50 years when I got reminded of why I put up with people like the ones who'd just left the table.
As I was shaking my head sorrowfully and controlling the urge to throw the hefty candle in my hand after these sense-impaired excuses for sentient beings, I heard a little voice behind me. When I turned around, there was a young couple standing there, peeking around my fat butt to look at the incense display.
I got said butt out of the way, talking a little about how I made the incense and that several of the scents were my own blends and just watched their faces. I don't think they were listening except to the part about my hand-dipping them. As we talked, their faces just lit up bigtime over the display–said it was "cool" that I figured out how to make my own incense. They spent a few more minutes than some people did looking, then pulled out their money and asked what they could get for that much. I don't know why, but I took enough off (instant sale–I do that once in awhile if someone really likes something but doesn't have quite enough money with them) so they could pick out 100 sticks.
Here's the weird part–not the couple; they picked out a bit of every scent and more of their favorites as I expected and left the table delighted. The weird part was how suddenly it seemed like EVERYONE in the place wanted SOMETHING–ANYTHING–just wanted to buy something we had! I swear on my cat's whiskers, for two solid hours every single person who stopped at the table bought–people who "didn't like scented stuff" were picking out three soaps because I had a sale price if they got more than one soap, and people who loved what they saw kept picking out things and popping them into the bags! It was folks who'd come to shop, some who were selling things themselves, some who were running the show, even a few of the building staff who were on hand to deal with lighting and other matters came and left with at least ONE thing!! Normally about 1 in 4 or less will actually purchase something. Today, about 1 in 8 walked away without anything–but even they took a card so they could call me later to see if I had this or that left.
I can't explain this one–most of the other sellers didn't make much beyond the cost of the space, a few didn't make any sales at all. A few sellers packed early and left–but not before they'd picked up something or other that had caught their eye while we were handing out samples, showing people things, talking about how we made them…whatever had gotten their attention, they didn't leave until they'd gotten the thing they wanted. Usually if someone packs up early, they're so pissed off they wouldn't stop for their favorite thing if they were paid to take it home!
Seriously strange, but it reminded me of what I'd temporarily forgotten while cleaning up after Hurricane Dipshit–if I wanted slick, impersonal, cookie-cutter crap to sell, I'd be the Avon Lady. I don't do all this because I wanna be Mary Kay when I grow up–I do it because I love seeing people like what I do and how I do it! The money's nice but the real reward is knowing someone liked this stuff my brain cooked up. That's the fun part and I'd almost forgotten it.
Almost. I got reminded though.
Killer Bedding
Hiya Fiends of all sorts.
Well, it's been a helluva 24 hours. I hate dust ruffles. You see, that's where this rant starts–where it ends is at the end of a long story.
I'm still trying to figure out why there's a dust ruffle on a pedestal bed. My fiance picked out the bed, right after he closed on our 3 bedroom house just south of beautiful, bucolic (formerly anyhow; then from what the local campers tell me the Yuppies spoiled it by moving here), strange, fascinating, severely RACIST (but that's another rant) Brighton, Michigan. For some reason the sales-bitch talked him into covering perfectly beautiful walnut with a pastel, rainbow, dust ruffle. Normally this guy might have bought the dust ruffle, but used it to polish Baby, his 1995 Impala SS. I personally think he popped for it just in case his brand-new fiance (moi) might like one on the king-size bed. (He knows better now and after the last 24 hours wishes he'd gotten one in a nice Woodland Camoflauge, sans the ruffle part).
Anyhow, we keep neglecting to pull off the dust ruffle when we flip the matress and change the bed because it's under the damn box spring–a big job at best, absolutely awful in small quarters. We usually say, "screw it–next time we'll pull that ugly waste of fabric off and tear it into car-polishing rags, OK honey?"
Well, that silly thing's been there four years now and starting to show wear and tear–as in the tear right by where my feet hit the floor. I've lost my slipper in it a few times in the past week, but didn't think it was out to get me until yesterday.
The first time I caught a foot in it was about 3 pm yesterday–ran like a bitch for the phone and was tugged to an abrupt halt amid the shredding of further seams on that stupid ruffle. Cussing, I pull my foot out (slipperless as usual) and catch the phone. Not the promoter. So I go back to working again…only to decide I'm already sore and it's time for a short break.
I'm not sure the mistake was taking the break or making sure there was nothing to run for. I pick #2. Once again, an hour after the first assasination attempt, I have to dash for something again.
BAM!!! No, Emeril wasn't at the door–but my treacherous bed accessory has made another attempt on my life!! I find myself hitting the floor rather hard, landing on my left knee (my "bad" leg, which is yet another rant). I find out standing is really a problem when one leg won't hold your weight–instead of letting me use it, my left leg is now calling me names like those kids I used to babysit for in high school (I have a fairly foul mouth, but I STILL don't know what half that shit even meant). Long story short, I'm toast and I have two shows scheduled for the weekend.
Shit.
I crawl back on the bed and patiently await my Knight in Shining Armor's return from the salt mine that is a Meijer store. Once he arrives, I spell out the problem–basically, that I have one functioning leg and we need to do something about it unless he wants to carry me around a school in Ann Arbor the next day. So, we head for the nearest hospital–30 miles from home.
Once we get there and I'm checked in, the triage nurse explains she's sending me to "Fast Track". Folks, Fast Track is only Fast for the doctor–the goal is to see how "fast" he can get your (and his) ass out of the hospital. I might add that there's been times these yahoos have been out the door BEFORE I have!
Well, this jackass decides that walking for a Goddess-sized woman is highly overrated, and so is not curling into a fetal, whimpering ball. I'm doing both of these all during the exam, X Rays and the subsequent time when the very-nice RN is asking if the steroid and light muscle relaxant have "done the job." I was nice–I know who the asshat (Gods, Moo, I love this one) is here. So, she talks the doc into a shot of something else–he still has a thing about actually relieving pain, so it's Valium this time, not something that'll actually work on the PAIN that's making everything from the hip on down a mass of knives with midgets jumping on them.
Three shots in my butt's two more than I can put up with, so I give up. That's when I'm presented with two pieces of paper, the medications named on them adding up to over $100 worth of pills. I am still nice. I explain that I am the one paying every red cent for the medicines named on those prescriptions–can they be changed to meds I don't need a home equity loan to buy? The nice nurse comes back; one prescription is changed, the other is the same, with reassurance that Norflex "isn't that expensive".
Bullshit–that one alone is $50 and I didn't know that until I checked with my fantastic pharmacist today. The other is for Tylenol 3 and the little bottle they gave me on the way out the door meant I'm not curled into a fetal ball and I can get to the bathroom myself, but that's about it–even my nice office chair sucks today…
…and so does that nice big gorgeous bed. The dust ruffle??? Baby's gonna look gorgeous!! We still have to pull out the part that is under the box spring but no one can see it anyhow–the beautiful finish on the pedestal is finally out where we can see it.
A little Christmas cheer
Hi Fiends,
Just when I thought eBay was mostly full of bloodthirsty wolves, here’s the sheep:
High bid is $5–no this isn’t an ad; I just found it unusual.
People in Hell want ice water
Just when I think I won't find anything really fucking strange on eBay (I mean stranger than the cup thrown at Ron Artest, the Virgin Mary on a cheese sandwich, tornado wind, a biker in his ex-wife's wedding dress ranting about how lousy his marriage is), I find it. The weirdest part–more than one person had this idea.
I was paging thru the Want It Now ads on eBay–it's a new category, set up to list things you, surprise of surprises, couldn't find on eBay in your regular searching. Well, anyhoo, I was looking thru it, and found the listing in the link up there. The listing title is "My Christmas Wish List…All I want is $1"
Let's see…you don't have a copy of "The Cat In The Hat" to sell?? (I'd like one in Latin–a friend has a copy of "How The Grinch Stole Christmas" and my daughter thought it was seriously cool). How about coupons for a free car wash? Don't have a single thing in this world you can list–you just have this need to panhandle online?
And WHAT in BLUE Hell does a person get for giving this person a dollar? A nice thank-you email? A charge from PayPal for sending the buck to this fool?
Actually, I'm guessing a vague feeling of, "I shouldn't have done that." Considering what a scam this sounds like, it might be possible that it's a way to accumulate a list of suckers' mail and PayPal account list–or am I being a Grinch?
Yeah, I'm being a Grinch.
But just because you're a Grinch, it doesn't mean they're not out to clean out your wallet.
Lip Balm
I TOLD you not to get me started…
I can't believe this–one little bitty tube of stuff (click here for pic–it's that little green thing in the basket) has people raising holy bloody HELL!! And it all started so innocently too…
I came up with the formula for this lip balm during the first days I was making handmade bath and body goodies–my lips were fried and I hated the thought of buying a tube of crayon wax to smear on my lips and the only other thing in the house was a jar of Vaseline that my fiance staked out to "someday" (read–maybe if I ever feel like messing with it or something in the yard needs burning) make homemade Napalm. So there was nothing I could do–I had to go play Mad Scientist (like I ever need encouragement to do that–keep in mind I play with caustic chemicals for shits and grins).
In the end, it's the one thing I have ever made the most of. And it's a simple thing to make, really it is–the trick is getting it into those Gods-forsaken tubes, and I even have that down to a manageable process. For those interested, a friend of mine published the formula and feel free to try it yourself. Don't say this article doesn't warn you tho–here's the link to Chris' Rogue River Soaps.
Turns out, that in the Great Midwest, once someone gets their hands on one of these puppies, there's no letting go!! Dang–I even had a woman PISSED at me because I ran out of them and the supplier was slow getting me more tubes! Does she place an order for when they come in?? HELL no! She ORDERS ME to get them in by the next time I'm in her area! And she does indeed show up and get like 20 of them! Now that I'm putting them on show tables I go thru 50 or MORE a show–just from people buying 10 and more at a crack.
~Shaking my head~ Unfrellingbelievable–all this racket over lip balm? Sure, it's very nice stuff–the shea butter makes it nice and soft even when you forget and leave the damned thing in your jacket pocket just before you go out in -20 weather and start the car you keep wishing had a remote start on it. The Peppermint essential oil makes your lips tingle, just a little bit, and the Tea Tree essential oil makes those inevitable cracks (especially when you frell up and leave the damn lip balm in your jacket pocket) feel much better.
But isn't there more to life????
WELLL???????
Monkey Farts
Ha–knew that title would get your attention.
I have to admit it got mine–to the point where I bid on a fragrance oil by that name on eBay .
Monkey Farts–usually advertised as "whatever goes into a monkey–bananas, coconut, nuts, berries, fruits…" They forget to mention that with carbon-based life forms, what goes in must come out. Hence, the fart part.
Much as I like the sound of the description, I can't picture offering this soap to anyone but Javert, my darling, dearest brother. You see, Jav's my biggest fan (Gapey's a fan too but Jav's the biggest one)–unless he's out and I'm stuck in bed with my seriously painful and messed-up back, he doesn't use anyone else's soap…lotion (won't tell you what kind he likes best tho–email me for the info)…lip balm…oh, Jesus, don't get me started on the Lip Balm.
But as usual I digress. He, as far as I know, has used every bit of soap I've ever sent–including the Root Beer one I did for shits and grins last winter when I was slow and wanted to just play a bit. I know Jav would cheerfully use my Monkey Farts soap–even if I used the dog-pile mold I saw on eBay the same day to make the bars. He'd use it.
Would you?
