Sunday, December 29, 2013

Black Bottom Cupcakes

These are a long time favorite of mine.  'Cause chocolate, cream cheese, chocolate (chips) and walnuts.  Hello.

Will be perfect with spiked eggnog for New Year's. photo and recipe

1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese,
1 egg
1/3 cup white sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 cup miniature semisweet chocolate
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup white sugar
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup water
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 tablespoon cider vinegar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Line muffin tins with paper cups or lightly spray with non-stick cooking spray.
2. In a medium bowl, beat the cream cheese, egg, 1/3 cup sugar and 1/8 teaspoon salt until light and fluffy. Stir in the chocolate chips and set aside.  (or, sprinkle chips and walnuts on top of the dollop of cream cheese - see below.)
3. In a large bowl, mix together the flour, 1 cup sugar, cocoa, baking soda and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Make a well in the center and add the water, oil, vinegar and vanilla. Stir together until well blended. Fill muffin tins 1/3 full with the batter and top with a dollop of the cream cheese mixture.
4. Bake in preheated oven for 25 to 30 minutes.

Friday, December 27, 2013

Inspiration: Amsterdam

Several years ago, when my brother and sister-in-law and the buddy-nephews were in the Army and stationed in Germany, my mom and I traveled to visit them.  Such a wonderful visit.

And, since all of my grandparents hail from the Netherlands, and Mom's dad grew up in Amsterdam, Mom and I took the train from Idar-Oberstein to Amsterdam.  We spent three days/two nights in the city, went to the Ann Frank house (awe-inspiring) and took a wrong turn into the red-light district (my excellent sense of direction failed me.  No, I was not drawn down that street by the aroma of pot.  Really.)  (Did I mention my mother was with me?)

Amsterdam Flea Market

One of the things that I wanted to experience was an Amsterdam Flea Market.  Since it was early November, I did not expect to find flower bulbs.  But when I saw this, I knew I had to find a way to get her home.

I'm fairly certain she doesn't originate from the Netherlands, but the vendor spoke only enough English to haggle with. Although I didn't do much haggling.  I was too entranced.  

Meanwhile, my mother was shopping for these, which she thought were wonderful autumn themed socks that would be a great Christmas present for my brother Jeff.  (Mom had NO idea what she was buying.  I, however, about fell down laughing when she showed me her purchase.)

These were quite the hit at the family holiday party.
Did I mention that the statue weighs about 10 pounds?  Not light.  Not easy to carry, especially since it couldn't be strapped to the suitcase, given the cobblestone streets of Amsterdam.  We did so much walking (and laughing), that my blisters had blisters.  We slept on a really uncomfortable bed that slanted to the left so that there was more mother-daughter closeness than intended (it's not that the bed was slanted.  The whole hotel was slanted.  And about 10 feet wide.) 

Here she is, on Jaynee's antique table, next to the pottery Jaynee made for me a few years ago.
The statue is now one of my treasures.  A memento of a wonderful trip, a special time with my mom, of an adventure that I often long to embark on again.  She reminds me that dreams do come true. 

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Peace on Earth
I wish you peace and happiness and love.  Most of all, 
I wish you joy.

Monday, December 23, 2013


Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a subtle color girl.

Here's proof:
Painting by Helena Nelson Reed: Goddess Looking Within
This summer, I painted my bedroom bright orange.  I'd fussed for months, trying to figure out a color.  Turquoise.  Nah.  Purple.  No.  I almost went with white, mostly because I was just looking for something clean and fresh and neutral.

Did you know that orange is the new neutral?  :)

Corner view
Turns out, for all my art, orange really is a neutral.  I paired it with a magenta and turquoise bedspread, which I'd show you, but the cats shredded it in about three weeks.  The material was too thin.  (It's now in the bottom of my closet.  I'm going to try to felt it back together.  Of course.)

The wise interwebs say that orange is the sign of warning.  And of visibility.  It's also the national color of the Netherlands.  (Since my grandparents all hailed from Holland, I like this.  But I didn't know countries had national colors.  But I did know that the US is not color-blind.)  Apparently, Frank Sinatra thought orange was the happiest color.  Hmmm.

The plants have to live inside during the winter.  Meet Monster and Mini (Monster).
I also got rid of my window blinds.  I've never been a fan of curtains, since I like to see the light when I'm awake, in the morning, in the middle of the night.  Of course, the next weekend the naughty neighbors next door put up a motion light on their garage so that now, every time they leave the house at 11 p.m. and 1:30 a.m. and 3:30 a.m. and 5:30 a.m., the light shines in my eyes.

View towards Pleasant Ave.  So pleasant.
One thing I've noticed about my "new" bedroom?  I've left my bed unmade more in the past three months than in the last twenty years.  :)  Apparently, orange also inspires sloth.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

turning of the year

"Shall we liken Christmas to the web in a loom?  
There are many weavers, who work into the pattern the experience of their lives. 
When one generation goes, 
another comes to take up the weft where it has been dropped. 
The pattern changes as the mind changes, 
yet never begins quite anew. 
At first, we are not sure that we discern the pattern, 
but at last we see that, unknown to the weavers themselves, 
something has taken shape before our eyes, 
and that they have made something
very beautiful, 
something which compels our understanding."
-   Earl W. Count, 4,000 Years of Christmas

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Meet Johanna. We're going to be great friends.

Kitchen Aid stock photo
Whoo hoo!  The bestest Yule gift ever!

At Thanksgiving, I saw my sister-in-law Kathy's Kitchen Aid mixer and fell in love.  So, Jaynee, being the wonderful friend/roommate/sister that she is, got me one.  Yay, Jaynee!  (And I know how expensive they are, so I'm not sure how she managed it on her teeny-tiny budget, but I'm so so so grateful that I'll even let her borrow it.)

I'm naming the mixer Johanna, after my Grandma.  As a kid, I spent every Saturday morning with Grandma, baking bread and cinnamon rolls and sometimes, cookies.  These are the best of my childhood memories.

I haven't done much baking in the past 15 years.  My kitchen is too small to roll out dough without re-arranging everything.  Plus, my hands and wrists don't have the strength they used to.  (I blame this on my years as a booth cashier in a Vegas casino, slinging coin bags around.)  So, it hurts to stir heavy dough.

Not anymore.  Johanna and I spent yesterday making Christmas cookies.  It was delicious.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

The Silly and the Smart

The Silly.

Sparky and Ricky, out in the snow.
The Smart

Sam and Rhea know to stay inside the warm house.  Sparky lasted outside about 10 seconds.
Me, I'm staying inside until the snow melts, in March.  Maybe, June.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Really, Why Not?

Jaynee and I did a big art show the first weekend in December.  Lots of fun, decent sales.  And so so so many women who have themselves convinced that they either aren't worthy of beautiful jewelry or that they aren't special enough to feel beautiful.

I don't get it.

I lost track of the times I heard "Oh, I could never wear anything that pretty," or some variation of this.

I repeat.  I don't get it.

And, this disbelief in a woman's innate wonderousness and majesty scares me. 

Somehow, women have been convinced that beauty only comes in one form and is accessible to only a few.  As a Gender & Women's Studies teacher/scholar, I could share all sorts of reasons WHY this happens (and why it's not true), but as an artist who makes beautiful things with the PURPOSE of enhancing women's beauty, I'm saddened.

It's more than being a certain size.  Or what a woman looks like.  It's about how she feels.  Way too many of the women we spoke with at the show thought it was shameful for them to want to buy something pretty for themselves.  Or said that they had no place to wear a pretty necklace or bracelet.  As if their ordinary lives don't have value, aren't special enough to warrant feeling fabulous.

I don't get it.

And, I do get it.

Because the primary messages that women receive is that their lives don't have value.  (Hello, Congress and your disregard for reproductive rights.)  Women are told that their pleasure comes through the relationships they have with others, rather than their relationship they have with themselves.

I get frustrated, because, really, what are we waiting for?  Permission?  To value ourselves?  To pamper ourselves?  To live lives that make us joyful.  Not just content.  Joyful.

pinterest image

In the spirit of promoting beauty and joy, I'm making these my blog themes for the upcoming year.  Along with Wisdom Wednesdays and beads and felting and whatever else I get into and cats.  ('Cause cats KNOW all about beauty and joy.)  I'm going to work on ways to empower women to feel beautiful and joyful.  To know that they don't have to wait for permission from someone else, but can CHOOSE for themselves.

'Cause, really, if we only live once  (and I'm not convinced we do), why not enjoy every moment?  Celebrate the beauty.

Saturday, December 14, 2013

I Made It!

Yes.  I made it through one of my busiest semesters yet. 

And, now, I have a really long list of fun stuff to do over my three week break.
View from the new kitchen window!  See the gazebo and wrapped picnic table?  That's where Baby, the homeless Tom-cat hides out.  It's taken us six years to be able to sit within two feet of him while he eats.  He loves his turkey lunchmeat.
I'm sure shoveling white stuff will be part of my adventure.  I'm looking at the shoveling as an endless (seemingly) source of exercise. 

So the list, in no particular order:
Clean my bead table!  And my stash drawers.
List stuff on Etsy.
Play with polymer.
(I need to make some buttons for my felted bracelets.)
Make polymer molds.
Make some stamped cards.
Re-work some necklaces for ME to wear.
(I have a few pieces that I love but no one else seems to,
since they haven't sold in a few years.
Now, they're mine mine mine.)
Play with pearls.
(I'm starting a new line of necklaces and bracelets.
With inspirational quotes.
Because I LOVE quotes.)
Find quotes. 
Try to learn to crochet.
Make niece's wedding jewelry.
(More pearls!)

A sample.  Very simple design.  Lovely pearls.
I have some academic stuff I have to do as well - finish my syllabus for my Spring class, do some paperwork for a travel grant, work on Comprehensive Exam reading list (gulp.), and order books.

We were going to paint the kitchen a new coat of lime green...  going to.

Skylar needs some play time, instead.

Monday, December 9, 2013

Boot Envy

As an abundantly calved woman, I suffer from boot envy every winter.

Until I saw these.
Gallery 16 image
Yes.  Please.

So I began to think about how I can take my new love of felting and create my own, one of a kind, fit my fat calves boots.  Wouldn't these be spectacular to stomp through the snow in?

Or, these?
Pinterest image
I could even make do with these.
Flickr image
They don't even have to be purple.  I have a fondness for red, as well.  Or blue.  Or green.  Not yellow, though, 'cause everyone knows that yellow and snow is unwise.

Friday, December 6, 2013

Christmas at Wings

Whoo-hoo!  Let the fun begin!
Crowd shot of Wings show, 2012
This weekend is the big Christmas at Wings art show.  A gazillion booths (300+, I think), two gazillion shoppers.  Hopefully, many many appreciative BrisingBeads Designs fans.

We're in the Annex again this year.  Nice.  It's the go-between spot between the main arena and the smaller arena.  A little port in the storm of people, if you will.  Meaning people can actually spend time browsing before they're crowded out of the way.

Also, convenient to an under-used bathroom.  A+.

Here's us last year, at the show:

That lovely booth banner?  We forgot it when packing up.  This year, we won't.
Today is set-up.  I'll try to add photos later.


Monday, December 2, 2013


So much to do!  So little time!

Since ALL of my jewelry backstock is out for sale at other holiday shows, I've been working furiously to replenish my stock before my biggest holiday season show, held this coming weekend.  Keep in mind, this work gets done when I'm not writing end of semester final papers (Two of them, 20-25 pages), grading, teaching, and still attending classes which require books to be read.  YIKES.

(No.  I am not a masochist.)  (I may/may not be sane.)

These pieces are "in progress."  Meaning - hurry up, Skylar!  You are running out of time!

Love this polymer stamped cabochon.
This also needs to be finished.
So do these...
Yes.  In my insanity, I'm letting go of some of my prized MakuStudios pieces. 

Tired, yet?

I have about a dozen more, lounging on the beadtable.  They know that they won't get completed in time for the show.  They're cool with it.  Me?  I'm delusional.  I still think I can finish them all.

(Cue insane laughter.)

Friday, November 29, 2013

Black Friday

Nope.  Not playing.

As an artist of handmade goods, I've decided not to play into the consumer-goods-deep-discount trope this year.  I'm not buying mass produced items today.  I don't sell mass produced goods any time.

I make one of a kind jewelry.  I'm proud of this.  In over twenty years of making necklaces, I've never made two the same.  Ever. 

Lime green druzy and turquoise, 2012.
I've lost count of how many necklaces I've made.  But the most common response I get to my jewelry is an appreciation for its uniqueness.  People want things that are special.  Things that can represent who they are, or believe themselves to be.

It's hard to find this quality at a big box store, isn't it?

Cobalt druzy and kyanite, 2013.
With this in mind, when planning for holiday sales this season, I made the business decision to focus on handmade markets.  My Etsy shop is "on vacation," because ALL of my jewelry is scattered at other sales venues.  Two art shows (more about this in a few days), two private home sales, and a major holiday show with 100,000+ potential customers.  

Each of these venues appreciate the art of handmade.  In fact, they focus on handmade.  And you know what, these are busy markets.  People are interested in buying quality, specialized ART.  And venues like this make shopping even more convenient than those crowded, generic stores.

Arizona druzy, 2013
Along with deciding where to sell this holiday season, I also thought about my prices.  Always a difficult decision, no matter what season.  Do I price things so that I pay myself a "living wage" for the work I do?  Or, do I keep my prices reasonable, so that people like me can afford a bit of beauty and specialness?  The end result is always the same = lower prices.  But, NOT give away prices.

In the past, I've followed the Black Friday dictate that says % off is essential for sales.  No more.  

My prices are already low.  I offer 10% off ( and sometimes more) on any future purchases to regular customers.  But, following the deep discount trend just doesn't work when you're making one of a kind items.  It seems to take away from the over-all value. 

Citrine cluster and lampwork, 2012.
I think the message of handmade, (one of them, anyway) is to re-introduce people to quality.  To the value of uniqueness, of specialness.  In a world where it's all too easy to feel anonymous, a handmade gift says "I see YOU.  I value who YOU are.  YOU are worth my time and energy, to find a gift that honors YOU."

This holiday season, I'm proud to sell handmade.  I'm also committed to buying handmade.  'Cause the people I give gifts to deserve no less.  And neither does my artisan community.

Saturday, November 23, 2013


I wrote this short story several years ago, for a Creative Writing class.  It was inspired by a young woman I watched, sitting in a hallway of an academic building, waiting for her (presumably) boyfriend.  I love the story, others have enjoyed it, but I doubt it'll ever get published.  So, I'm posting it here, for Sarah, who thinks she might be beige.  (She's not.)



Chapter 1 – Women’s Studies
            She’s waiting in a hallway for some guy she barely knows, but maybe ought to marry.  Idly, she flips open the textbook in her lap, A History of Women.  She’s a senior in college, beige and without a clue.  After five years in an institution of higher knowledge, she’s still not sure what she’s learned.  She can write an essay on the importance of women’s history to literature and she can order a meal using beginner French.  She can schedule her life into semesters, meeting every requirement and deadline.  She can fake her way through algebra, but she doesn’t want to bluff her way through life.  With 133 credits, she’s eligible for graduation into her adult life.
            Once, she had big dreams.  She dreamed of dancing on the stage, while wearing red shoes.  People applauded and called out her name.  In her dreams, she was one of the fabulously exciting people doing fabulously exciting things.  She was a star, baby.  In her dreams, she was a star.  She lived her life in the dreams of infinite possibility.
            Now, though, she waits in a hallway for some guy she barely knows, but maybe, ought to marry.

Chapter 2 – Women & Work: The Sky’s the Limit
            “When did I become beige?” she wonders, staring at her reflection in the airplane
window.  “Once, I knew how to fly.”
            Now, her wings are an embroidered symbol printed on the cloth scarf she’s
required to wear around her neck.  Dressed in her sexless corporate issue uniform of tan faux-silk blouse complimented by taupe polyester slacks, she travels constantly across the country, serving the needs of unappreciative airline passengers. 
            “I used to be a Valkyrie,” she thinks.  “I used to carry a sword in one hand and a shield in the other.  I could travel between the worlds of the living and the dead with one sweep of my powerful arms, carrying messages and passengers without fear.  I was bold.  I was brave.”  Now, she is a chooser of the slain only if she uses her imagination when picking up the empty cups and unwanted meals, when handing out tiny pillows and too thin blankets.
            She sits for a moment in the jump seat behind First Class.  If she leans forward, she can see the red lights at the end of the airplane wing, blinking on, blinking off. 

Chapter 3 – Women In the Home
            She’s learned to live without color, especially red.  Red sets him off like a raging bull in a Hemingway story.  She stays away from red.  Of course, her lip bleeds red, cracks from where he’s hit her again in the last week.  Trying to heal, it cracks and bleeds.  This sets him off, too.  Must be the red of her lips.  

Chapter 4 – Politics of Women’s Reproduction
            The doctor’s eyes are kind over his mask.  “This will just take a minute, “ he says.
 “Let me know if there is too much pain.”
            She wants to scream.  Too much pain.  Are you kidding me?  It’s too painful to
discover a pregnancy that isn’t a possibility, she wants to say.  It’s too painful to inform the unwanted father of his unwanted child.  It’s too painful to make the doctor’s appointment and then too painful to walk past the pro and con life signs outside the doctor‘s office.  In too much pain, she’d pulled her sweatshirt hood up over her head, shrinking inside for cover against the angry words.  Beige cotton is no defense against hate. 
She closes her eyes, hoping to chase away the red haze of fear and pain that clouds her vision. 

Chapter 5 – Global Feminism, Past
            My thin legs are weak with the motion from the ship that carried me here.  I am just a girl, yet I am stripped bare for all to see.  I stand here in the beige dust of the busy marketplace, wrists bound behind my back with coarse rope.  It’s humid here, this place they call Carolina.  I don’t understand the language these strange pale people speak. The jabbing laughter of the men frightens me.  Their faces blur together as they poke at me with sticks and more laughter as I try to move away.  The rope that binds me to the others pulls me up short.  The skeletal man with the merciless smile pokes at the joining of my legs with the end of his cane.  There is nowhere to hide, so I conceal my eyes.  He forces my legs apart, striking my right thigh so forcefully that I moan in pain.  I twist forward, into the sting.  That’s when I see the blood dripping down my legs.  My moon has begun. 
Softly, I hear my grandmother’s voice in the distance, across six weeks of ocean,
explaining the mysteries of my upcoming womanhood ceremony.  “Women bleed into
the earth that is their home,” she is saying, holding the dust of Africa in her palm.   Unhurriedly, the red blood now drips, carrying my past and my present and my future into the dust at my feet.     
            I begin to cry.

Chapter 6 – Global Feminism, Present
            One by one, she plants the tulip bulbs.  Methodically, she places each bulb into an exactly dug six inch hole.  One thousand strong red tulips will bloom in the spring, one flower for each day of her marriage.
            She carried tulips at her wedding two years and seven months ago, just before he was shipped out.  Where the hell is Afghanistan, anyway? 

Chapter 7 – Women in Action
            The desert is cold at night.  Damn wind never stops blowing, or so it seems.  The air smells like chalk with all this blowing dust.  Caliche, they call it.  Beige dust, thank you very much.  And the sky, lightening with the coming morning, is just too big.  It’s only the red-tinted shadows of the nearby mountains that define this vast and desolate space.  Gives me the creeps.  And in my thirty years of traveling the earth, I have learned creeps.
            Here I am, in the middle of the Nevada desert, standing by a cattle-crossing barrier.  The grate rattles when stepped on and whistles hauntingly in the wind.  Barbed wire fencing is attached to a simple iron gate, outlining the borders of the hazard zone.  There’s a bit of rotting rag caught on a tine of the fence, near where I stand.  I am one of forty odd other women, from all over the world.  We look very small in comparison to those dawn-reddening mountains in the distance.  We’re used to looking small, almost as inconsequential as the small brown bat that joined us in our welcome circle this past afternoon.  There we were, passing fruit and water amongst each other, sharing water with each other, swapping stories from our homeland fights against nuclear power, when this little creature flew into our center.  It hovered near every one of us. One woman from Romania, brave, let it rest in her open palm.  The bat visited for ten minutes or so, then flew away.  Bizarre, seeing a bat travel in the day time.
            Unnerving it is, to stand at this cattle guard, knowing that nuclear tests have been performed less than twenty miles away.  We are standing on unholy ground.  Ground that, no matter how much time passes, will remain poison.  We’ve been here all night, drumming softly, chanting, holding vigil in protest of the upcoming weapons test.  I’ll be glad when the sun comes up over those mountains, chasing away the shadows.
            And relieved, to leave this desert wind that forever blows, sending fearful beige dust flying everywhere. 

Chapter 8 – Women’s Liberation
            Since she was 26, she’s had red cowboy boots on her list of “138 Things To Do Before I Die.”  She has magazine clippings saved from throughout the years, dozens of pictures, all of red cowboy boots.  Some are plain ole Justin boots, fire-engine red.  Some boots are wildly embroidered with butterflies or flowers or fabulous paisley patterns.  A few pictures show boots that are hand sewn from very expensive leather.  Some have spiky heels, made for dancing.  Some are western cut, made perfectly for walking.  Some are simply made for kicking the shit out of life.
            When she knows which red boots are made for her, she’ll buy them.

Chapter 9 – Feminism in Waves
            Suffrage, that’s what they called the women’s movement once.  She remembers reading  about a parade of women, marching with hundreds of other women, asserting for the right to vote.  Nineteen amendments it took, to get a constitution that addressed the honor of all its citizens.  The address is wrong, however, and the check’s lost in the mail. 
            She bends to pick up the tarnished coin.  Biting it, she can taste the copper.  The penny is as old as she is, and as carelessly tossed away, ignored as unimportant.  She places the change in the outside pocket of her faded brown winter coat, and nods her head. “Seventy eight more of these and I’ll have earned what a woman makes an hour in comparison to a man.”
            The sufferage continues.

Chapter 10 & 11 – Culture vs: Nature
There’s little light shining in the window at the end of the corridor, just enough illumination to muddy up the brown paint trim of the enclosing bars.  The walls are beige.  The floor tiles are beige.  The thin blanket on the cot is so faded that it could be beige, if it had a color at all.
            “This prison ain’t got no soul,” she thinks.  “Just the blank space of a waiting room.”  She has thirteen more years to wait before she has any hope at all of getting out.  Drugs is what got her here.  No excuse for it.  She was so high, she can’t remember her daughter’s birth.  The baby girl exists only in a worn out crayon coloring now.  Big, boldly drawn bright red lips, with “I Love U This Much, Mama!”, written in a shaky five year old’s hand.  She keeps this paper treasure tacked on the wall across from her cot.  First thing she sees in the morning and the last thing she sees at night, she misses that baby girl like a drug.
            She did a special favor to get the birthday present for her baby girl.  Earned her
some tiny little red rubber bands for her daughter’s braids.  Every girl, every woman needs red in her life.  Gotta have more than beige to look forward to.

Chapter 12 – Women Aging Gracefully
            Nothing’s where it used to be.  Not my breasts or my butt or even my smile.  I’m fifty.  I’m not that old.  Am I? 
            He traded me in a month after my birthday.  ASSHOLE, all one word, capital
letters.  Now, what karma will he get for that? 
            I lost my beautiful home and my steady bank account.  I lost my husband of twenty-one years.  And, now, I’ve lost my fear.
            Now, I can walk in four-inch red heels, if I want.  Now, I can show that I’m taller and stronger and better than he.  Now, I’m not in his shadow.  Am I?

Chapter 13 – Women With Choice
            She can’t forget the red shoes.  They’re shoved way in the back of her closet, trying to forget those dreams of the stage, the ambitions for her life.  The dream of dancing in the red shoes once gave her the possibility to move, to be limitless, uncontrolled, uninhibited.  Her creativity, her passion, her strength could flow through her feet, igniting her world with spirit and experience.  She could travel with purpose, slowly or wildly, gracefully or leaping with joy.  With the red shoes, she was free to dream.  With the red shoes on her dancing feet, she was alive and facing every future opportunity, with a world of color before her.
            She snaps A History of Women closed, her decision final.  Perhaps, she really doesn’t need a college degree to know that she wants more out of life than waiting in a hallway for a man she barely knows, and, maybe, ought not to marry.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Yes, please.

I have a thing for outside showers.  Yep, call me a bohemian.  But fresh air just FEELS so good.

When we re-did the bathroom a few years ago, we put in a new window in the bathroom.  And, because the bathroom is so small, the window is right in the middle of the shower wall.  So, we added tint to the window to obscure the view.  And then, the closest neighbor put up a fence.  So the backyard is much more private.  In the summer, at least.  When all of the foliage is in place.

Doesn't matter to me.  'Cause as long as it's not below freezing, I'm showering with the window open.  Although, I'd much prefer this:

Sigh.  A little corner of heaven.

I'd even clean the soap scum from this...

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Sometimes, no dream interpretation is needed

Thursday night, I dreamed that I was with a group of people (who I didn't recognize) and we were going from rundown house to rundown house.  It looked like something out of Duck Dynasty.  I think we were looking for a safe place to stay.  But before these places could be safe, they had to be cleared of rattlesnakes.

(Caution: image of scary snake ahead.)

(Here, I should note: I have what I consider to be a very healthy fear of snakes.  Rattlesnakes, in particular.  See above picture re: why.)

So in the dream, I began to get romantic with one of the anonymous (yet to meet?) men.  It felt like there was some connection there (not just me being a slut).  So we began to get busy on a broken down couch.  (Remember, this is a dream.) 

And, in walks his mother.  Who is furious.  How dare we despoil her couch?  How dare we have sex outside of marriage!  She's holding a rattlesnake.  Shaking it at me and Mr. Anonymous, like some might shake a shotgun, she demands that we get married.

Yep.  Marriage and rattlesnakes, equally terrifying.


Friday, November 15, 2013

Headed to Vegas!

My friend, Ronnie, bless her heart, is hosting a trunk show of BrisingBeads Designs before the holidays.  Yay, Ronnie!

So, I had to come up with some lovelies, for the lovelies of Vegas.

What'cya think?
Bloom, 2013.
Most of these still need to be edged with beads.  I think I'm going to keep the edging very simple.
Follow Your Bliss, 2013
I find that most of the felted bracelets that I'm putting together have words somewhere in the embellishment.  Maybe that's why these feels like me.  Like I'm finally doing artwork that reflects who I truly am.
Shine, 2013
I've collected bits and pieces of things for so many years.  It's fun to be using some of  my stash.
Feather, 2013.
It's also fun to hunt for new treasures, like this scrap of bullion.  Stunning.
The Key, 2013
I've even been able to add bits and pieces of beadweaving, done years ago for a necklace sampler.  And those dichroic squares.  Yummy.
Joy, 2013
It's also nice that these can come in all sizes.  The above bracelet is 6 inches wide!  Talk about a statement.  Makes me think that I could also embellish mittens, gloves.  Even fingerless gloves.  And purses.  And hats.

This one is also extra large.
Awaken, 2013
 I love love love the scrap of daisy chain on this bracelet.  I bet it's been in my stash for 15 years, something that came in a thrift store junk bag.
Rose, 2103
And sometimes, simple is best.  
Love, 2013
Or, not.  :)  (I think I might keep this one...)
Blue, 2013
But this one, hands down, is the house favorite.  The colors and the bullion are just wonderful.
Live Your Dream, 2013
So, you think these will sell?  :)