The Blarticle

A little while ago, while mulling over newsprint rapidly being replaced by pixels and power cords, I wondered what was happening to the grand ol’ article. In the old days (about a year or two ago, right?), whether for news, opinion, or simply something goofy to read, I’d grab a newspaper or the nearest magazine, plop on the couch and read…an article. Now I push the magic button, which lights up a thin screen, click a few keys and read my friend’s blog or a news story, depending on my mood.

And then it came to me.

Sometimes, I read a blog. Sometimes, I read an article. And I’ll be darned if I can always tell the difference. So, I decided to be brave, and coin a new term. From now on, I think I’ll refer to them all as “Blarticles”.

But a good friend of mine isn’t so sure I’m onto some vernacular breakthrough. He pointed out, only the way that an honest friend can, my new word sounds like those scratchy things that attach themselves to the bottom of a boat.

Hmm…

Type-Oh!

Ok, I’ll admit it. I did it. After years of study, I neglected to draw upon my self-financed college education. Years of papers, projects, and late-night cramming for classes whose names I will never remember. That final Spring Break spent in the library, working on a major paper, while seemingly everyone else went South, spending time in the sand. I worked hard, and, among other things, learned how to proof different genres of writing.

Years later, all that hard work paid off with my first book, Asperger’s in Pink, hitting the shelves shortly.

Writing calls to me. Poking and prodding, doing anything possible to gain my attention. A few months ago, I decided to plunge into the Blogosphere where I could write freely, creatively, hoping for a minutiae of feedback along the way.

And then I wrote a piece I thought was mildly funny.

And left it there, for all the world to read.

A little while ago, I pulled this Blog up, and there it was, laughing in my face.

The typo.

It’s rather obvious, and glares at me. I should have known better. I should have caught it. Alas, I shall slink away, realizing that this writer does, indeed, need a mechanic.

Not to mention, I’ve gained a greater appreciation for my editor.

(Feel free to find it, and note it in the Comments!)

Sneak Peak of Next Week's ArtFire Blog on a Mundane Studio Items of Mine

Hey everyone, here is a sneak peak at my blog, which will run on ArtFire next Wednesday. I'd love to know if you can relate to this! Have a great day!

Ok, I'll admit it. Some of the items that fill my studio are...boring. Like placemats and coasters. My daughter would add to that list. After all, she’s a teen, and does know more than I ever will. At the top of my list of the lackluster are long, lean bags, which fill my collection. Bags with a simple loop handle attached to each.

With moderate holes in the bottom.

No matter how hard I’ve tried to make them exciting, alluring, desirable, the fact can’t be changed that they are what they are. That thing you keep on your doorknob to keep plastic bags off the floor.

Unless you shove them in too firmly.

Plop. Drat.

In an age of “green”, plastic bags are a necessary nuisance for so many of us, still. So, I suppose, admitting we even have them is nothing most of us wish to shout from the street. Or admit that we make things that collect them. Like plastic bag holders, which my family has dubbed: BagBags.

But, alas, they remain. Nevertheless, they are quite useful, as they allow us to keep the grocery bags for reuse – and out of sight, adding a splash of personality to wherever we choose to store them. So, I’ll continue to make and create the “mundane”, striving to make them as striking as possible. After all, they are, well, practical.

That Little Light of Mine

My little light bulb blew out the other day. Not the kind attached to my ceiling fan that needs a ladder – or my husband – to change out. Not the one screwed into the lamp on my nightstand that barely gives off enough light to tell whether or not my socks match. No, the one that “went” is far more useful to me. It belongs to my sewing machine. It’s just a little thing, rarely blown. Over sixteen years, I think I’ve only replaced it once. Maybe twice. Which is why I initially put off buying a new one.

I could not, for the life of me, remember how to remove the old one.

Sure, I could check the manual. But that required remembering where I put it.

Stubborn that I am, and a new project to pulling me harder than getting into a hot car and driving forty minutes for that 4 second errand, I turned the machine on and sewed. And squinted. And breathed loudly, which is one of several coping mechanisms for not saying those things I really don’t want to utter out loud. Or hear my daughter utter out loud. Well, one project done.

And that was it.

No matter how much I tried to encourage myself that my maternal ancestors sewed using treadles, and markedly less light that I surely had, I gave up. It was simply too hard to see. Too hard to tell if what I was making needed more seam ripping than my average product.

Not that I ever use a seam ripper…right? Hmm…

This made me wonder if perfection was held to a different standard back then, if function over perfect seams ruled the day. Or were they simply more attuned to the feel and motion of fabric, needle, and machine?

Regardless, somehow, without breaking it, I figured how to remove the little oblong light. And, somehow, without damaging the machine, I figured how to insert the new one.

Ah, light!

Now, onto “skill”. Too bad I can’t purchase that!

Pass the Coffee. Please.

It's a bad habit. I know that it is. Steaming, fragrant coffee with a splash of cream. No sugar. No sweeteners. Just moderately hot and refillable. And caffeinated.

Especially today. As I sit typing, I'm taking bets on how many cups and how many filters (non-bleached, of course), it will take to awaken from the weekend.

It really was a good weekend. Anything but boring. Then again, "middle school" and "boring" rarely fill the same sentence. Unless you are the middle schooler. And you are in class. Or home, listening to your parents talk about...well, anything.

For a handful of middle schoolers, last weekend was thrilling. Last weekend meant "field trip", an out of state, overnight, how-much-can-I-push-the-limits field trip. How can I sneak over here? How can I escape over there? How many times can I roll my eyes until the teacher catches me? How quickly can I spend all that cash? Sure, some were angels. Some were quiet. Some showed maturity well beyond, well...the others.

For us, the brave, the chaperones, it was an exercise in herding cats.

It's a funny thing. Somehow, once children turn into teens, they consistently and repeatedly announce to the world they are the new intellectuals. They do, indeed know everything. And they know it better than anyone over the age of thirty ever did - and ever will.

Despite the fact that 25 cent slime from a vending kiosk is super cool.

Especially when you wrap it around a drinking straw.

And so is seeing how many super stuffed chocolate candy infused cookies can be eaten in a quick stop for lunch.

And we weren't even "there" yet.

On to Knitting

Well, next to it, anyway.

That's where it sits. In a wicker basket, lined with green fabric embroidered with birds, next to an over-sized armchair.

Don't ask me what type of birds. I couldn't begin to tell you. Maybe they're knitting birds. They sit there, unmoving. Content to be in the same spot for hours on end. Doing the same thing over and over. And over again.

Like knitting.

Honestly, I do enjoy knitting. It's incredible to have the ability to design and create something practical, stylish and unique. The feel of the fibers while witnessing string turn to cloth can be cathartic.

Several years ago, I fell in love with a pattern for a sweater, for myself. It was an entire book of sweater patterns, actually, printed exclusively in color, displaying colorways that were simply stunning. I finished one for my husband, and he wore it in public, even. That was the true test. Now my turn. So out came the needles, here came the stitching for my personal creation.

And there, in the basket, it sits.

I remember learning how to knit. It was a hard craft to pick up, especially considering I've been involved in fiber arts as far back as I can remember. So difficult for me, it would be years later until I took the time to conquer it. My cousin taught me, standing in the living room one hectic holiday, grabbing a pair of plastic yellow needles and a spare ball of yarn from some forgotten project. I remember it well. Purl one, curse two.

Or three times, depending on how many stitches were dropped and found five rows later.

I developed interesting, never before seen stitch patterns in the process. Who knew that skipping, dropping and combining stitches actually has a name? And if that "spontaneous" lace knit project is a little more eccentric than hoped? I try to look at is as something suitable for an incredibly unique gift.

Unless it's too unique.

Then I hope I knitted it with wool. A few rounds in the washer and dryer sometimes shrink and combine all the holes and haphazard stitches into felt. It worked for that brand named sweater tossed in with the towels last year.

Oops.

Why is it that something I enjoy so much never seems to end in anything but a coaster? Pile upon pile of small gauge swatches, meant to test stitch length and width for any given project have found a home, though.

Just look in the linen closet.

Thank Goodness for the Vacuum

He is a good little boy. Full of energy and affection, keeping out of trouble.

Most of the time.

(Why is it that paper napkins and tissues are a bigger draw than anything else that lands on the floor?)

We bought the little dog, thinking he'd make a good companion for our daughter. A faithful buddy, keeping her company whenever she needed it. A little ball of fluff, never to shed, never to cause even a hint of a sneeze for an overly allergic household.

But one thing we didn't consider was how low this guy is to the ground. Mowing a day or two off schedule means he's walking through a jungle.

And I thought I was short.

That's how I noticed it all. After vacuuming the latest evidence of the dog's journey outdoors, it seemed that no matter how long I vacuumed, the bits and pieces kept appearing. On my newish carpet. Ever by my side, he followed as I cleaned, dropping more of Mother Earth on the floor.

It's amazing how that beautiful, long-ish fur works about as well as hook-and-loop tape when it comes to bringing in the great outdoors. Especially when it comes to those long, stringy tree droplets that fall to the ground as beautiful green leaves open for the season. The skinny tan things, which disintegrate the moment they are plucked from fur, falling to the ground in a million little flecks. And, oh, how they hide, tucking themselves deep out of sight.

Thank goodness, they last only for a week or two. Thank goodness, the vacuum hasn't given up on me yet.

Too bad it doesn't work on today's gift. Sticks.