More from the mind of Marjorie Waxman.
I have always been a sucker for irises. They are my favorite flower. And of all the colors irises come in, my favorite is purple. Purple irises impede my judgment faster than a couple of shots of whiskey on an empty stomach. The closest analogy I can make is to people who turn stupid and gaga at the sight of a cute baby. They struggle to maintain a sense of boundaries and decency as they poke some stranger’s child and go kitchy-coo. I feel the same loss of control when I see a purple iris. I want to pluck it and take it hostage. I am an adult woman and these days, I manage to control myself when I see irises. But when I saw the riot of purple irises you see below during a recent walk in Philadelphia, I was taken back to my youth and recalled the time I did something that could have gone terribly wrong.
I was attending a small college in central Pennsylvania. My dormitory was next to a ramshackle wooden house with a detached garage that was not part of the college. A fence surrounded the house which had a small yard and garden. I never paid much attention to it.
But one day when I was coming back from class, there they were. The irises. Purple irises, bales and bales of them growing like crazy in the yard, under the fence and fairly stuffed into a narrow strip of ground between the fence and the sidewalk. Hundreds and hundreds of irises. I had never seen so many irises. I was gobsmacked.
I decided right then and there to liberate some of the irises. But not in the light of day-no I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to hear the disdainful clucks of any townies or my fellow students who, I felt, were so judgmental and so conservative that they ironed creases in their jeans. So I hatched a plan. I set my alarm to wake me at 5:00 am on a Sunday morning when I figured most people would be sleeping. I threw a coat on over my pajamas and crept out of my dormitory with a pair of sharp scissors, a flashlight, and a paper grocery bag. I made my way down the road and crept behind the garage where the irises where growing profusely. I knelt down and began to saw away with my scissors.
“Do you go to college here?” I heard a voice behind me. My heart jumped. It was a woman’s voice and it sounded pleasant enough, but maybe she was softening me up for the kill before marching me off to the Dean’s office where she would tell the Dean, in a shrieking and not so pleasant voice this time, what I had done. Then the Dean would call my parents. I had visions of drama. Much drama. The kind of drama only my parents were capable of. Followed by my father having a fit of apoplexy and exploding into little bits (which he never did) or screaming and threatening to write me out of his will (which he did all the time.)
I decided to play it cool, and took a deep breath. “Yes, ” I replied trying to sound as innocent as I could, trying to sound like secreting myself behind an old garage dressed in a coat and pajamas, and cutting some stranger’s flowers and shoving them into a grocery sack as fast as I could at 5:00 am on a Sunday morning was a normal activity for a college student.
I looked up and she was holding some small magazines fanned out like a deck of cards. “Would you like one?” She asked. I didn’t dare say no. “Sure,” I replied, “I’ll take one. She pulled one out and handed it to me. When I saw the name of the magazine, I knew I was home free. There would be no visit to the Dean’s office and no drama.
“I’ve heard of The Watchtower,” I said, “but I never read one. I’ll take a look at this. Thanks.”
“Do you think any of your classmates would be interested?” she asked, pressing the rest of the magazines into my hand. “They might be, ” I replied, “I can put these in the student union lounge.””Thank you, she replied, “and have a blessed day.
I returned to my room, and put my purloined irises into a jar. I can’t remember if I put the magazines in the student union building. I probably did, after my heart stopped pounding. But that is the last time I ever helped myself to anyone else’s flowers. Not that I haven’t been tempted.
When I was in the first grade, my father promised to build me a desk. He finally started building it my senior year in high school. He completed it and painted it in my room while I was in bed, violently ill with the flu. I didn’t dare ask him to finish the desk when I felt better because it might have become one of my wedding presents.
My mother painted our whole house except she stopped in the upstairs hallway and never did finish. You could see where the paint just stopped. And we never get the house fully furnished because she had a hard time making up her mind.
My brother had a hole in his dining room wall for months. During one visit, my father asked him when he was going to fix it. My brother didn’t answer. I remembered the desk and felt smug enough for the both of us.
My niece gave birth to a little boy a few months back. My brother let me know she was expecting a few months before she was due. I found out she had a little boy after the fact. Better late than never.
By now, you have probably realized that I come from a family of procrastinators. The trait runs sluggishly through my blood. Nothing to get upset about once you accept it. It’s there like the Rock of Gibraltar.
Which brings me to the baby dishes. I made them after my great nephew made his entrance in October. Or was it September? Anyway, the pottery studio closed because of the pandemic and they went unglazed until 2021. Then I packed a box with the baby dishes and some other items I thought my niece might like, and found her address. Next stop, post office. Here are some pictures.
Hey, it’s been a tough year for stuffed animals too. Just ask the Le Mutts! Here’s hoping for better things in the coming year. And spread light wherever you can. That’s what keeps us going.
This has been another one hell of a week. I won’t go into details, but humor always helps. As I opened up the web browser on my newly-repaired computer to write this post, one of those real provocative headlines you see on the Internet shot across the screen. You know the kind I’m talking about: Stuff like “If You Have One of These in Your Kitchen, There’s a Ninety Percent Chance You Are a Narcissist,” or “The Ten Things Your Dog Does Not Want You to Know,” or “Scientists are Begging Seniors to Wash This One Body Part.” The headline that I saw was “Seven Things You Should Never Do With a Magic Eraser.” Only seven? I can think of lots more.
Let’s see, you should never insert a Magic Eraser into your Blue Ray drive. You should never give a Magic Eraser to a panhandler on the street and expect a thank you. Don’t think you can cut a pocket in a Magic Eraser and stuff it with falafel. Ok, maybe you can, but that doesn’t mean you should. And finally, (do I really need to tell you this?) don’t roll them into tubes, shove them up your nose, and go food shopping. I could list more things you should never do with a Magic Eraser, but I’ll stop here. I think you get the picture.
Besides, I digress. This week’s post is about one of my friends, Robin Milne, who I am convinced comes from a family of geniuses. Robin is a talented artist in several mediums including polymer clay. Her latest project is developing a line of 3D printed, high-quality clay cutters (although you could use them for cookies, too) . 3D printing has always intrigued me, so I asked Robin how she got into it.
“My father got me a small 3D printer 5 years ago for my birthday. One of the first things I made was a cutter in the shape of M.C. Escher’s tessellating lizard. I wanted to use that cutter to make a sample of all the polymer veneers I made and connect them all together. Once I had learned how to use the printer, I upgraded to a bigger, higher quality printer and started designing. I made a stamp with my gym’s logo to mark the attendance sheet that I had been to class. That led me to start making initial stamps for artists to mark their polymer clay pieces. A year and a half ago, I upgraded to an even better printer that can print larger items. Since then, I’ve been learning and printing and designing all kinds of things. I brought 3D prints of about 10 different cutters styles sets to Clayathon this past February and almost sold out.“
“People were really happy with them and I got requests for new shapes. When I got home I stocked up again, printing as many as I could to take to the next retreat but then Covid happened. Since I can’t take the cutters to a retreat, I have been taking requests and making customs cutters and mailing them out. I have a lot more cutters I want to design and I also plan to make texture sheets and rollers. I have always loved clay tools and now I can make my own.”
The good news is that Robin opened an online shop! You can buy her beautifully designed and reasonably priced cutters , here. Support the arts and small business! Robin’s adding new designs all the time. I’m looking forward to seeing what she comes up with next.
I did something different today. I wrote a letter. A real letter, not a card. With a pen. In cursive. On notepaper. And I addressed it. And put a stamp on it. There’s a mail box on the corner across from my house. I fought my fear that there were corona virus germs on the mail box handle. I pulled the handle down, and dropped the letter through the slot. And then I looked across the street toward St. Paul’s church and saw this.
Actually, St. Peter is the one in the picture. How do I know? Peter’s the one with the keys to the pearly gates and I think the big book he’s holding is where all your transgressions are recorded. You die, you go to the pearly gates of heaven,and St. Peter meets you like a bouncer at an exclusive night club and decides whether you get in.
How do I know all this? Twelve years of Catholic school. That and the fact that I had a mother who had a hard time allowing herself to relax, and enjoy something like a nice outfit or a yummy dessert without feeling guilty. And when I got older, I would ask her, “Why tease yourself? It’s not like there’s a prize for the person who suffers the most. It’s not like St. Peter’s gonna meet you at the pearly gates with a ******* Kewpie doll.”
St. Paul is down at the end of the block out of camera range, and he is wearing a mask too. And he’s holding a sword to smack the heads of passers by who might not be wearing a mask or observing proper social distancing. Which is why I did not go down there to take his picture. Because even though I was wearing a mask, I knew he was down there waiting to see if I would screw up. Twelve years of Catholic school will do that. I’m scarred for life.
Try something different and see what happens. It just might spark your creativity.
Stay safe and well.
Social distancing has changed my life. I have finally learned how to clean and operate the various remote controls scattered around my living room. I have learned how to use less toilet paper. I have spotless door knobs. I have become acquainted with Joe Exotic, and wonder whether he had to remove his body piercings and start wearing underwear when he went to prison. I have learned that when you can’t find tofu at the neighborhood Acme or Whole Foods, that a nearby Asian supermarket will have it in stock and everyone there will be wearing face masks.
I don’t have to worry about missing a manicure, because my nails are snowy white from all the hand washing and bleach. I don’t have to worry about my roots growing in, because they are the same color as the rest of my hair. And I don’t have to worry about missing a haircut because my hairdresser and I are sheltering in place together. Here’s how that happened.
A few years ago, I sent away for a hair cutting kit, gave it to my husband along with a sharp pair of scissors and asked him to watch a YouTube video on how to use it. Then I asked him to cut my hair. Why did I do this? I knew I needed to start getting regular haircuts but did not relish the idea of scheduling trips to a hair salon. I see my dentist as recommended and that’s about all I can manage. But quite frankly I was getting to that age where every woman must pay attention to personal grooming lest she start to resemble Alice the Goon. And why did I pick my husband? Because all men who love me must suffer.
My husband is not one to embrace new experiences. He does not run from them so much as sidestep toward them kicking and screaming with one eye closed and his arms waving frantically. But for some reason known only to him, he watched the video then cut my hair. And he did a great job! I was still working at the time and my office colleagues loved my new look. When they asked me who cut my hair, I replied, “Mr. Ken.” When they asked for his number, I said it was the same as mine.
So if you are fretting about your hair, hand your significant other a pair of scissors and have at it. This coronavirus thing is not going away any time soon, so if your partner screws up your hair, you will have one more reason to stay inside. And support your hairdresser when this is over. They will need your business more than ever. Check out this link for more information.
Mr. Ken recommended this video. Enjoy!
I went to the hand doctor today. I can’t believe it’s been more than two months since they rebuilt my thumb joint. I am progressing nicely and should be back to throwing pots by February. Which is good because I pretty much sold all of the pottery I brought to Handmade for the Holidays, and a nice amount of the jewelry too.
So I haven’t been doing too much making lately. I am hoping that will change soon.
I leave you with a story.
I walked into the living room where my husband was watching a movie called Troy the Odyssey. I noticed the cheap vinyl piping on the actors’ costumes that was supposed to pass for Greek warrior gear. I commented that it must not be a very good movie.
My husband replied that the movie was so tragically bad that it could only have been written by Sophocles.
“Sophocles?” I asked, Didn’t he write plays? ”
“He wrote Oedipus,” my husband responded.
“And Antigone,” I added, remembering my Greek tragedies.
“He did write Antigone,” my husband informed me. And the great tragedy there was that she never wrote back.”
Who knew cats could cook? Not that Boris cooks. He expects to be waited on and is the type of cat who would have all the best take out places on speed dial if we let him have a phone. Which we don’t for obvious reasons.
But our bridge kitty Plumpton was quite a cook . In fact, one of this recipes was published.
Here is the recipe
I have never tried it and never made it for Boris. Even though I have an adventurous palate, I find some of the ingredients, well, a little off-putting.
We will not be making a turkey tomorrow because we will be delivering a cookbook to Boris’s penpals with whom we will be spending the day. Here he is posing with the cookbook.
Boris (dreaming of drumsticks) wishes you a Happy Thanksgiving,
They are busy awarding Nobel Prizes this week. And I know I will never get one. Why? Because, as my doctor informed me today, the hand surgery I had a week ago was major hand surgery. And yet tomorrow I leave for the Pittsburgh Polymer Clay Guild’s retreat.
I will not be bringing any clay. I will be bringing a bottle of Jim Beam because I have stopped taking my prescription pain killers and I need some other way to console myself. I will also be taking my Delicas and working on my geometric beadwork.
I was born left handed and still do many things left handed. I am not ambidextrous. I am merely mixed up. I can bead left handed and I started doing it when the whole flare up that led to the surgery started. I recently learned that while I can’t saw a straight line in metal with my right hand, I can do it with my left. Go figure.
This is Boris rooting around in my arm sling for a treat I threw in there. I had a notion that I was going to make him a Cat Taco costume for Halloween. He told me to get that thought right out of my mind and to bring more treats.
They took out my stitches today (ouch!) and made me a thumb splint. I told them I was leaving for Pittsburgh tomorrow. “What for?” they asked. “A thumb wrestling conference,” I replied. ONLY KIDDING! I like the way the cuff bracelet dresses up the splint. But I had to take it off and replace it with the third padded strap that goes with the splint.
I am not going to Pittsburgh empty handed. This is a bronze clay ginkgo leaf pendant for the Pittsburgh Guild’s auction.
No poker chips for Left Right Center. But I have some glass cabs and ceramic components I made awhile ago. I think these will work.