Commissions, commissions

I've been getting lots of commissions lately for my budding craft business.

It's great to get orders, and I'm really flattered when people like my stuff. There have even been a few holiday orders already! But I'm also super, crazy, running-around-like-a-chicken-without-a-head busy these days, and sometimes the orders can feel like one more thing to do.

One order in particular has become something of a thorn in my side. A woman wrote to me on Etsy over the summer: "I love your plant pots! I've been wanting something new for my hoya, Allie. She's getting a little cramped in her current abode, which is 6 inches in diameter by 4 inches tall. Any chance you could come up with something a bit bigger than that?"

I wrote back to say that I could, but it would take some time. Last week, she emailed again to let me know that Allie's roots would really like some more space, and how's her new pot coming? By that point, I had finished attempt #3, which was also my third failure. It's not a hard shape to make, but something about the size requirements of it were throwing me off.

I let her know that it would still be a while, and she told me she would tell Allie to be patient for a few more weeks.

Allie needed me, so even though I wanted to, I couldn't give up. Finally, I sat down at my wheel tonight and gave myself a pep talk. "Heathen, you can do this. It is ridiculous to get your wheel dirty and only throw one pot, but you are going to do it anyway because you will feel so relieved when you are done. Take your time, breathe deeply and remember that you are not allowed up from this wheel until this goddamn plant pot is done."

Twenty minutes later, it was done. Relief is on its way, Allie! (For both of us.)

Exotic, familiar

I ran into Leif Ericson on Saturday. It was inevitable but traumatic, and I'm so glad that my friend M. was with me when it happened. He looked the same but even skinnier, still like a cross between the David statue and Gumby but a bit more on the Gumby side on that particular day, and still beautiful. He came over and talked to me graciously and pretended not to notice that I initially tried to hide behind my hat and sunglasses to avoid him. It made me really sad to see him, and I thought about him a lot all weekend.

Seeing him reminded me of how much I liked his exoticness. I've always had a thing for exotic men, ever since I was five and fell for the son of my soccer captain, who had olive skin and sleepy dark eyes that were constantly half-closed. (These days, we're Facebook friends and it appears that he works in the porn industry.)  I loved how Leif looked so exotic, almost like he wasn't really human, like a character from the film Avatar. I loved how his parents were from two different continents, neither of them North America. I loved how his house didn't follow any of the normal rules of a house, like having rooms and ceilings and doors.

But there's something to be said for the familiar, too. And that's where the Young Hottie lands: squarely in familiar terrain. There's especially something to be said for familiar when Familiar likes you and wants to see you two nights in a row and stops by to bring bubble wrap, because even though you didn't tell him you needed it, he figured it out when you told him about the huge pottery order you received. And when Familiar doesn't have weird relationship issues (at least that you know about so far).

I don't have butterflies yet, but I do have a solid, warm feeling when I think about Young Hottie. So, I think he may be in need of a new blog name, something less objectifying. Suggestions?

A walk in the park

I was only half-listening as my sister and my friend M. made plans to meet for breakfast last weekend, but gradually some of the details started to sink in.

"Ok, so we'll meet at the bakery and grab breakfast. What time?"

"Dunno... How about 10?"

At that point I had to interject.

"Guys," I interrupted, "sorry, but I'm going to have to put the kibosh on this. I have a date at the bakery at 10. So you're going to have to find another spot to eat breakfast."

"Oh shoot. But that's the only place that serves gluten-free goodies," protested M., who is in the midst of an elimination diet.

"What if we meet there at 9?" suggested my sister.

"Yes, and then we can decide whether or not to leave by 10, or hang around a bit and take a look at the Young Hottie," replied M.

So I was relieved when I arrived at the bakery a few minutes after 10, did a scan of the room, and saw no sign of my friends. Young Hottie and I grabbed a couple of baked goods and headed into the park. At the first intersection, he suggested we walk down an obscure path I had never noticed before.

Not ten minutes later, I heard a snort coming from down the path from us, and when I looked up who should I see sauntering toward me but my sister and M, giggling and averting their eyes from me. I followed suit, and thankfully my date was too busy chatting to notice anything amiss.

Sigh. The hazards of dating local.

Nipping it in the flower

Slinky and I went shopping this weekend. 

I tried on a pair of mid-rise jeans, and was horrified by the result: I called her into my dressing room and lifted my shirt up to share my shame. "Look! Not only does my muffin top stick out, but it's also starting to spill over. And the worst part is, it's lopsided!"

"Tell me about it," she said sympathetically. "Maybe this is what 30-something looks like. It could keep getting worse from here on out."

"In that case, we need to nip this in the bud!" I said. 

"Do you really think "the bud" is the way to describe where we're at?"

"You're right," I amended, "We need to nip this in the fully blooming flower!"

We made a plan of action: Exercise most days. Portion control. Eliminate foods like bacon, beer and ice cream; cut down on egg yolks and bread. 

Later, we planned our evening, debating whether we should follow through on our plan to make salted caramels from scratch. "We don't have a candy thermometer, so it could be tricky. Maybe we could hold off on the caramels and make blueberry scones instead. I'd just need to pick up some heavy cream," Slinky suggested.

"I've got some really great beer I can bring over," I contributed. 

Considering how long it took us to realize the disconnect between these two conversations, I'd say we've got a steep learning curve ahead of us. 

In any case, I did manage to slither my way into, and then purchase, a pair of (low-rise) size 24 jeans with some very funky seams, which I wore on Date #2 with the young hottie. And I looked good, if I do say so myself. 

Post-date, I'm sitting on the couch with my top button undone.

Kick me if I start acting crazy

A couple of weeks ago, Leif Ericson disappeared from my gchat list.

"He blocked me," I informed my friends. "Can you believe it? And I thought he meant it when he said he'd like to get coffee at some point. Clearly, he hates me and wishes he'd never met me. I mean, he could have just hidden me. But no, he had to go all the way and block me."

"Ouch," they agreed. "That's really hurtful."

or,

"Maybe it's for the best. After all, you'll stop thinking about him this way."

For a few days, I stared obsessively at the names on my gchat list every time I signed in. Finally, about two weeks later, Leif reappeared one day.

Last week, I joined Community Boating.

"Have you run into Leif yet?" my friends asked.

"Not yet," I said. "I check whether he's online before I leave. I figure if he's online, he can't be boating."

"But how can you tell if he's online if he blocked you?"

"Oh, uh. It turns out he didn't block me. I was just being crazy. I'm planning to stop being crazy now, though."

Manland

My friend M. and I decided that we need to do more things to meet men in real life. To that end, I joined Community Boating today, because men like boats; M. is going to take flamework classes at a glass studio, since men also like fire.

We made a mental list of other things we could do as we drove to Craft and Cocktail night in Somerville. (In case you're wondering, there weren't a lot of single guys at Craft and Cocktail night, for some reason.)

"Most importantly, we need to spend more time over on this side of the river," said M. I agreed. We decided that we need to go out to more bars, cafes and restaurants over in Manland, a.k.a. Cambridge and Somerville.

Conveniently, just the day before this conversation took place, my college roommate put down an offer and it was accepted on a house in the heart of Cambridge. I'm excited to have her and her family close by -- and to have a pied-a-terre over in Manland.

August on the Internet

Things have been slow on the Internet lately (hence the lack of blog posts). Actually, a better word to describe how things have been is "depressing." I've been getting a bunch of messages that I'm tempted to respond to only because I think I could get a good blog post out of it, but I don't because it's not worth the pain. A few examples:

I am an experience Dom in Boston. I'd love to get coffee or hit a Patriots game :) I play bass guitar and do stand up comedy. What's your messenger? 

Master Frank

So many questions. Is it typical for an experienced Dom to suggest coffee or a football game for a first date? Is his stand-up comedy about being a Dominator? Is Dominator even the right word? And does he really think an elementary school teacher is the person who'd be likely to take him up on this offer??

Then there was this one:

Hi, 
Wow!! Your Bio made me smile all the way through. Your more than what any man could ever hope for all wrapped in one!!! I enjoyed reading about how you enjoy life. It sounds like you love life's little pleasures, and you express it very well. I didn't get the memo regarding women like you exist. I have heard story's about a perfectly well rounded women. Then again I heard stories of Bigfoot. There's only a grainy picture for proof. ahahhahahahhhahha
You sound like an amazing lady. 
Good luck on your search. 

I hope your having a great day. 

This from a dead ringer for Fabio. Any bets as to how many women he sent this message to?

Then there was the pithy classic:

Dude. You're hot

to which I was tempted to respond: Dude. You sound dumb

In addition to these charming missives, I've been going on a few dates. Most of the dates are the type where I am sure 15-30 seconds in that this guy is not for me, and he probably reaches the same conclusion shortly thereafter, possibly because I'm not at my most charming because I am turned off on many levels. We go through the motions, both wishing we could cut things short but feeling like that would be too rude. Often as we're talking my mind drifts to Leif Ericson, and I think how much more I liked him than the guy in front of me, then berate myself for still thinking about him. At the end, we awkwardly say goodbye with no mention of a second date.

I did have one date recently that was different. I received his message while I was on vacation with my family in Maine, and immediately called my sister over to say, "Can you believe this guy emailed me??" Not only is he four years younger than me, but he also looks like he just stepped off the pages of a JCrew catalogue. Pearly white teeth, pale blue eyes, rugged jaw. And he's tall and fit, and to top it all off he's also a really good guy who loves to compost, go on long bike adventures, cook dinner with his parents, go hiking, and he used to be a schoolteacher! I would think that a guy like that would have large-chested, leggy 25-year-olds chasing him down the streets of Boston.

So I was not thinking about Leif during my date with the young hottie. Instead, I was thinking, "I cannot believe I am out on a date with his young hottie. And he's actually nice and funny, too." I didn't come away from it feeling super excited or like it would be easy to imagine his as my boyfriend, but I did have a good time with him.

There was no mention of a second date, and I haven't heard from him since. But my motto for the day, courtesy of a text message I received from my new roommate, is "Be bold." So I am going to go ahead and email him. I'll be shocked if he wants to go out with me again, but what the hell, I've got nothing to lose.