This doesn’t even make a dent in my stash. But as long as long as I keep this fabric, I am shackled to the shadows of old ideas never realized. Any new projects will be shaped just to use it. Frankly, I can’t recall most of its original use or intention, but I waited in line to have pieces cut from the bolt and then pay for it.  They must have been some pretty great ideas.

Red floral: I don’t remember
Red roses: Patchwork duvet cover
Bandanna: experimenting for a friend’s wedding invitation, draft snakes for kitchen
Pink & blue stripes: no idea
Purple dots: couldn’t tell you
Lilac flowers: duvet cover
Mauve floral: baby pillow?
Aqua purple flower: Airstream quilt (still unfinished)
Purple floral: I dunno
Aqua stripey: Airstream quilt
4 more purples: not a clue
Purple batik: baby quilt for niece
Duckies: baby pillow?
Upholstery stripe: recover footstool rescued from dumpster
Remaining blues: Drawing a blank

I gave it all to Molly at Loop It Up, an amazing program she runs instilling the pleasure of making to the children of Savannah. They learn everything from no-sew pillows to spaghetti sauce. Oh, sweet Molly, there is plenty more fun coming your way.

This doesn’t even make a dent in my stash. But as long as long as I keep this fabric, I am shackled to the shadows of old ideas never realized. Any new projects will be shaped just to use it. Frankly, I can’t recall most of its original use or intention, but I waited in line to have pieces cut from the bolt and then pay for it.  They must have been some pretty great ideas.

Red floral: I don’t remember

Red roses: Patchwork duvet cover

Bandanna: experimenting for a friend’s wedding invitation, draft snakes for kitchen

Pink & blue stripes: no idea

Purple dots: couldn’t tell you

Lilac flowers: duvet cover

Mauve floral: baby pillow?

Aqua purple flower: Airstream quilt (still unfinished)

Purple floral: I dunno

Aqua stripey: Airstream quilt

4 more purples: not a clue

Purple batik: baby quilt for niece

Duckies: baby pillow?

Upholstery stripe: recover footstool rescued from dumpster

Remaining blues: Drawing a blank

I gave it all to Molly at Loop It Up, an amazing program she runs instilling the pleasure of making to the children of Savannah. They learn everything from no-sew pillows to spaghetti sauce. Oh, sweet Molly, there is plenty more fun coming your way.

HM Customs BVI: back when I used to clear customs in the British Virgin Islands every week (I don’t care if you can see the USVI just behind you, you must clear in and out in each country) I filled in my immigration card to reflect my employment as “fluffer.” No one ever asked.
conEdison: My sister has worked at conEd, just off Union Square, since she graduated from college in 1989. I have had 35 different employers in that same time. Both pens, previously unused, ran out of ink while I wrote my list.
Southern Cross Suites, Sydney: best orange juice I have ever tasted, delivered to me in the shower by handsome husband after a 28 hour flight and nursing a severe cold. Yes, I was that passenger, the one who went through a whole box of tissues and spent the entire flight sniffling and most likely infected the whole plane. Sorry.
Pelican Bay at Lucaya, Bahamas: I have no memory of being here. I know I have been. Often, when the galley is below decks, I don’t see where we are anchored or docked unless I have a reason to go ashore. By the time I’ve finished cooking dinner, it is late, and many ports look the same in the dark, over the rim of my wine cup.
The Triton: I write for their competition, Dockwalk magazine. This pen would be from when Triton interviewed a contractor about a job he did on the yacht we worked on. I almost threw up the guy was such a bloated, lying piece of shit. I left a note on the reporters’ car telling her so.
Look for the pens in a place where people always need something to write with.

HM Customs BVI: back when I used to clear customs in the British Virgin Islands every week (I don’t care if you can see the USVI just behind you, you must clear in and out in each country) I filled in my immigration card to reflect my employment as “fluffer.” No one ever asked.

conEdison: My sister has worked at conEd, just off Union Square, since she graduated from college in 1989. I have had 35 different employers in that same time. Both pens, previously unused, ran out of ink while I wrote my list.

Southern Cross Suites, Sydney: best orange juice I have ever tasted, delivered to me in the shower by handsome husband after a 28 hour flight and nursing a severe cold. Yes, I was that passenger, the one who went through a whole box of tissues and spent the entire flight sniffling and most likely infected the whole plane. Sorry.

Pelican Bay at Lucaya, Bahamas: I have no memory of being here. I know I have been. Often, when the galley is below decks, I don’t see where we are anchored or docked unless I have a reason to go ashore. By the time I’ve finished cooking dinner, it is late, and many ports look the same in the dark, over the rim of my wine cup.

The Triton: I write for their competition, Dockwalk magazine. This pen would be from when Triton interviewed a contractor about a job he did on the yacht we worked on. I almost threw up the guy was such a bloated, lying piece of shit. I left a note on the reporters’ car telling her so.

Look for the pens in a place where people always need something to write with.

Tags: pensnob donate

Conversation in an R&D meeting
A: You know what would make the world a more perfect place?
B: No more poverty?
C: A cure for all diseases?
D: The end of MTV?
A: A lemon keeper!
B: a what?
A: A lemon keeper. How many times do you cut a lemon and only use half of it, then it just sits in your fridge, gets pushed to the back, and stays there rotting until you clean out the fridge just before something parental comes to visit.
C: You actually could be onto something. How about make it look just like a lemon?
D: But Bigger!
A: Yeah, so it can hold like 5 half lemons, because you will forget you own it, and when you find it you’ll have all of these half lemons floating around.
D: it should be really bumpy, like a real lemon, but more perfect looking.
C: also, make it out of plastic, so once it has been created, the world will always own such an object of perfection.
A: maybe we can make it one of those “Not sold in stores” products. The TV ads will feature a housewife blowing her hair off of her forehead frustrated with her spoilt open lemons, throwing her arms up in despair.
C: Except it will be in black and white, to show the oppression of her circumstance.
D: Oh, yeah, and a shot of some frat boys totally bummed out, looking down at their flipflops, shaking their heads that they can’t do tequila shots because their lemons went bad.
C: Then a bunch of girls in bikinis can come in carrying lemon keepers.
A,C,D: YAY!!!
A (to himself): I am so going to retire on this idea.
*****
Okay, since this is a new project and I am trying to drum up some excitement, I am not going to sell this valuable lemonkeeper, I want to give it to you. But you have to work for it.
What is the best possible re-use for this object? Submit through comments and on Friday August 5, I will decide. You will shortly receive in the mail, a lemon keeper BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE: it will bear the unconsumption logo!

Conversation in an R&D meeting

A: You know what would make the world a more perfect place?

B: No more poverty?

C: A cure for all diseases?

D: The end of MTV?

A: A lemon keeper!

B: a what?

A: A lemon keeper. How many times do you cut a lemon and only use half of it, then it just sits in your fridge, gets pushed to the back, and stays there rotting until you clean out the fridge just before something parental comes to visit.

C: You actually could be onto something. How about make it look just like a lemon?

D: But Bigger!

A: Yeah, so it can hold like 5 half lemons, because you will forget you own it, and when you find it you’ll have all of these half lemons floating around.

D: it should be really bumpy, like a real lemon, but more perfect looking.

C: also, make it out of plastic, so once it has been created, the world will always own such an object of perfection.

A: maybe we can make it one of those “Not sold in stores” products. The TV ads will feature a housewife blowing her hair off of her forehead frustrated with her spoilt open lemons, throwing her arms up in despair.

C: Except it will be in black and white, to show the oppression of her circumstance.

D: Oh, yeah, and a shot of some frat boys totally bummed out, looking down at their flipflops, shaking their heads that they can’t do tequila shots because their lemons went bad.

C: Then a bunch of girls in bikinis can come in carrying lemon keepers.

A,C,D: YAY!!!

A (to himself): I am so going to retire on this idea.

*****

Okay, since this is a new project and I am trying to drum up some excitement, I am not going to sell this valuable lemonkeeper, I want to give it to you. But you have to work for it.

What is the best possible re-use for this object? Submit through comments and on Friday August 5, I will decide. You will shortly receive in the mail, a lemon keeper BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE: it will bear the unconsumption logo!

One ring for each favorite piece of jewelry never to be seen again:
1: I had no business leaving my bag on the bus at the rest stop. I was naïve to think a dusty road-side diner in Ogallala, Nebraska was a safe place for a twenty one year old on a Greyhound bus. Plus, I didn’t want to schlep my heavy duffel into the bathroom with me. Somehow, in the time it took to pee and smoke a cigarette—just outside the window next to my seat, someone stole my box of jewelry and wallet. Like I said, I had no business leaving it there.
Never mind having to figure out how to cancel my credit cards (all maxed anyway), and the general feeling of violation 3 1/2 hours into a 48 hour ride from Denver to Syracuse, I lost my favorite ring. I bought it at a flea market, back when flea markets sold weird old things like dented tin plates, unidentifiable kitchen gadgets and old linens, not brand new knock-off sunglasses and sneakers. I always imagined it was pretty old. A silver oval about an inch and a half long, it was made of complicated circular quilling, with a camel in the center. I also always imagined it was from Egypt. Without knowing it, I filled that ring with hopes of someday traveling to places with camels and exotic jewelry only to have it carelessly stolen.
I didn’t notice for over an hour. The driver told me there wasn’t much to be done, unless I wanted to stop the bus and have every passenger searched by the state police. Instead, I held my seat and cast accusing glances at the twenty something couple two rows ahead of me. After a stop in Omaha, the only empty seat on the bus was next to me. I stretched out and slept off my disappointment.
2:  Anchored off the island of Banda Nera in Indonesia, I haggled with a local man five days in a row for an indescribably beautiful mother of pearl and nut shell pendant. He told me it was made locally, and I believed him, although it was the only one of its kind. It looked like an elongated acorn, covered with thin wedges of nacre and held together by delicate lines of brass. In the end, after spending a few days exploring the island, rich with history of the spice trade and poor in everything else, I paid him his original asking price plus twenty US dollars. And a package of glitter glue, some magic markers and a few pads of paper for the local school.
I slid the bead onto a silver tube necklace, where it nestled in my clavicle. I wore it every day. People followed me in stores to get a closer look at it and extol its beauty to me. As if I didn’t know. Maybe I should have put it in a chain that clasped, because almost a year to the day later, somewhere between my aunt’s Christmas Eve dinner and a dive bar in Waterbury, Connecticut it slipped off, never to be seen again. I combed my sister’s car, and the floor of the bar, but my family drew the line at examining the poop of my aunt’s six boxers, who might have confused my treasure for a kibble.
3: Some months later at an art fair, I found a heart shaped necklace made from an old globe. It featured the island of Sulawesi and the exact region in Indonesia where my previously lost necklace originated. I wore it so much it accidentally went swimming in the ocean with me probably more than once and became rusty. I returned it to the artist, who made repairs, coated it and wagged her finger at me to be more careful.
In the 15 intervening years between the aforementioned bus ride and an Airtran flight to my friend’s wedding, I learned to always pack my jewelry in my carry on. Once I made the unfortunate last minute decision to slide my favorite necklace into a secret pocket in my cosmetic case. Only once have I ever had anything stolen from a checked bag.
Who wants my used make-up? My greasy face powder is not replaced every six months like the women’s magazine recommend. I probably had some eyeliner from before I was married. And who knows what hot pockets that lipstick has been in? Really, dishonest Airtran baggage handler, do you really think your girlfriend will be impressed with somebody’s used Avon mascara and sticky hair spray pump? I bet that priceless pilfering didn’t get you laid. Petty thievery may be impressive, but not if you think your girl is going to wear second hand make-up. Maybe you should have grabbed some underpants as well.

I still haven’t decided what to do with these. I think I will just give them away. Do you want one?

One ring for each favorite piece of jewelry never to be seen again:

1: I had no business leaving my bag on the bus at the rest stop. I was naïve to think a dusty road-side diner in Ogallala, Nebraska was a safe place for a twenty one year old on a Greyhound bus. Plus, I didn’t want to schlep my heavy duffel into the bathroom with me. Somehow, in the time it took to pee and smoke a cigarette—just outside the window next to my seat, someone stole my box of jewelry and wallet. Like I said, I had no business leaving it there.

Never mind having to figure out how to cancel my credit cards (all maxed anyway), and the general feeling of violation 3 1/2 hours into a 48 hour ride from Denver to Syracuse, I lost my favorite ring. I bought it at a flea market, back when flea markets sold weird old things like dented tin plates, unidentifiable kitchen gadgets and old linens, not brand new knock-off sunglasses and sneakers. I always imagined it was pretty old. A silver oval about an inch and a half long, it was made of complicated circular quilling, with a camel in the center. I also always imagined it was from Egypt. Without knowing it, I filled that ring with hopes of someday traveling to places with camels and exotic jewelry only to have it carelessly stolen.

I didn’t notice for over an hour. The driver told me there wasn’t much to be done, unless I wanted to stop the bus and have every passenger searched by the state police. Instead, I held my seat and cast accusing glances at the twenty something couple two rows ahead of me. After a stop in Omaha, the only empty seat on the bus was next to me. I stretched out and slept off my disappointment.

2:  Anchored off the island of Banda Nera in Indonesia, I haggled with a local man five days in a row for an indescribably beautiful mother of pearl and nut shell pendant. He told me it was made locally, and I believed him, although it was the only one of its kind. It looked like an elongated acorn, covered with thin wedges of nacre and held together by delicate lines of brass. In the end, after spending a few days exploring the island, rich with history of the spice trade and poor in everything else, I paid him his original asking price plus twenty US dollars. And a package of glitter glue, some magic markers and a few pads of paper for the local school.

I slid the bead onto a silver tube necklace, where it nestled in my clavicle. I wore it every day. People followed me in stores to get a closer look at it and extol its beauty to me. As if I didn’t know. Maybe I should have put it in a chain that clasped, because almost a year to the day later, somewhere between my aunt’s Christmas Eve dinner and a dive bar in Waterbury, Connecticut it slipped off, never to be seen again. I combed my sister’s car, and the floor of the bar, but my family drew the line at examining the poop of my aunt’s six boxers, who might have confused my treasure for a kibble.

3: Some months later at an art fair, I found a heart shaped necklace made from an old globe. It featured the island of Sulawesi and the exact region in Indonesia where my previously lost necklace originated. I wore it so much it accidentally went swimming in the ocean with me probably more than once and became rusty. I returned it to the artist, who made repairs, coated it and wagged her finger at me to be more careful.

In the 15 intervening years between the aforementioned bus ride and an Airtran flight to my friend’s wedding, I learned to always pack my jewelry in my carry on. Once I made the unfortunate last minute decision to slide my favorite necklace into a secret pocket in my cosmetic case. Only once have I ever had anything stolen from a checked bag.

Who wants my used make-up? My greasy face powder is not replaced every six months like the women’s magazine recommend. I probably had some eyeliner from before I was married. And who knows what hot pockets that lipstick has been in? Really, dishonest Airtran baggage handler, do you really think your girlfriend will be impressed with somebody’s used Avon mascara and sticky hair spray pump? I bet that priceless pilfering didn’t get you laid. Petty thievery may be impressive, but not if you think your girl is going to wear second hand make-up. Maybe you should have grabbed some underpants as well.

I still haven’t decided what to do with these. I think I will just give them away. Do you want one?

Rider tarot deck, handmade linen bag with boot lace

This Rider tarot deck determined my road trip should come to an end. Some runes had a fair bit to say as well.

Not counting the divining agents, there were two us traveling. I was supposed to have spent the summer working on Block Island, but quit after two 80 hour weeks with no overtime pay. I called the health department and labor board on my boss, and he didn’t sign my paycheck. Even Steven.

So, I joined my best gal pal, P, on her road trip, already in progress. We were in our twenties, skinny and could survive without eating anything in the vegetable family for weeks on end. We mostly camped out wherever we could find, steering clear of anything that would catapult us into a Lifetime movie of the week. Dinner was box mac and cheese on a camp burner (not even a stove) with no milk or butter. We slept in a teepee in New Hampshire, on a stranger’s hotel room floor in Portland, Maine. I bought a linen napkin at a rummage sale in Vermont, and with the lace from my hiking boots, turned it into a pouch for the cards as we drove along the beaches of New Brunswick.

By the time we reached Prince Edward Island and I let her cut my hair, things were feeling pretty weird between us. She kept telling me her runes didn’t want me along anymore, but she really did. When we argued, it felt more like a boyfriend-girlfriend fight, than my best friend of almost ten years (with a year or two off). She never let me drive her car, and I had no say over where we went and when. She also read the tarot cards, and they didn’t want me along for the trip either. But, she stressed, it was only the cards, and not her.

After the incident in Newfoundland, in which I stole a plastic, hand-needlepointed napkin holder from a diner, lied to the owner and P, and was chased down miles later by the state police, I had an epiphany. As with most catharses, it came on a tide of insomnia. I lay awake all night in a lounge aboard a ferry to the mainland, pondering my immediate future. P. stayed in the car, oblivious to the farting and snoring of our fellow passengers.

We drove straight to the airport and fought bitterly as rain washed down the windshield. She begged me to stay, yet remained adamant about what the tarot decreed. I hastily threw my bongos, my liz phair mix tapes and my clothes in the closest thing I had to luggage, an airport garbage bag. Eight months later I received a box with a few shirts I left behind, hundreds of tiny beads from my anklet which had broken, which she would have had to scrape off of the filthy floor of the front seat, and the tarot cards.

I found the cards again, in the tattered bag with shoelace ties, 15 years later, in the console of a pickup truck my husband bought to tow an Airstream trailer. Our life plans changed. We sold the Airstream, in pieces, without ever taking it on a single trip.

listed on ebay, 22 July 2011