Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I kissed Bob Saget.
Yes, that Bob Saget–the television actor who played Danny Tanner, the father on Full House, and later went on to host America’s Funniest Home Videos. I’m sure he’s done much more than I mention, but we haven’t kept in touch.
When I told my husband, he didn’t seem concerned. He laughed, paused and said, “He wasn’t a better kisser than me, right?” and then he laughed again.
Anyway, back to the kiss. It happened in my dream some time ago. We actually made out while sitting in the upper echelons of an empty football stadium. Turns out he’s a very good kisser.
I remember pointing out the obvious: “Hey, you’re not my husband!”
He said, “Yes, I am,” and pressed his lips on mine.
Then, the strangest thing happened. He turned into the man I married--not his looks or anything. It just became clear in the dream, that this man, Bob Saget, was my husband--Mr. Sandramarie!
While we smooched, the thought that he looked like Danny Tanner nagged at me. He even wore an argyle sweater (My husband refuses to wear any kind of knitted garment). I have to admit that, although I doubted his claim, we kissed again. We would have kept going, too, but the popcorn vender interrupted us. Then I woke up.
Now, I‘ll admit I enjoyed watching Full House with my kids back in the day, but I never once thought of Bob Saget in that way. Don’t get me wrong, he seems nice enough. He’s just not my type. If my dream had been about John Stamos, a co-star in that sitcom, it would have made a whole lot more sense (Oh, the face on that man!).
I prefer a rugged, more muscular guy--not a body builder, but someone who looks like they could at least pick me up if they had to save me from a burning building. Dan Tanner does not fit that description. And he’s too tall for me! I’m just a hair over five feet, and he looks to be six feet or more. I’d never want to argue with a man while looking into his navel.
Not only should Bob Saget not be the man of my dreams, what the heck were we doing in a football stadium? That sport makes my eyes glaze over. I think it does, anyway. I’ve never actually sat and watched an entire game. No offense to all you football fans out there, but I’d rather pluck chin hairs (Not that I have any.).
So, there you have it. That’s my confession. While in an unusual and deserted place, I kissed a man I’m not attracted to, who claimed to be my husband. And I enjoyed it. What does that say about a happily married woman who likes the looks of the man she married? Any dream experts out there? Do I really want to know?
It took me way longer than it should have. First, I cut a size tag off the skirt and accidentally cut some of the skirt fabric along with it. Can you say re-design? Then, I used a blue cording for the closure and realized it didn't match the blue-heart embroidered trim and the blue lining, so had to pull off the cool "Tommy" cord locks, struggle with the knots at the end of the drawstring, re-thread with the original drawstring that came with the skirt, and get the end back through the cord lock. Not so easy!
When I finally got to the buttonholes, I marked them and began stitching. My lovely new Janome 6260 started stitching a beautiful buttonhole--and then stopped. What the--! I was talking to my sister-in-law at the time, and she offered lots of great possible fixes but none of them worked. I ripped out the stitches, re-threaded the machine and tried again. Ugh! Same thing. Not wanting to mess around, I called the shop where I purchased my machine last week and told them the problem. Duh!! I'd forgotten to pull the buttonhole lever down! Geesh, for an intelligent woman, I can be dense sometimes! I'm glad I didn't give my name. Hmm . . . Wonder if they sold more than one of these babies last week? ;D
Anyway, it's done. I think it came out great! I'd keep it for myself, but I need another purse/tote like I need more mud
outside. (Okay, okay!)
Here are some more pics:
Isn't it cute? Pockets on the front and a nice big one on the inside. And that lining is the perfect match! This bag grows or shrinks, depending on what you're using it for. I'm thinking shopping, market, beach, hanging out, whatever! Versatility is good!
For those of you who don't sew or care about purses, don't go away. I'll be posting a teeny little short story I wrote.
Monday, March 30, 2009
But wait, I think to myself, I've already talked about that in my first post. Does anyone really care that I had trouble sleeping because I worried all night that my husband might start his day kicking out a window in his car to escape the quicksand sucking in his vehicle down into middle earth? (Why won't that stubborn man park away from this nasty mire?!)
My mind drifts to the time my 78 year-old mother-in-law visited during our lovely mud season and when she left, she climbed (or was heaved) into a bucket on the back of our ATV, scrunched down next to a basket of clean, folded laundry, and waved as my son drove her through the brown slush. I watched her bounce away as the four-wheeler dodged washed-out holes in the road and headed to the getaway car at the bottom of the hill. I don't think I could have been more embarrassed--oh wait, a vague memory of leaving a bathroom and stepping into a rockin' party with toilet paper trailing from the back of my waistband comes to mind. ;-) All my troubling was for nothing though. A few weeks later, my sister-in-law told me Mom loved the adventure.
Nah! I'm not going to go on about the mud again today. I'll go finish my skirt-to-bag reconstruction and talk to you later!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Here's the Windcatcher I made for the contest:
I call it Earthy Delights. It's made from 2 upcycled silvery-gray plastic sunshine finials, a vintage wooden, silver, and acrylic bead necklace, a vintage faux pearl necklace, and some old glass beads and windchimes I had hanging around. Isn't it cool?!
It's for sale in my Etsy shop, www.cinderellalollipop.etsy.com, along with it's sibling, Earth Wind Fire which is pictured here:
This one is made from the sunshine finials, the vintage faux pearl necklace, another vintage acrylic bead necklace from the eighties, and some old glass beads and chimes. I just love these!!
I’m not speaking about spring or summer, or even Christmas. I am referring to something much more sinister and tormenting. I speak of the dreaded event about to strike any day now. Here in Maine, we call it (insert drum roll here) . . . Mud Season.
We live on the side of a big hill or little mountain, depending on how you look at it, away from any large cities. Our house sits halfway up a dirt road, at the end of our long, dirt driveway. It is breathtaking and serene most–er–a great deal of the time.
Our first year here we’d heard the vague term "mud season," but it had little meaning to us at the time. I remember thinking: So it gets a little muddy, how bad can it be? That first spring, we still thought of mudslinging as something only politicians do, but when the UPS driver came to deliver my new laptop, reality literally set in.
With my husband working out of town, and me staying home due to illness, I didn’t even know the mud had arrived. Well, not the kind that sucks large delivery trucks into the core of the earth, anyway. When I answered the door, the deliveryman handed me my package and then asked if there were any men at home. I tilted my head and squinted my eyes, thankful–for once–that my dogs refused to listen to my pleas for them to be quiet, then asked him why he wanted to know.
"I may need some help getting out of here," he said. "It’s a little muddy."
Is that all? Whew! Well, talk about your understatements. Ha! After listening to him rev his engine for about ten minutes and watching muddy sections of my front yard fly off into the surrounding woods, I put on my rubber boots and went out to see what I could do to help.
I walked over to the van to ask if he thought putting some planks under his sinking tires might help. As I neared the vehicle, I noticed the ground became soft and mushy. The closer I got, the more I sank into the earth. The driver agreed to try the boards, so I ran to the basement to retrieve the ones I had passed on my way out.
As I made my way back to the truck, an unpleasant sucking noise resounded with each step. All of a sudden, the mud held fast to one of my boots, and before I could react, my foot slid out. My sock remained safe inside the rubber, and I struggled for balance while my rogue appendage sought refuge.
Seconds passed in slow motion. Realizing the ground had claimed my other foot, too, I dropped the wood and swayed from side to side trying to maintain my equilibrium. As I lost the battle, my foot smashed into the mucky dregs. Tumbling forward, my hand jutted out to break my fall, and I think I yelled out, "Oh shit!" While I didn’t see any doggie droppings nearby, the brown stuff I now had all over me came close enough.
Turns out, boards are no help when you embed your vehicle in a foot of soupy ground. Neither are chains, or the heavy rope I brought out as a last resort. About a half-hour into the spinning of tires in sludge, my eyes widened and I got his attention by pointing to the bottom of his van. I wonder if he noticed the problem as soon as he got out, because he didn’t have as far to step down. The base of the truck now kissed the very terrain the driver tried to escape.
I handed him my cordless phone–we don’t get good cell reception here. (I know, I know!) And while he made his call for help, I went over and sat on the deck stairs. He turned his back to me, but I could still hear certain words. "What? Kidding me!" and "NOW!" dominated his side of the conversation.
His face reddened, and he leaned forward into the phone as he spoke. On a hunch–or maybe it’s when I heard the first curse word fly, I decided to go make a pot of coffee. As I washed the muck off my hands, I tried not to think of the crud I’d tracked in. My foot felt uncomfortable encased in the dirty, scrunched-up sock inside my boot, but I put it out of my mind and headed back outside.
When I rejoined my new friend, he stood in the sea of muck, staring at his incapacitated chariot. He looked at me with a confused, lost expression.
"They said it’s going to be awhile."
"Why don’t we get out of this mud and go up on the deck?" Although our deck furniture still lay in its winter home, I figured we could at least lean on the railing while our boots dried.
I got us some coffee, and we talked as we drank. As I refilled our cups, I decided to invite him in. He seemed nice enough, and besides, watching the dogs slobber all over the sliding glass door unnerved me. We discussed our families and pets, society’s ills, politics (am I being redundant?), our job histories, and our theories on how to make the world a better place.
Three hours later, a huge tow truck barreled up the muddy road and backed all the way into my narrow, soggy driveway. Although we had made the best of this forced bonding, we both jumped up, mid-sentence, and bounded out the back door.
I felt like a band should play while we waved our hands and danced the jig. Instead, we smiled and watched the big machine pluck the van out of the quicksand. Then, my adventure ended and I watched both trucks drive away. For a moment, I stood alone, feeling a little bogged down (Sorry–couldn’t resist), but the sentiment passed as I kicked off my boots and headed for the shower.
Every year at this time, I reflect on our mucky experiences. (Yes, there have been others.) I sometimes wonder if that UPS driver ever has fond thoughts of his time spent mired in the woods of Maine. If not, he’s just an old stick-in-the-mud!