I'm about to begin a custom order, my first. A lot's riding on it. So of course I haven't begun. Also I've managed to work up a lather about an unrelated aggravating situation. I can't get into the flow because my passport to the state of Zen has been revoked. You've been in my flipflops, haven't you? Here's how I sneaked back into my creative cycle.
I knocked out a quick project just for myself. No pressure. Zero emotional investment in how it turns out. In other words, fearless. (By the way: It took all of my willpower not to write "snuck" for sneaked.)
Sharpie fabric painting
This started out life as a black-and-white skirt with boisterous floral graphics. I think I paid 99 cents for it at the thrift store. I'd seen an online tutorial some months ago on fabric painting with colored Sharpies and rubbing alcohol. It reminds me of watercolor, the way it spreads. Coloring outside the lines felt freeing! I knew I'd eventually find a use for that medicine dropper I couldn't toss. It made the perfect dispenser for just enough alcohol. It helps to use an embroidery hoop to keep the fabric taut. I put a clean plastic grocery bag under the skirt to keep the color from bleeding onto the lining.
I probably should have opened the window despite the blustering wind. If I start to sound spacey in the middle of this post, chalk it up to some intense sniffing of Sharpie scent. The rubbing alcohol smell took me back to my childhood, although I'm not sure why. Katol and Vicks Vaporub do that, too. No mom-and-apple pie memories for this child of the tropics.
Coloring outside the lines—Oh dear!
Out of this process came some good reminders that apply universally to writing, painting, photographing, learning how to dance, and any other courageous attempt you make:
Your first go at it will look crappy. Keep going.
While you're doing what you're doing your mind will race ahead and predict outcomes. Stay in the moment.
If you're anything like me, you'll want to overdo it. Know when you're done. (Don't ask me when; I never know.)
At some point it might start to look like you knew what you were doing all along. "Oh, I meant to do that." The boost to your confidence is priceless! "Maybe I'm not such a good-for-nothing loafer after all."
Once you're over the hump, you can't wait to get started on the project that doesn't seem so King Kong gargantuan now. But first you'll want to shout it from the blogtops: "I'm cured!"
Then you'll think of two more ways to exploit leverage the insight from this little adventure.
1) The free picnik premium collage, before they shut down on April 19:
2) The free Animoto 30-second video, because any new discovery gets done to death before boredom sets in:
Alrighty then. I think I'll lop off the bottom three inches of this skirt to ratchet down the matronly factor. Then I'll go outside and plant those summer-blooming bulbs on this single warm day of the week before the temps take another dive.
The world is your coloring book. What did you change about it today?
I just discovered video production using Animoto via a fellow etsian. I've been wanting to create a promotional video of my upcycled handmade clothing and home decor. I was intimidated by the editing process and selection of accompanying music on YouTube. But Animoto is like video production for dummies. They have an array of templates, and all 30-second videos are free! This might be my new addiction. I've always said I don't have time for Twitter and Pinterest, but this one's productive!
For my first experiment, I created a quick glance through my garden with photos from my Flickr account. I could see this medium as an animated, customized birthday card. It could be a mini digital scrapbook of a milestone in your wee one's life. What would you create a video on?
A tear in his decadently priced shoe could make or break this day.
He was looking at a $214 fine. The hubby contested the officer’s moving violation citation, so off we went for his day in court. We drove two towns north to Manteca and parked near the squat beige Superior Court building 15 minutes early.
It felt like a homecoming. This had been my stomping grounds as a 20-something cub reporter 20-odd years ago. I covered cops and courts, schools and new business for the long-since-defunct twice-weekly paper. Many of the police officers had been my age, lean and cocky. They were used to seeing me pop up and nose around.
“What’s shaking?” someone would call in greeting.
“Everything!” I’d oblige, making like I had an earthquake under my feet. Don’t judge me. I was young and hungry for a scoop.
The uniformed figures today were strangers. A few were portly. They avoided eye contact and kept their expressions bland. Wouldn’t you, if you were about to testify against someone standing next to you?
“Are you nervous, Dear?” I asked the hubs.
“A little. I’m rehearsing what to say.” I’ve known my husband to get break after ridiculous break just because people like his face. Let this be one of those times, I prayed.
We filed through the metal detector. I was wearing no jewelry except a ring and had stashed my purse in the trunk of the car. The husband, like most men, fished out sundry keys and enough coins to stall the flow of human traffic. Several women were giving my brown sweater dress and pleated scarf the once-over. I realized I was a tad overdressed in a sea of jeans.
“Thrift store,” I wanted to reassure them. Except for the polka-dot peep-toed flats—and underwear. I’m not on trial here, I reminded myself. But we did stick out a little.
Maybe that actually worked for us, because one of the guards kept sizing us up. Then he checked our paperwork and redirected us to the courtroom in the portable building next door, where we hurried with just five minutes before show time. Did I imagine it, or were the defendants here less hoodlum-looking?
Note to the hubs: Always ask the wife to double-check your paperwork. Note to self: Listen to your gut when it signals that you’re in fashion misalignment with your surroundings.
The metal detector routine again. Plink, plink, plink went the coins into the little basket.
“Take a seat on the left side,” the guard told us. The hubs got busy putting his belt back on as I chose a seat. The right side of the room held only uniformed officers.
“Why are we crowding over here? Let’s sit over there,” the hubs nodded toward the right side. He does that a lot, tunes out and misses vital information.
“We’re on the wrong side of the law right now, Dear. Sit ye down.”
And that’s when I noticed the small tear in his shoes, near his big toe. The $200 shoes I had encouraged him to bite the bullet and buy because he’d been stoically putting up with foot pain for probably a year. These were supposed to make up for his high arches. The hit to the wallet that this day could bring could easily top $400!
Just then roll call began. Defendant and accusing officer were accounted for in pairs. “Here.” “Here.” Everyone’s accusers were present. Now hubby’s name. “Here.” Followed only by silence, sweet silence. I suppressed a smile.
Called before the judge, the hubby stood like a jilted groom.
“The officer must not think your case was worth pursuing or he’d be here this morning,” the judge said. “In light of that, case dismissed.” He added something akin to “Go and sin no more,” but I was too busy jumping up and down on the inside to remember what he actually said.
“I’ll mind my ps and qs, your Honor,” the hubs promised.
I clenched one fist, bowed my head and whispered, “Yesss.”
The lady seated next to me leaned over and said, “Have a nice day.” And smiled.
We were out of there just 10 minutes after coming in. $200 saved, $200 to go. Next stop, the shoe store. I waited in the car. He had this down, he didn’t need my support. In fact, the rare times I needed to return a purchase, he did it for me.
White man with distinguished graying hair walks into a store, everybody calls him “Sir” and hops to it. No questions asked. Asian me walked around, and I’ve been asked by a little old lady store employee, “Are you worried you’ll set off the theft detectors?” I am not making this up. It happened at the Gottschalks in Modesto, CA. When they went bankrupt years ago I didn’t feel sorry for any of them. Now we were in the very parking lot where Gottschalks used to be. Just so you know, I’m not bitter, just given to random reminiscing.
Five minutes later my white man got back in the car, beaming. We sat admiring his brand new shoes.
“She said these were more expensive, but they wouldn’t charge me the difference.”
It was a good day to be him.
P.S. The promised post on the grandfellas and my gaffe will go up as soon as I've edited the video.
