OK, just had to brag a bit, although I'm not sure if I'm bragging about what a great cat trainer I am (frankly, if I were, I wouldn't be sweeping up broken sculptures), or the unusually large brains of my cats.
How do you give non-casters a taste of pate de verre making..in less than four hours? That was the assignment, anyway. It was the Portland chapter's turn to host the Oregon Glass Guild's annual state meeting, and we wanted to do something a bit special. We decided on a theme of Stretch Your Wings, and gave it multiple meanings. First, we meant "stretch your wings by reaching out to the community." Instead of focusing on personal enrichment, this time we'd make art for the community, a glass quilt to be installed in a local hospital. Everyone who came would make at least one 6x6 inch tile for the quilt.
I've got it all over Jane Goodall. To make friends with wildlife, she had to go to the deep, dark jungles full of crocodiles, tsetse flies, tents and very poor room service. All *I* do is go home. My friend Shelby and I trekked down south a few weeks ago to pick up Nikki the Tikimaus and The Princess Lola. We returned with two carrierfuls of terrified kitten yowling to be let O-U-T. We set the carriers on the floor of the cat isolation center (AKA the laundry room), unfastened the doors and stepped back, expecting to see two furry streaks running past.
There's one kitten nibbling my calf as I write this--apparently Savannahs are into lovebites, tiny, soft nibbles that aren't all THAT soft and certainly get your attention--and the other is threatening the bluejays at the back door. Savannah cats are supposed to be as trainable as dogs, i.e., you can persuade them to obey YOUR taboos, such staying out of the glass display cases. Or refraining from climbing into a 4-foot urn to eat the pussywillows. I've accordingly invested in a small bag of the smelliest dried shrimp in the world, and a book, "Train Your Cat in 10 Minutes." It's day 3 of our training regimen. The 10-minute bit is a lie. Trust me on this.
Did the Ikea thing this weekend. Translation: I trudged through an endless, footsore maze of primary colors, particle board and bewildering, actually serious names. I bought weird but uselessly nifty stuff that will be worn out by 2013, and ate Swedish meatballs. Swedish meatballs are the reason you go to Ikea, right? (Besides the fact that you can buy a cheap-but-nifty desk to completely re-engineer into a glass sculpture) Ikea meatballs aren't as good as the ones I used to make when I was a kid, but at some point in an Ikea shopping marathon I will gratefully GRATEFULLY trudge into the Ikea cafeteria and plop a few on my plate. Then I'll sit in the window, munching meatballs and trying to figure out which incomprehensible Ikea components will form the piece of furniture I need.
The salesclerk looked dubious. "Have you gotten one of these in this car before?" he asked. I've never GOTTEN one of these before," I replied, and he started shoving a ginormous cat tree into CherryBaby's back seat and out the window. "Well, I got one of these in a lady's car last week, so I can probably get it in [...]
"I'd much rather have you in the booth, instead of helping with setup," she said, and I felt a mild tingle of pride. "I suppose," I said modestly, "You want your best *people* people out front, interacting with the public." "No, it's just that schlepping pedestals isn't exactly your strong suite," she replied, "I saw you working setup last time." That's what I love about New Yorkers: You never have to wonder what they're thinking.
There's a game I play on summery Saturdays, called "breakfast." It's where I race early to the farmer's markets, pick up the ingredients for the morning meal, then cook, consume and clean everything up by 10. It's a challenge because most of the markets don't open until 8:30, so the only way it really works is if I forsake my beloved BIG farmers' markets for the little neighborhood enclave, closer to home.
The elevator door slid shut and I broke into a jig. I hopped in samba time, waved my arms wildly, sang in time to the music of my feet. We reached my floor, the door slid open, and I walked out, sober as ever, ghost of a grin...if you know where to look. Yup. I'm an elevator dancer. Are you?
"It's like my body tells the history of me," she explained, "Of me and my family, who we are and what we do. My whole life is on my skin." I took in the tattoos cascading across her arms, thinking that if it took this much of her to chronicle her first 30 years or so, she didn't plan to live very long. But those tattoos were beautiful, and intriguing.
