stories

"Your mom has such a cute accent," Lorelei assured me, "If she showed off her figure more I'll bet she'd get lots of boyfriends." I rolled my eyes. "Uhm, I think my dad wouldn't like that, Lorelei," and changed the subject. Lorelei's mom had LOTS of boyfriends, so I knew where she was coming from. She shrugged, and resumed plucking my eyebrows. Lorelei's dad apparently didn't mind that his wife regarded marriage as something you did whenever you didn't have a date, but that sure wasn't the way it worked at my house. Mothers who dated were in the same class as extraterrestrials, as far as I was concerned.

The next time you catch me responding “nothing much” when someone asks what’s going on, would you kindly whack me upside the head? Hard? When I say such things the god of adventures apparently peers down, says “‘Zat so?” …and presses the SEND key. Like today. […]

The look Jimmy gave me was both resigned and calculating. "Almost closed...but if you just need a fill, wait ten minutes, OK." And I meekly took a seat, knowing I'd delay him by a half hour. But this was the only time I had this week, traffic had been awful and my nails were worse. Obviously, there was a big apology tip in Jimmy's future. Fake fingernails are kinda like heroin: Once you've got them, you've got 'em for life. Get sloppy on maintenance, and it'll look like brightly colored beetles are chewing off your fingertips. Or, if you pry the fakes off your real nails, like the beetles finished off the good parts and went looking for dessert.

I woke up Sunday morning in Astoria, looked out the window, and the streets were covered with white tents. A farmers' market had sprung up all around my hotel. I must attract these things, which is fine by me. I'd thought I'd have to miss buying my produce at the farmers' markets this weekend, since I was doing the Hood-to-Coast thing, but the gods of vegetables must be looking out for me. I pack up and check out of the hotel, stow my stuff in the car, and head for the tents.

"Only four, no three and a half more hours, and we'll have been awake a whole two days! 48 hours!" says Seth excitedly. I peer at him through exhaustion-bleared eyes. "48 hours?" I manage. "What the heck have you been doing for the last 48 hours?" I've only been up maybe 16 hours, and I'm ready to drop. Seth and Eric and I are the "banner team" at the Hood-to-Coast Relays, in charge of receiving hundreds of sponsor banners as they are taken down. We clean them thoroughly, roll them up and tie them, then sort them into bags for storage. They like this job because it's close to the rock concert and they can dance while they work. I like it because I get to sit down.

I'm beginning to suspect that, to a glassist, only one sound is more terrifying than the -ting-ting-ting- of thermal shock: The rumble of an approaching moving van. I'm seriously contemplating a move, either of my studio or my whole house (yeah, I know, I've been going on about this for at least a year). And so today I grabbed a shovel, headed down to the studio and took a real inventory. For the first time, the implications of moving a casting studio whacked me upside the head. I'm still in shock.

"Would you like to buy some paintings?" the little girl asked, and her companions looked at me with big, serious eyes. The three girls held a few wrinkled papers, clutched tightly in rather grubby paws. I blinked, a bit surprised. The girls and I had gotten to know each other last summer; Stephen, father of two of them, brings them over whenever I have the garage doors up in my studio. The girls watch as I make my molds, or sculpt a clay face, or coldwork a sculpture, and ask probing questions...for about five minutes.

"My GOD," he gasped, "You're a knock-kneed pronator!" "Beg pardon?" I asked politely. The way he was looking at my feet kinda reminded me of cat in a tuna store. Or in heat. "Knock-kneed pronator! In my entire career I've only met one other knock-kneed pronator. Wow!"