Indi & Bleu & the Stepford ADVENTUR.
No, that is not a typo. I'm stealing the word from copperbadge. Which is amusing because copper does feature into this Adventur.
Sunday, bleukarma and I decided to go have an Adventur Day, which is like a normal day in that we go do stuff without planning it. Unlike normal days though, when we come up with silly ideas of things to do, we'll do them despite the silliness.
Sunday's Adventur started with an art show. At least, we thought it was an art show. Bleu saw an advertisement for it somewhere, proposed that we go, and the motion was carried two to nothing.
First of all, it was misnamed, because it wasn't exactly an art show. There was a bit of art outdoors, done by Travelling Professionals -- you know what I mean when I say this? They had tents, they came prepared. Likely they, whoever they were, do lots of outdoor shows and various other gigs at which to peddle their wares. There was also a small stand offering fried food of unknown variety; we could smell the oil. (Though it was hard to, with the bay evaporating across the street; did I mention this record heat wave? Can I have just one summer where I do not mention record heat waves? CLIMATE CHANGE IS REAL, FOLKS.)
Indoors, things were a bit different. It was not an Art Show, but a Craft Show. It was a Show of Crafts done by Women Of A Certain Age, who in their youth had, all of them, been Stepford Wives. Society Wives, you know? Every single person there had at least twenty-five years and about five income brackets on us.
That's right, folks: Bleu and Indi had just crashed a party at the Women's Club. And nobody offered us canapes.
Outside was your average fare: James Audobon style paintings of local flora and fauna, handmade jewelry, things like that. Except one stall - tent - whatever - had a bunch of Metal Things To Hang On The Walls. Some looked sort of like postmodern versions of medieval shields. Some were made of bits of copper wire welded together into shapes. There may have been a flamingo, I'm not entirely sure.
I am sure that there was a giant copper butt. I could be charitable and say that it was a figure study of the lower half of the female form, but instead I will just be honest and say that, hanging on the outside wall of this tent, was a three-foot-tall ass.
Let me repeat this: a giant copper butt. That you could hang on your wall, to delight visitors. Then you could say, "I bought this giant copper butt at the art show put on by the Women's Club."
Bleu ran up to me and nudged my elbow: "DID YOU SEE THE BUTT?"
What I did not say: "I TOUCHED THE BUTT." I wanted to, though. OH HOW I WANTED TO.
So then we went inside, because as I said, the heat index was a hundred and two, and the Bay, across the street, was evaporating, and it all felt very much like the devil's sweaty armpit outside -- if the devil's sweaty armpit smells like funnel cake. (It might; I'm not clear on that.)
There was a sign on the front door: Please Come Inside! Inside, thought I, would have air conditioning. Bleu was ahead of me on this. I followed her in and we stood in the foyer for a moment, blinking and removing our sunglasses.
Staring back at us was a table full of old women, dressed to the nines, hair huge and lacquered. It smelled like the perfume section of a department store, and they were all chattering loudly about -- whatever it is that retired Stepfords chatter loudly about.
I glanced at Bleu, needing direction. She veered right, into a large room. I shrugged, adjusted my gas-mask bag, and followed.
Inside that room were Crafts. Oh, the Crafts. There was a sort of jumble-sale quality to it, in that some people had put out things that they did not make themselves, but most of it was Crafts.
I regret to inform you (I mean Ceeg here, mostly) that I did not photograph anything. I was too poleaxed to even think of it, and for that I do humbly apologize. I will have to describe as best I can, and let your imagination do the rest.
The first Craft I saw would have made me laugh merrily, had it been in a thrift store. It was a cigar box with a handle stuck to the hinge end (the handle was fluffy) and at the opening end, a nail had been pounded through a wooden bead, and around that went a length of elastic cord, to keep the Whatsit closed. It had a painting on the front of - well, I can't really give you species or genus, but it was some kind of bird. It was supposed to be done in the style of Native American art from the Pacific Northwest, but it wasn't really, because this was not Indian Art, this was Indian Art As Reimagined by White People. On a cigar-box... handbag.
There were the usual things you'd suspect at a place like this: generic drinking glasses from Target or Wal-Mart, with flattened glass marbles messily hot-glued to the bottom. Random bits of stitchery and crochetery and knittery. (None of which had a patch on anything made by Aunt Mad or Grubs or Zaf.) Decoupage, maribou trim, giant plastic 'jewels.' A giant plastic bucket (CAN HAZ?) containing a pair of painted-on martini glasses, a blanket, and I forget what else, along with a "recipe" for relaxing by the pool. Stuff like that.
And then, in perfect counterpoint to the giant copper ass outside, I saw a pair of pants. Hand-sewn pants, made of a cheery floral print. Shorts, actually, like boxers. They sort of stood open, they were filled with some sort of paper. They were also stitched shut at the bottom. This did not make any sense to me, but there was a convenient explanatory poem safety-pinned to the top of the pants. The beginning of the poem explained that these were not actually boxers, which I could have guessed, seeing as there was no elastic or a pecker-hole or anything. It went on to say that they were pants to keep shoes in, so that when you traveled your shoes would be organized. You could keep many shoes in these pants, said the poem: you could keep dress shoes in them, or golf shoes, or any shoes! (I think the poem lies, as I doubt my combat boots would fit in there.) The poem was entirely written in first-person, and the Pants were just thrilled to be stuffed full of shoes. They wanted shoes in them, according to the poem, the way I want to be at hockey.
Handmade shorts that REALLY WANT to keep your shoes in when you Travel. Think on that for a moment. I'm sort of happy the Poem was there; I'd never have made sense of this otherwise.
As I was boggling over the Shoe Shorts, Bleu got my attention and told me that there was a piece of paper on the car's windshield. So we headed back out, past the entrance panel of Society Wives, past the giant copper butt, past the funnel-cake stand, and back to the car.
"Oops!" said Bleu, loudly, when we got to the un-papered car. "I guess it was the light!"
"Nice cover story," I told her.
"No," she said, "I really thought there was something on the car." I'm not sure if I believe that.
Then we got into the car without even discussing whether or not we wanted to go back in. I will tell you what I told her, then: the last time I had the feeling that everyone else was waiting for me to break or steal something, I was seventeen years old. I like feeling young and all, but folks, THAT IS NOT THE WAY I LIKE IT.
So then we went to Radio Shack and the craft store and got chocolate and string and stereo parts and after that my period punched me in the head and I had to go home.
Our next ADVENTUR, I think, will happen at Ikea, where at least we know what to expect.
Sunday, bleukarma and I decided to go have an Adventur Day, which is like a normal day in that we go do stuff without planning it. Unlike normal days though, when we come up with silly ideas of things to do, we'll do them despite the silliness.
Sunday's Adventur started with an art show. At least, we thought it was an art show. Bleu saw an advertisement for it somewhere, proposed that we go, and the motion was carried two to nothing.
First of all, it was misnamed, because it wasn't exactly an art show. There was a bit of art outdoors, done by Travelling Professionals -- you know what I mean when I say this? They had tents, they came prepared. Likely they, whoever they were, do lots of outdoor shows and various other gigs at which to peddle their wares. There was also a small stand offering fried food of unknown variety; we could smell the oil. (Though it was hard to, with the bay evaporating across the street; did I mention this record heat wave? Can I have just one summer where I do not mention record heat waves? CLIMATE CHANGE IS REAL, FOLKS.)
Indoors, things were a bit different. It was not an Art Show, but a Craft Show. It was a Show of Crafts done by Women Of A Certain Age, who in their youth had, all of them, been Stepford Wives. Society Wives, you know? Every single person there had at least twenty-five years and about five income brackets on us.
That's right, folks: Bleu and Indi had just crashed a party at the Women's Club. And nobody offered us canapes.
Outside was your average fare: James Audobon style paintings of local flora and fauna, handmade jewelry, things like that. Except one stall - tent - whatever - had a bunch of Metal Things To Hang On The Walls. Some looked sort of like postmodern versions of medieval shields. Some were made of bits of copper wire welded together into shapes. There may have been a flamingo, I'm not entirely sure.
I am sure that there was a giant copper butt. I could be charitable and say that it was a figure study of the lower half of the female form, but instead I will just be honest and say that, hanging on the outside wall of this tent, was a three-foot-tall ass.
Let me repeat this: a giant copper butt. That you could hang on your wall, to delight visitors. Then you could say, "I bought this giant copper butt at the art show put on by the Women's Club."
Bleu ran up to me and nudged my elbow: "DID YOU SEE THE BUTT?"
What I did not say: "I TOUCHED THE BUTT." I wanted to, though. OH HOW I WANTED TO.
So then we went inside, because as I said, the heat index was a hundred and two, and the Bay, across the street, was evaporating, and it all felt very much like the devil's sweaty armpit outside -- if the devil's sweaty armpit smells like funnel cake. (It might; I'm not clear on that.)
There was a sign on the front door: Please Come Inside! Inside, thought I, would have air conditioning. Bleu was ahead of me on this. I followed her in and we stood in the foyer for a moment, blinking and removing our sunglasses.
Staring back at us was a table full of old women, dressed to the nines, hair huge and lacquered. It smelled like the perfume section of a department store, and they were all chattering loudly about -- whatever it is that retired Stepfords chatter loudly about.
I glanced at Bleu, needing direction. She veered right, into a large room. I shrugged, adjusted my gas-mask bag, and followed.
Inside that room were Crafts. Oh, the Crafts. There was a sort of jumble-sale quality to it, in that some people had put out things that they did not make themselves, but most of it was Crafts.
I regret to inform you (I mean Ceeg here, mostly) that I did not photograph anything. I was too poleaxed to even think of it, and for that I do humbly apologize. I will have to describe as best I can, and let your imagination do the rest.
The first Craft I saw would have made me laugh merrily, had it been in a thrift store. It was a cigar box with a handle stuck to the hinge end (the handle was fluffy) and at the opening end, a nail had been pounded through a wooden bead, and around that went a length of elastic cord, to keep the Whatsit closed. It had a painting on the front of - well, I can't really give you species or genus, but it was some kind of bird. It was supposed to be done in the style of Native American art from the Pacific Northwest, but it wasn't really, because this was not Indian Art, this was Indian Art As Reimagined by White People. On a cigar-box... handbag.
There were the usual things you'd suspect at a place like this: generic drinking glasses from Target or Wal-Mart, with flattened glass marbles messily hot-glued to the bottom. Random bits of stitchery and crochetery and knittery. (None of which had a patch on anything made by Aunt Mad or Grubs or Zaf.) Decoupage, maribou trim, giant plastic 'jewels.' A giant plastic bucket (CAN HAZ?) containing a pair of painted-on martini glasses, a blanket, and I forget what else, along with a "recipe" for relaxing by the pool. Stuff like that.
And then, in perfect counterpoint to the giant copper ass outside, I saw a pair of pants. Hand-sewn pants, made of a cheery floral print. Shorts, actually, like boxers. They sort of stood open, they were filled with some sort of paper. They were also stitched shut at the bottom. This did not make any sense to me, but there was a convenient explanatory poem safety-pinned to the top of the pants. The beginning of the poem explained that these were not actually boxers, which I could have guessed, seeing as there was no elastic or a pecker-hole or anything. It went on to say that they were pants to keep shoes in, so that when you traveled your shoes would be organized. You could keep many shoes in these pants, said the poem: you could keep dress shoes in them, or golf shoes, or any shoes! (I think the poem lies, as I doubt my combat boots would fit in there.) The poem was entirely written in first-person, and the Pants were just thrilled to be stuffed full of shoes. They wanted shoes in them, according to the poem, the way I want to be at hockey.
Handmade shorts that REALLY WANT to keep your shoes in when you Travel. Think on that for a moment. I'm sort of happy the Poem was there; I'd never have made sense of this otherwise.
As I was boggling over the Shoe Shorts, Bleu got my attention and told me that there was a piece of paper on the car's windshield. So we headed back out, past the entrance panel of Society Wives, past the giant copper butt, past the funnel-cake stand, and back to the car.
"Oops!" said Bleu, loudly, when we got to the un-papered car. "I guess it was the light!"
"Nice cover story," I told her.
"No," she said, "I really thought there was something on the car." I'm not sure if I believe that.
Then we got into the car without even discussing whether or not we wanted to go back in. I will tell you what I told her, then: the last time I had the feeling that everyone else was waiting for me to break or steal something, I was seventeen years old. I like feeling young and all, but folks, THAT IS NOT THE WAY I LIKE IT.
So then we went to Radio Shack and the craft store and got chocolate and string and stereo parts and after that my period punched me in the head and I had to go home.
Our next ADVENTUR, I think, will happen at Ikea, where at least we know what to expect.