Going Postal
Ah, updates updates everywhere.
That's the kitty statue that arrived all broked. Very sad, since I ordered her for Sargon as a geeky in-joke (she's a gargoyle in our mythical bookstore) and here she is looking just . . . uncomfortable. Poor baby.
I got a refund without any real hassle, and now I am bound and determined to fix her up again. This isn't just any cat, this is a discontinued M. Peña cat gargoyle statue, and I've wanted one like her for ages. marccarlson and his wife have one, and I adore her.
This one will be equally adorable once she is fixed -- well, perhaps I should say repaired. If you didn't want your girl-kitty gargoyle having babies, would you take her to get "fixed?" Or would it be more accurate to say something like "chiseled?"
Either way, this is is Bridey-Cat, and I'll be fixing her up and perhaps toying with her paint job a little. She'll be staying on our mantel once the front room has been redecorated, our fourth little cat goblin.
I have almost all the broken bits, I just have to glue them back on. I'm haunting the Windstone.com forums for advice on fixing it, but can't find anythihng helpful about repairs on this scale. Looks like I'll be winging it.
Hahaha.
Yeah, I know, lame-o. Shut up. It's funny.
The last of the auction goods will go up after I get new batteries for my camera and can take pictures tomorrow. I'm holding out on a couple things I could put up now so that I can do them all together. One last big huzzah. Or, really, a small huzzah, but a huzzah nevertheless.
As far as shipping . . . well, nothing I have sent so far has been damaged, knock on wood, but I'm getting to hate my post office.
As I said to another Amanda (out yourself if you wanna):
My postman is a great guy, but he will not ring the bell to get us to sign for Certified Mail envelopes. He just leaves the pink slip and runs away, and then I have to go to the plague-hive of our ghetto post office and navigate the maze of mouthbreathers. (Seriously, I live, like, less than a mile from a really nice post office, but it's not the one for our zip code. The one for our zip code is two miles away behind a freaking graveyard, and combines all the most charming features of an elementary school, a prison, and a cut-rate gym's locker room. "Malodorous and despairing" seems to about cover it.)
A normal post office has tons of mailing crap inside their counter-room thing. This had one small table of stuff that looked like it'd been ransacked and then picked over by third graders trying to build a shack out of mailing labels, tape, and cardboard. I swear one of the women in line had tuberculosis or something, because she was hacking and coughing so nastily I opted to attempt to use the self-check post-it-y'self machine instead of risking standing near her for any longer than necessary. The whole place has this fine coating of despair. I'd take pictures, but jeezly crow, I just don't think the aura of Lovecraftian horror would come across unless I simultaneously dangled a dead squid in front of the lens.
Plus, I'm not sure they wouldn't kneecap me for taking pictures.
Next time I'm taking the Fish. She can skeletonize a cow in two minutes. Says so on her vet record.
And in the time since I wrote that, it has worsened still.
So you will understand when I say I don't like to go in there. I print postage labels here at home, I run inside all but holding my breath, chuck 'em into the mail hopper, and then flee. Because I don't often go in there to pay for postage and thus cannot fight with tubercular half-orcs over the last roll of bubble wrap, I'm down to my last gasp of packing supplies. I know it's ghetto, but I prefer to reuse clean crinkly grocery bags, since I save them for recycling anyway, rather than buy new bubble wrap or, god save me, go into the post office of Leng.
I used the last of the bubble wrap tonight, though, and tomorrow I have to buy more and ask them to calculate some international postage, so I guess I am doomed.
The people there are really, really nice, though. They all look like bikers. Big, mean-ass bikers. It's cool. I wish one of them had an eyepatch. Then they'd look like pirates.
I am running away now to paint some more. I'm a little over 3/4 done on a really big box: all but one side is finished, and the smaller design on the bottom always waits for dead last. And this is one you're going to want to see. I love it.
I'd better get back to crackin', 'cause I have three things to finish after this, and I love all of those, too!
I'm inflicting a BPAL update on you tomorrow, and if you are lucky, a picture of the Fish.
Aren't you all the luckiest fuckers?
That's the kitty statue that arrived all broked. Very sad, since I ordered her for Sargon as a geeky in-joke (she's a gargoyle in our mythical bookstore) and here she is looking just . . . uncomfortable. Poor baby.
I got a refund without any real hassle, and now I am bound and determined to fix her up again. This isn't just any cat, this is a discontinued M. Peña cat gargoyle statue, and I've wanted one like her for ages. marccarlson and his wife have one, and I adore her.
This one will be equally adorable once she is fixed -- well, perhaps I should say repaired. If you didn't want your girl-kitty gargoyle having babies, would you take her to get "fixed?" Or would it be more accurate to say something like "chiseled?"
Either way, this is is Bridey-Cat, and I'll be fixing her up and perhaps toying with her paint job a little. She'll be staying on our mantel once the front room has been redecorated, our fourth little cat goblin.
I have almost all the broken bits, I just have to glue them back on. I'm haunting the Windstone.com forums for advice on fixing it, but can't find anythihng helpful about repairs on this scale. Looks like I'll be winging it.
Hahaha.
Yeah, I know, lame-o. Shut up. It's funny.
The last of the auction goods will go up after I get new batteries for my camera and can take pictures tomorrow. I'm holding out on a couple things I could put up now so that I can do them all together. One last big huzzah. Or, really, a small huzzah, but a huzzah nevertheless.
As far as shipping . . . well, nothing I have sent so far has been damaged, knock on wood, but I'm getting to hate my post office.
As I said to another Amanda (out yourself if you wanna):
My postman is a great guy, but he will not ring the bell to get us to sign for Certified Mail envelopes. He just leaves the pink slip and runs away, and then I have to go to the plague-hive of our ghetto post office and navigate the maze of mouthbreathers. (Seriously, I live, like, less than a mile from a really nice post office, but it's not the one for our zip code. The one for our zip code is two miles away behind a freaking graveyard, and combines all the most charming features of an elementary school, a prison, and a cut-rate gym's locker room. "Malodorous and despairing" seems to about cover it.)
A normal post office has tons of mailing crap inside their counter-room thing. This had one small table of stuff that looked like it'd been ransacked and then picked over by third graders trying to build a shack out of mailing labels, tape, and cardboard. I swear one of the women in line had tuberculosis or something, because she was hacking and coughing so nastily I opted to attempt to use the self-check post-it-y'self machine instead of risking standing near her for any longer than necessary. The whole place has this fine coating of despair. I'd take pictures, but jeezly crow, I just don't think the aura of Lovecraftian horror would come across unless I simultaneously dangled a dead squid in front of the lens.
Plus, I'm not sure they wouldn't kneecap me for taking pictures.
Next time I'm taking the Fish. She can skeletonize a cow in two minutes. Says so on her vet record.
And in the time since I wrote that, it has worsened still.
So you will understand when I say I don't like to go in there. I print postage labels here at home, I run inside all but holding my breath, chuck 'em into the mail hopper, and then flee. Because I don't often go in there to pay for postage and thus cannot fight with tubercular half-orcs over the last roll of bubble wrap, I'm down to my last gasp of packing supplies. I know it's ghetto, but I prefer to reuse clean crinkly grocery bags, since I save them for recycling anyway, rather than buy new bubble wrap or, god save me, go into the post office of Leng.
I used the last of the bubble wrap tonight, though, and tomorrow I have to buy more and ask them to calculate some international postage, so I guess I am doomed.
The people there are really, really nice, though. They all look like bikers. Big, mean-ass bikers. It's cool. I wish one of them had an eyepatch. Then they'd look like pirates.
I am running away now to paint some more. I'm a little over 3/4 done on a really big box: all but one side is finished, and the smaller design on the bottom always waits for dead last. And this is one you're going to want to see. I love it.
I'd better get back to crackin', 'cause I have three things to finish after this, and I love all of those, too!
I'm inflicting a BPAL update on you tomorrow, and if you are lucky, a picture of the Fish.
Aren't you all the luckiest fuckers?