Overbooked and Underpaid: Notes from a Yes-aholic

Behind The Scenes With Anne & God: That Little Old Lady

I hate being late.

Almost nothing in the world will set me fuming (and cursing) more than the fear that I will not be on time to work.

Or an appointment.

Or dinner with friends.

Or the airport, the train station, the boat dock etc.

Which means I usually leave my house freakishly early for anything with a set arrival time.

But you know what?

Sometimes stuff happens.

And the best-laid plans go out the window.

And you find yourself becoming one of those people who changes lanes a lot and who’s trying to hit every traffic light while it’s still green.

And maybe driving just a teensy bit over the speed limit.

And every single time I find myself in this situation, there they are:

THE SLOW PEOPLE.

The guy who can’t decide if he’s turning at that next intersection.

Or maybe the one after that.

Or the one after that.

Or the one after that.

The mom who keeps speeding up and slowing down, drifting out of her lane while she turns around to yell at her unruly kids.

The driver in the van with the tinted windows who enjoys sitting in the passing lane whilst going just about exactly the same non-passing speed as the car in the slow lane.

Oh, and the railroad gate that drops (just before you get there) for the 2 mile long train that you forgot crosses this road.

And finally, the little old lady who can barely see above her steering wheel and may even have forgotten where she’s going.

I used to inwardly curse these people.

And sometimes not so inwardly.

Until the day that somebody driving like a bat out of heck crossed the yellow line, passed both me and the little old lady, and got stopped a half a mile later for speeding.

I think I’d always figured that God was putting the slow people in my way on purpose.

And not in a nice way.

No, in more of a “you should have left the house earlier” sort of way.

But that day I decided to maybe give God a little more credit.

Maybe he was doing me a favor.

Saving me from traffic tickets.

Or worse.

©Copyright 2020 Anne Morse Hambrock All Rights Reserved

If you enjoy Anne & God illustrated poems please visit anneandgod.com and if you would like to buy the book collection that contains the poem at the beginning of this essay please visit the store in the menu bar up above.

 

Behind The Scenes With Anne & God: Dear Vera Wang

After I published this "Anne and God" comic I thought to myself "Why get the almighty involved in this - I need to write Ms. Wang directly."

It seems only fair. You know, in case God takes me too seriously and sends some locusts to Ms. Wang's house on my behalf. 

Dear Vera,

I am a woman.

I have boobs. 

Size D.

This does not mean I am a size 14 or above.

I am a size 6.

You design a LOT of clothes in this size. I know this because when I wander into my local clothing emporium - Kohls - your fashions are the first thing to greet me. There they stand - beautiful mannequins decked out in all their Vera Wang glory.

Those mannequins look great in your clothes.

So great that I almost always take the bait, grab 5 or 6 pieces and head for the fitting rooms.

I don article after article of clothing only to find that each one:

hangs wrong,

sits wrong,

drapes wrong,

and just generally DOES NOT WORK on my body.

I actually bought a robe once - big mistake.

Because it was a robe, I just assumed it would fit fine with no need to try it on. I mean - what can go wrong with a robe, for Pete's sake?!

What can go wrong is that the darn thing won't stay closed.

I've tied it with both the little belts you've attached - inside and out - to no avail. It just keeps coming open.

In, you guessed it, the boob area.

Husband is happy - me, not so much.

Maybe the real problem here is those store mannequins.  Maybe you have surrounded yourself with fashion models of mannequin-esque stature and flat chestedness. 

Then again, I've seen pictures of you and you're no "D cup" yourself so maybe you just design clothes that will look good on you and people who are built like you.

Which would be perfectly fine if you were content to tailor your product (no pun intended) to a niche clientele. 

But when you boldly market your wares to a big chain like Kohls (headquartered in Wisconsin - one of the "full figured" capitols of the US) I really feel someone needs to call this problem to your attention.

Because when your clothes look awful on us we take it personally.

You're famous.

You design for stars.

We feel as though you couldn't possibly be at fault with all your massive designer skills.

The problem must be us.

Maybe we need to go on a diet.

So I did that.

Lost 20 pounds.

Went from a size 10 back to my college size 6.

Didn't help a bit.

Because my size is actually NOT the problem.

The problem is the boobs and the fact that your clothes simply are NOT designed to accommodate them. 

I'm done blaming myself.

I blame you.

And until you come up with something that takes my bust into account I'm afraid I have to be done with you.

You may think you don't need me or my business. That's your prerogative. 

But you're missing a BIG market.

Pun intended.

Anne

©Copyright 2020 Anne Morse Hambrock All Rights Reserved

If you enjoy Anne & God illustrated poems please visit anneandgod.com and if you would like to buy the Anne & God book collection  please visit the store in the menu bar up above.

 

 

Behind The Scenes With Anne & God: Quilting Saga

I have been known to be overly optimistic in my time management.

Just a teensy, weensy, itsy, bitsy, bit.

OK. Massively overly optimistic.

I also tend to tire of the projects I’m working on and pick up different ones. And sometimes I decide to try a new skill.

Quilting was, once upon a time, an art form I thought I might like to dabble in.

So I decided to make what is called among quilters (you know, those people who actually know what they’re doing when they sew stuff together and make a fabric sandwich out of it) a “pieced top” quilt.

Not only did I decide that my very first quilt ever would involve a lot of cutting out little bits of fabric and sewing them together in cool patterns, I was determined to make a “scrap quilt”. That’s another one of those technical quilting terms that means that you are repurposing old clothes and other fabric items that have outlived their usefulness and turning them into a bedspread. Think of it as the original “upcycling”.

Only here’s the thing about “scrap quilts”. They are almost always “crazy quilts”. They derive this name from the fact that the pieces of fabric are completely random in size and shape and sewn together with no discernible pattern.

There’s a reason for that.

An important reason.

Scraps of material from lots of different sources also, it turns out, have different weaves, textures, fabric weights, drape and a lot of other fancy fabric terms. What that boils down to is that each of these fabrics behaves differently when you cut it up. (Especially if you are just cutting them in whatever direction gives you the most triangles per piece of fabric – apparently “cutting on the bias” is different than other kinds of cutting. Who knew?)

They also behave quite inconsistently when you sew them all together. And, if that weren’t enough of a problem, it turns out you are supposed to use a template and be super duper extra careful that every triangle is exactly precisely completely the same dimensions.

My attention span didn’t really allow for all that precision.

So, my pinwheel quilt, instead of turning out as a nice rectangle quilt, was more of a trapezoid.

A pretty trapezoid.

A warm trapezoid.

But still, a trapezoid.

Which is why I never made another pieced top quilt.

Instead I got the ingenious inspiration to make a quilt out of a single top piece, batting, and a single bottom piece.

And, since I was still fond of repurposing things, I chose to use an old white damask tablecloth and a green bed sheet.

To keep from having to dream up a pattern for the stitches I decided to follow the existing pattern on the tablecloth. It turns out this is NOT such a brilliant idea. The pattern is almost impossible to see unless you have just the right kind of lighting and the proper angle of the material.

And, unlike the piece-topped quilt that involved a lot of use of my grandmother’s featherweight Singer sewing machine, this quilting would all have to be done by hand.

In a fit of terrific optimism I began this quilt as a present for my then three year old daughter.

You can see where this is going.

I think I thought I’d have it finished by the time she was six. Or maybe eight.

Then I just hoped I could get it done before she left for college.

This spring she will turn twenty-one.

Drumroll please.......

I FINALLY was able to present her with the truly completed quilt this Christmas!

Just a few years late......

Here are the results:

 

 

 

©Copyright 2020 Anne Morse Hambrock All Rights Reserved

If you enjoy Anne & God illustrated poems please visit anneandgod.com and if you would like to buy the book collection that contains the poem at the beginning of this essay please visit the store in the menu bar up above.

Anne & God: The Deluge

Click the image to read today's "Anne & God"

 

The Deluge

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Behind The Scenes With Anne & God: Abandoned Houses

First off, I liked our neighbors.

No, that’s not right.

I LOVED our neighbors.

They were a lovely couple with two great kids who played with our kid. They were hospitable –occasionally inviting us over for a little grilling on the patio and a glass of wine or two.

Which is why I always felt really bad when I did “IT”.

When I would take the snow I was shoveling off of our driveway and throw it over their fence where it would land next to their driveway.

I didn’t actually throw the snow ONTO their driveway. There is about a two and a half foot space of bushes and rocks and stuff and I would throw it onto that.

But somehow, even if I wasn’t actually doing anything wrong I FELT as though I was.

And I would sort of peek out of my windows to see if the neighbor dad was anywhere around because I didn’t really want him to see me doing it.

I think I was afraid that he didn’t really appreciate the extra snow, whether it was on a space he was going to have to clear off or not, and that his witnessing the act of “snow redistribution” would indelibly change our relationship.

Actually, the subterfuge was pretty stupid because, even though he might not SEE me throwing snow over the fence, he could, of course, see the resulting piles of snow that hadn’t been there before.

Anyway, regardless of the risks and the guilty feeling of maybe being a bad neighbor I just kept on with my sneaky snow shoveling habit.

But now they’re gone. And the house is empty. It’s been empty for almost two years now.

He got diagnosed with a degenerative disease (while still very young), her job was eliminated and, though she managed to find a new one it was out of state. On top of which, like so many other people in the past 9 years, they found themselves “underwater” trying to make payments on a colossal mortgage for a house that had lost more than sixty percent of its earlier value.

They were one of those couples who bought a nice house during the height of the local “overpriced housing” bubble, did some costly renovations, and then watched the whole thing go to pot.

They tried to work with the bank but, between the changes in their job circumstances, the loss of appraised value to the house, they just couldn’t swing it all and they walked away.

And I’ve been really conflicted about the whole thing. There’s a part of me that was raised to believe that you get yourself out of whatever messes you find yourself in and you honor your commitments – no matter what. But these weren’t people who set out to “game the system”. They never had a plan to overextend themselves and leave the bank holding the bag. They just took the sorts of risks we all take when we buy a house and assume we will continue to have a job and everything will always work out in our favor.

And the dice just did not roll their way.

And the house just sits there – the bank has done absolutely NOTHING about it.

So I still throw my snow over the fence. And I don’t have the guilt anymore.

But I’m sad about the whole business.

 

©Copyright 2020 Anne Morse Hambrock All Rights Reserved

If you enjoy Anne & God illustrated poems please visit anneandgod.com and if you would like to buy the book collection that contains the poem at the beginning of this essay please visit the store in the menu bar up above.

Hell In High Heels

Anyone out there who lives in high heels - raise your hands...

You poor dears.

I'm right there with you. 

Once upon a time I was 5 foot 2 and 3/4.

I think these days I'm closer to 5 foot 2.

Which is to say I'm short.

And when you are short you have three options -

• Live with your shortness and run around in comfy flat shoes (be prepared for cute little nicknames like "half-pint" and "small-fry")
• Wear platform shoes with thick soles and thicker heels (these went out of fashion with the 70's but do have an occasional style resurgence so you might get away with it)
• Wear High Heels

I've been wearing high heeled shoes as my default "I'm really a tall person" footwear for over 30 years now, the main big change over time having been the height of the heel. Back in my spit-and-vinegar days I wore 3 1/2 to 4 inch spikes, like the ones pictured above, but those long ago hit the dustbin in favor of more sensible heights like 1 1/2 to 2 inches. 

But I have a really bad habit - I underestimate how far you can walk in them without getting a blister.

Sometimes it's not my fault. I mean, what are you supposed to do when you are attending a formal function one minute and are being asked to trek across town the next? It's not as though you can whip a pair of Nike's out of your snappy little evening bag and slap them onto your feet.

This summer I was attending an awards ceremony in Washington D.C. that was to be followed by a reception in another location. As the ceremony concluded we were told that the reception was "just a short walk" and that we would all just "migrate over together". 

One and a half miles of torture later (through pouring rain, I might add) we arrived at our destination to find a stand-up reception. Yep! That's right! I, and several other disgruntled, high heeled, honorees, found ourselves not only trekking across the Washington Mall - complete with mud and gravel - but had no place to sit for the ensuing 2 hours.

At least the wine was available immediately. 

The kicker? The whole thing was organized by a woman!

Who should have known better. I mean, I expect this sort of thing from men in sensible shoes but a woman? Really!

We women are supposed to be looking out for one another in this department. Like the kind soul I met in Manhattan in 2006.

I was in NYC with my husband for the launch of his nationally syndicated comic strip. This was officially a BIG DEAL which meant a lot of formal meetings and lunches and traipsing around the city while dressed up.

By the end of the day I had a blister the size of a quarter on my right heel and was walking back to the hotel half in and half out of the shoe.

Step, hobble, step, hobble, step hobble.....

As we got into the elevator I had just said to my husband "Maybe I can get a band-aid from housekeeping" when a lady popped in before the doors closed.

She looked at me and asked if I had a band-aid. And I thought to myself "small world, she needs a band-aid too!" 

I replied that I was thinking of trying to get one from housekeeping when she answered "Oh no,  you just come along to my room - I've got plenty."

Confused I stared at her, still not grasping her point. "Honey, I've been walking behind you for the last six blocks - believe me, I know that walk..."

I almost fell into her arms with relief.

I now try to be prepared for any eventuality. 

So the next time you see me at a formal event, don't be surprised that I have a two gallon purse filled with Nike's and Band-Aids.

Curb Combing - Decorating On The Cheap

UPDATE: Now that I have more readers and have learned about dandy things like Pinterest I am going to re-post some things. Most of this post ran 2 years ago but it still applies. I still love to grab things off the curb, repaint them, and re-purpose them. Once I painted a chair, had a bunch of famous cartoonists draw on it and was able to auction it of for charity to the tune of $600!

Here's to curb combing! 

Enjoy the following story of a late night curb adventure:

 

(Rescued, repainted curb find)

 

The secret to my decorating style is out.

My house is done in a style I lovingly refer to as "stuff from dead people".

To date, I have bought exactly one couch, two wing chairs, and a variety of mattresses that were brand spanking new.

Everything else - dead people.

Well - I guess some of them aren't dead. They maybe just cleared out a room.

But many of them are dead.

I don't sweat it.

Any piece I own that hasn't come from a personally deceased family member has come from someone else's departed loved ones via estate sales, thrift stores, or the curb.

So, earlier this week I was driving along my street and there, perched jauntily curbside, was this oak table with an enormous pedestal foot and one leaf in it.

I did NOT happen to be driving my honkin' big Odyssey van. 

Dammit!

I got out and looked at the table. Not terribly great as it was, but some terrific potential if I painted it.

But I didn't really have time in my schedule to go to home and get the van.

And, honestly, my house was getting too full and I didn't even know where I could stash the thing until I could get to refinishing or painting it.

I said my goodbyes and drove off.

But it nagged.

Now the only person I know who has more "projects" sitting around her house optimistically awaiting their facelifts is my friend Phoebe.

Phoebe's garage and basement are a testament to yes-aholic optimism. We're all sure we'll fit everything in somehow, somewhere, someday, aren't we? I mean that's the yes-aholic manifesto "I can do it - I'll fit it in somehow!".

I found myself talking to Phoebe at 10:00 the night of the table incident:

"I thought of you today, there was this oak pedestal table on the street and - "

"Is it still there?!!!!!'

"I don't know - probably - it was still there at five this afternoon with a bunch of other stuff piled on it - "

"Let's go get it!!!!"

"Now?!"

"Yeah - it'll only take 15 minutes - come on!!!"

Good as her word - 3 minutes later she was at my house with her van - man, that woman can hustle when there's free furniture involved! 

Which is how I found myself, in the dead of night, beset by mosquitoes, taking boxes and a microwave and other sundries of said table to get a better look at it.

"Oh, darn it! It's got a fluted edge!"

"This is a problem?"

"Yeah, I hate that kind of edge. And look - it's not old."

"Well, no, probably from the 70s - but it's still solid oak...."

"No - I'm going to pass. It kills me to leave it here for the garbage man though - who does that, I mean couldn't they at least take it over to St. Vincents?"

"Well, we could toss it into your van and you could take it over tomorrow..."

 

And then my friend the yes-aholic took the first steps to recovery. She said no. 

This was such a personal achievement on her part - I decided to let slide the fact that we were going to let the garbage men take the table.

Besides - there were other headlights slowing down.....

 

 

Methinks Someone's Been Peeking In My Windows....

Once again Between Friends is channeling my life! Read it every day here: http://betweenfriendscomics.com/

Paint Spill Disaster!!

After reading my "thought for the week" about speedball ink and sneezing, folks are reqesting pictures. Unfortunately, while we have had many speedball ink mishaps, we never took pictures :-(.

I do however have pictures of last year's paint spilling disaster. We were storing dark gray paint in our son's closet (for use in finishing up the trim in his bedroom - if we ever got around to it) when it fell out of the closet (which is really sort of a cupboard - the bottom of which is a foot and a half off the ground - the door in the photo is the hall door, closet is behind it) and spilled over a 3 foot square section of the very expensive carpet in that bedroom.

Foolishly, we tried for about 45 minutes to clean it up (what was I thinking?!) before we threw in the towel (threw away the towel, actually) and just cut that section out of the carpet. We bought a piece of similar carpet with which to patch the spot. Although we have cut the patch to size, in true overbooked fashion, we have yet to officially install it.....

Thought for the Week - April 21 2013

 

When holding an open bottle of speedball ink, it's best to put it down before you sneeze...