Home of the Snarkmaiden

So one of the things I did for my birthday was go off and try the whole storefront paint-your-own-pottery thing, at a place called Paint the Town in University Village. I had a very good time doing it -- hey, doodling and doin' crafty stuff in a social setting where someone else cleans up the mess, what's not to like? -- and today, after my Chinese 203 class final exam was in my rearview mirror, I went to collect the fired result. I'm happy to report that I am Not Displeased with the result. Not ecstatic, mind, 'cause the glaze/paint behaves in ways I did not fully expect or plan for, but within the paradigm of a first try, it's not bad at all:



I will try this again, I think. Especially now that I know that Paint the Town carries garden markers among the stock of bisqueware. Doodling in public, yay.

And furthermore, Hah! I say. This is the sound of Ulrika having finished the triple-looped moss-covered color morph necklace of doom. And so I say unto you, Hah!

I ended up having to restring the whole thing in order to have enough extra thread to do the knotting. And still I was fighting with scooting beads out of knots with tweezers and subvocalized swearing by the time I got to the end. It turns out they really mean it when they suggest untold spare yards of silk to thread on, because knots eat a surprising amount of thread. Still, the fixed-needle knotting technique sped things up enormously (thanks for the link, Marilee!). And the re-string allowed me to make some small improvements in the overall bead layout while I was about it, but really, it could be a complete three alarm conflagration and I'd still be pretty damn' happy because IT'S DONE!

Which reminds me -- don't let anyone tell you that if something feels like homework that proves you don't love it enough to make a career of it. Anything -- ANY damn thing -- be it done for money or fun or love or even orgasms can feel like homework sometimes. Don't judge your love of anything by what it feels like when you hit a chore-point. That's like judging sex by how much you like it when he puts all his weight on the arm that's trapped your hair.