etsy thread reply

 Reply to a thread on etc about babysitting and friend verses employe status.
Original post made reference to the fact she'd become friend with her 'baby sitter" and was disappointed that she had changed the venue of where she watched the posters child while work was being done in her home.

http://www.etsy.com/teams/7361/etc/discuss/9952419/page/5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reluctant from the beginning to enter here........

now that I read the entire rant I want to squeeze your nose off with my index and pointer finger and reverse that image to show you your own nose.

UGH!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She replied next comment....Um, hummm,
She didn't have a clue that she'd been dis respectful or that her demands for a in-home sitter/cleaning person were obtuse. 

crudeco etsy

My first year here on etsy I received numerous compliant laid-en convo's regarding my use of recycled leather from fellow vegan-minded folk. At first I didn't take much concern about the convo's. Until I was told that my shop would be boycotted by the 'team vegan folk'.

The handmade gift boxes I made and tried to sell on my first born etsy, were not selling. Thus, I developed a sock-puppet account of 'ecovintagevegan', account is still open. I was surprised at how fast the etsy vegan public accepted eco. Even with a declaimer clearly described in my policy's, that I was the shop owner of both entities - as required by etsy law.. I began to be greeted fondly by vegan and veggie minded folk, people who openly stated that they were vegan and how much they appreciated that I was too.

This month I moved all my inventory from eco to crudeco. I don't see the need to pretend to be something I'm not in order to shlepp my handmade products.......but I wasn't very pleased about being boycotted, receiving the threat of being boycotted or the idea that that action could possibly happen.

Sure I contacted all the admin powers that be. And was given the same 'statement' of fact to avoid 'said' boy-cotters convo's and not to exchange convo with them.

Visiting Christmas - 2011

One of my favorite Christmas Stories, and one that I heard at a AA meeting while living in New Hampshire, while my Ex was attending a recovery program. Many of the men's stories were so heart breaking that I cried throughout the entire session. Certainly meant to bring awareness to their own self-healing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Recovery and A Life Long Commitment:

In the 80’s when my ex was attending recovery programs and AA, I attended and supported his process by learning about my own self-worth. There were many weekend family retreats, long distance drives, schedules and meetings that seemed daunting and even time consuming. Young and optimistic about mending my marriage I went to every scheduled site, every late night meeting and every religious setting to accomplish that which I thought would make his life better…………….there was love there at one time.

The relentless desire to “make good”……heal, help, assist,….uh, co-dependent the addiction, the addict. Guilty myself of dipping my toes into the methamphetamine scene to comply, join, and belong to his life in some way or another and reaching for a love that wasn’t in actuality even reachable.

I recall a meeting that changed my life forever, a pivotal moment, a gut reaction that assisted my growth process and pushed me into focusing on myself. A seasoned recovering addicted with ten years sobriety under his belt shared a story (maybe his story or maybe a passed down story, who knows really if it were his personal story) I only know that after I heard the story my heart and mind were changed forever…...and the story goes.

***************************************************************************************

A man comes home from work, as he strides through the living room headed for the refrigerator he stumbles over his eight year old sons fire truck and all his collected play things on the floor. His son greets his dad with, “Hey, Dad will you play with me?” Grumbling passively his father replies, “NOT Now!” And opens the refrigerator and grabs a tall boy from the shelf. He turns and walks to his Lazy Boy. Again his son tried to greet him with a suggestion of play time.

“Damn It …..I don’t want to play…..leave me alone.”
As his father sits and sucks down his brew, the son continues to play at his feet. “Please dad, will you play with me?” Angry by his sons persistence the father yells at the boy, grabs a magazine from the among the boys toys on the floor, opens it up to the center and rips out a single page with an image of the nautical world. He then tears that page into many tiny pieces, and throws those pieces at his son. He exclaims, “when you’ve put the picture of the world together I will play with you!”

Minutes later, the son approaches his father who now has polished off a six pack of tall boys, his son hands his father a taped up picture page of the world. “Here dad I did it! Can we play now?” In a slightly ‘buzzed’ state his father said, “How did you do that?” The son said, “Oh, on the other side of the page is a picture of a MAN, when you put the picture of the man together the WORLD takes care of itself.”

*****************************************************************************************

I can’t say for certain that this recovering addict’s story was factual, personal or for a listening co-dependent audience, but for me it changed everything, my future with my husband, my own addictive behavior, my co-dependency and my own self-worth.

It also brought back childhood memories and my father’s own alcoholic behaviors and how he belittle, berated and beat my mother after his drunken stupors of partying with railroad buddies and other women and The Green Mill Bar in Rawlins Wyoming.

This simple story stays with always.

Mason Rule Tanner - Twin Falls, Idaho - Pencil Tanner

Pencil Tanner

    My pencil was a good pencil… he served me well. One reason I loved my pencil was he was always at my side. He was always there for me when I needed him; whether it was for History, English, Math, or just to doodle. Pencil was even there for me after his tragic accident on September 27th, 2006. When he was viciously assaulted and snapped in half by Andre, not the giant… the short Mexican with glasses. After being injured Pencil was on Mr. Orloski’s desk for at least twenty second before being administered his cast. He was  always top priority and everyone loved Pencil. Albeit only one hour and twenty three minutes later Pencil Tanner passed away. He died from an immense splinter.
    Pencil was one of my sharpest friends. He even had his soft moments, but he was always firm when I needed him. Maybe it was the fact that I only had one pencil, or maybe it was the fact I had a see-through pencil pouch. But I knew Pencil was an individual; I was always able to find him in my pencil pouch. On rare occasions I would chew on Pencil, when I was thinking, or it was nearly lunch time. Other times I would roll my beloved Pencil up and down, across, or even off my desk. These were just bonding moments.
    The very distinctive looks of Pencil, honestly weren’t that distinct at all. In fact the only sundry physical features on Pencil were the jarring teeth marks he was so pristinely marred with, and his eccentric yet ravishing cast. Since he had only had Reilly McClain sign his cast he felt it was very cumbersome and below par, but no one even acquiesced with him on the matter. Pencil had his symmetrically painted yellowish orange skin and a wee pink butt. Connecting these two key parts of Pencil was his silvery belt thingy; it made him look very professional. In fact, he looked busy even when he was simply laying still. The most crucial part of Pencil was his handsome face, his apex, his tiptop, point of the lead if you will. Yes, he was a special one.
    Pencil always tasted exceptional compared to other pencils; he had his rustic woody taste. Upon chewing Pencil, I would always admire how I would taste a plethora of things. One of the most queer tastes was the metallic taste of his belt, or the rubbery taste of his eraser. Alas, now that pencil is dead all I am able to taste is the bland corpse of my beloved Pencil.
    Now Pencil is gone and all I can say is that I did and always will love and

remember him. This true story was in memory of Pencil Tanner™.

*********************************************************************************

Thinking about my son this morning, remembering and reminiscing about small achievements from his school years. Thinking that I haven't lost hope in his future, wondering how to assist without interfering and proving to myself that I didn't miss a parental step in his life.

Did I give too much as a single Mom?
Did I jump in to save him from those bullies in elementary school?
Did being raised by a single Mom crush his abilities to function and discern on his own?
There is guilt....does he see that when he reaches out now for help? Is it too late for tough love?

The Beginning Of My Mommyhood

She was my first child and one that kept me on my toes from day one. We gave birth to her in a small New England, New Hampshire apartment on Lake Winniepishaki. Mid-wife Molly Connelly, health nurse, Pappa and my Mother all anxious and in attendance waiting the pushing arrival of soon to be Dana Micklin
(pronounced mike-all-lyn). I had already been in labor three days and falling asleep between each contraction. My Mother said, “you feel asleep crying informing me that you would need the pink dress”.

By evening, and with New Hampshire flair fall rain, Dana Micklin was born. Stood to push her into Molly arms with Pappa supporting my feeble body from behind. As I fell to the bed I saw the glimpse of her fire red hair and heard the soft cry of my first child. She was magical!

The in-home child birthing processes was an attractive notion for us then, money was tight and their wasn’t an insurance program for either one of us. Molly was a perfect solution, she took payments and she offered parenting classes prior to the delivery and follow up through 8 weeks. She had delivered several of her own children at home, she had the spirit of great wild animal, plus the character of a shaman twice her age. I knew it would be fine and that I was in good hands.

******************************************************************************************

My second child was born in the traditional method, forced horizontal labor with the doctor at my feet. The option of a mid-wife in the West hadn’t progressed to the level of my eastern homeland. Nearly five years later and separated from Pappa, delivery was accompanied by my Mother, my Mother-in-law and a numerous nurses, and a Lama doctor. Seemed cold and un feeling, actually uncomfortable, in that room. My water broke at home and I was two weeks late, his projected time to arrive was December 25th.

Pushing from a flat position was difficult, un natural and painfully worse than I remembered, seemed strangely odd to feel the force of my doctor fist inside me. The doc broke my sons shoulder bone as he eased him out, leaving a permanently viewed x-ray break for the rest of his life. (The evidence of that break would later be blamed on me when I rushed him to the E.R at 14 months.)

He wasn’t breathing, my Mother -in-law screamed “Oh, God he’s dead!” The doctor asked her to leave the room. I remember hearing whispers about his numbers, his mucus, and that he’d had a bowel movement in me….weird words to hear as I lay clutching my Mother’s hand.

After what seemed like hours I heard the soft cry of my second born child, Mason Rule, also with red hair like Sister’s.

My life, my path and subsequent career has been focused on their lives and the lives of other cherubs I care for. I have an innate sense for children's feelings, emotions and pain. Perhaps my own childhood lend me to care for children, or a force greater than I stirred the body in this direction. With no money, no savings and newly divorced the thought of leaving my children in the daycare system that was affordable to me just wasn't an option.

Lucky for me, I was fired from a reputable restaurant chain, fought for my un employment benefits and took all of 1995 off. Started both businesses that year and I haven't looked back since. Am I rich? No. Are all the bills paid monthly? Generally, plus I've paid off a new heating system, a Montana Van, carpet, ceramic kitchen floors, and numerous bills to the county juvenile system.

Its a bit of a roller coaster ride, daily, but its a ride that I'm in control of, I'm driving. With all this confusion in Washington and others deciding how the rest of us should live I still feel in control. Am I rich? NO!

Mexican Agate Ear Rings - The Only One - T.O.O.

The Only One

In this listing one handsome "T.O.O. the only one" set of Mexican Agate ear rings. Slabbed and tumble polished in the traditional Crude Company style. These special little agates feature a brilliant orbicular egg in the center of each agate. There's just something very special about owning a pair of ear rings that no one will ever have a pair of.

These little beauties come from a vintage collection from the forties. Consecutively cut and slabbed, then tumbled to a mirror polish.

Sweet, elderly lady I met last fall collected rock with her father during the thirties and forties in Mexico, New Mexico and Arizona. Its not often I am able to discover vintage and antique collections that haven't been depleted or dismantled.

Every nodule that I've cut into has been spectacular, many completely take my breathe away. Sure, I'm a rock geek.....I own that.

These beauties have been wire-wrapped in 12 carat 22 gauge gold filled wire. Completed simply with golden French ear wires. The pair measure 1 1/4" long, and hang down from the ear lobe at 1 1/2". Made asymmetrically, not intended to be
matchy-matchy but they can be switched off to wear in alternating ears.

The last image is the reverse side of the agates.

These ear rings will arrive in a handmade gift box from my ecovintagevegan shop.
Sent Priority mail.

Graduation 2011

Received my second high school graduation announcement today. Each linen enveloped stuffed to the brim with the information about their proud day and the time to celebrate their accomplishments. Each time I received another I’m faced with a deep sadness and regret for my own two….my own to two drop-outs.

Should I have pushed more? Harder? To make them stay in an institution that made them miserable? After they both reached 16 years old there wasn’t much I could do. By law they could decide themselves. With my daughter they tried to use the ruler test example to encourage her to stay in school. Here’s where you are….and here’s how much longer you have….you are almost done. With my son, there was no begging him to stay, no ruler example, just a calm direction from the principle “School isn’t for every student”.

Last year I went to the graduation of a young man who had been in my daycare since he was three years old. Anyone seated next to me would have thought I was his mother, the tears poured down my chubby cheeks like water works. My son sat next to me with his arm around my shoulders, exclaiming, “Mom, some day I will graduate from college”.  I am proud of his accomplishing a scholarship level GED at our local college last spring. But it doesn’t smooth the grief I have that I’ll never sit for either him or his sister to graduate from high school.

In my day, was there an option of dropping out? If there was I didn’t know about it. The ultimate goal for me was to graduate and get out of Dodge (Rawlins, Wyoming). Get me out of here, away, explore and discover the world. I was an average student and a flourishing art geek, attending college was a dream come true. It did take two institution and moving away from home to get my degree, but those were the best four years of learning.

I push now, too late maybe, but anguish over my daughter’s choice to not complete her GED……she needs a tutor and math tutor, one more test and she’ll have her GED from the college. She bounces from job to job, each one offering her a challenge at first, then soon she grows weary of the attitudes, laziness, and apathetic behaviors of those she works with or for. Every evening its another opportunity for discussion and direction from me to encourage her to return to school. “What is the solution to your situation?” I ask her. “What can you do to make your own life better?” I beg her. “I know Mom, I need to get back to school. But I need to work too.” And I tell her, You can do both.

There’s a depression of sorts when I receive another graduation announcement, and there’s a reservation about attending the celebration this month. My son should be in that parade of red gowns and caps walking in unison to receive a scroll of achievement. Can I attend another graduation without blubbering like a baby about my own kids never being in their own procession of accomplishments?

At nearly 23, my daughter is a woman, at 18 my son is a man, I can not tell them what to do. I must accept that I have given them the skills they need to make their own decisions and to succeed in their life. Do I miss the hoopla, the photo opportunities, the stuffing envelopes for mailing and the chance to have congrat’s from family for both of them…..sure. But for now I need to get past the notion that I am not in charge of their destiny. I have given them roots and wings, they are good people, and I am proud of them.