Friday, July 24, 2009

Hairy Potter

This morning I went to pottery class, like any other retired cat lady would.

I signed up for this pottery class because I was resolved to work less this summer and after my first class I said, starry-eyed, "I quit working! I'm going to be...a potter!"

I had grand designs of kicking out the guy who rents our garage space to store his children's theatre sets (really) and creating a light, airy studio where I could just hang and make shit all day.

Isaac suggested that I continue the course before I truly rearrange my whole life (or even purchase the wheel I found on Craigslist BUT I REALLY WANT IT). Sigh. So measured. This is what it must feel like for an autistic kid when he gets under a sofa cushion and someone sits on him. Soothing.

Anyway, I've missed about a million classes in a row now. Life gets busy and deadlines get in the way of making pinch pots and slopping around with wet clay on a wheel. WHY?

This week I went to back to class for the first time in ages and then met Isaac for lunch right afterwards. How indulgent. I had done all of about 30 minutes of "real work" at all today.

As we finished our leisurely lunch, Isaac said, "Hey, let's go to Bikes on Wheels and get you a new basket." He said this because it was right around the corner.

Well. I know my bike looks like it's been crunched in the back of a garbage truck (if only one would come around, please garbage truck, come to my house now). I know the basket is hanging off the front precipitously and is attached by a rusty, impromptu grip. I know all this because I wanted to dig myself a hole in shame as the bike guy examined my bike. It's like being in ER and wearing your worst granny panties (solution: just don't own any).

The guy inspected my bike the way I would pick up an earthworm if I were to be gardening with Isaac, i.e. with barely controlled disdain, cognizant of the social fall-out of yelping, "WHAT THE? GROSS!"

And then he made a checklist. New basket, plus labour. New back tire ("May as well replace inner tube while we're at it"), plus labour. I started to make that face where your nose gets wrinkled and your mouth falls open and you're looking very unattractive and it's not good to do it in public.

"Isaac, thanks a lot for bringing me in here," I hissed as the guy said, "Just come back in 30 minutes," to our retreating backs.

"What?" Isaac, the sweet, my sweet.

"I have stuff to do like renew my health card and I haven't even done any work today and what time is it?! 2:30? And that's going to cost so much! My bike was fine!"

Isaac was kind of incredulous at my ridiculous (hissed, quiet) outburst and I don't blame him.

"It's fine, it's fine." I waved him away as we stood outside the shop. "Just go back to work. I'll just wait here. It's fine," I shooed him and he left, riding back to continue making his commercial with aliens in it that sell cell phones (really).

When I did get home (bike felt really good riding home if you must know), I sheepishly emailed him. "Um, sorry I was weird, it's just that, well, you know I kinda get stressed about wasting time because there's nothing I hate more than wasting time but you were right, I needed to get it done. I just felt like I was stuck there and I'd wasted my entire work day."

This is a straight cut'n'paste from his email response to me:

"yes, lunch was fun. and I'm glad you see that sometimes you have to spend time and money to upkeep things you count on (ie our bikes). Imagine if we had a car! It would be much more money and time and annoyances. So we have to do these chores in our daily routines."

Let me repeat: "So we have to do these chores in our daily routines."


I wrote back to say that I'm obviously weird and too unfettered with earthly concerns and totally a bad wifey. I thanked him for the bit of life advice regarding chores and daily routines and said, "That's it. You get to raise the kids. I would make them into feral monkeys."

Of course, Isaac is the one who can climb a tree like he's a simian Fred Astaire. So really, I wouldn't raise them into monkeys, he would. *I* would raise them to become tiny, Crackberry-ing dilettantes who take old-people recreational classes before their time and have petits outbursts to their mini-husbands for no good reason.

And then I'd teach them to ride their tricycles home and spend the rest of their day on Twitter.


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