Worst Shows Ever

Yup. I’ve officially accumulated a streak of two bad shows who have officially taken the #1 and #2 spot of “Worst Show Ever.”

I didn’t think anything could beat the Fond du Lac debacle of 2008. But I was wrong.

I hate being wrong.

Both Watertown and New Berlin were little mini disasters with long drives and no buyers.

It’s too depressing to recount in detail.

With each show, fresh hope.

Interviewing

I've worked for the same company for 21 years.

That's a long time.

Longer than I've been married.

Double decades.

Long.

For reasons, which are unclear, I decided to apply to promotion. Wait, you say? A promotion? Apply for a promotion? Aren't promotions usually just given when deserved.

Apparently yes...to everyone else except me.  Now I don't want to be one of "those employees" who thinks they are all that and a bag of chips and should be promoted because they are more deserving then other employees.  I've been around the corporate block long to enough to know that when manager wants to bump someone up the corporate food chain, it happens. Auto-magically.  There is a tap-tap on the shoulder and Voila! Someone (else) has been bumped into double digit profit sharing.  I have a combination of phenomonally bad luck and bad timing when it comes to "right place at the right time" career syndrome.

Oh. Is my bitterness shining through.  Sorry. I know. I know. Sour grapes. But it's my blog and if you don't like it, I'll take my ball and go home!

So there!

The quick backstory. My department has folks that have slightly different levels of the same job. A higher graded position opened and I applied. Same job that I am doing today - just more money. Truly. The same. The same boss too. Same. 

Now if my manager had her druthers she would have probably just promoted me already - but her manager,  who is a tool and has yet to befall a non-fatal but slightly disfiguring accident, demands that God and everybody be interview for this position.  This includes external applicants. Don't even get me started on how I will feel if this position ends up being filled externally.

And so I get an interview.

Interviewing is roughly on par with taking a mind numbing math exam. There is alot of pressure to remember the correct formula for the perfect interview. The right answers solved quickly and expertly delivered with the right balance of perkiness and positivity. 

I'm pretty sure being flogged for 45 minutes wouldn't have been as painful.

Then...to add insult to injury...as if this process hasn't gone on long enough, it will be another month before a decision is made.  I applied in July. Interivew in October...decision sometime before I am dead and buried.

Or so I hope.

I've Fallen down the Project Hole

I have. For real. A combination project hole (the real job that pays the mortgage) and tye dye hole (the fun hobby that keeps me in pedicures).

I'll be back shortly.

I will.

Promise.

And it will be dazzling.

Hand to God.

Sauk Prairie Cow Chip – Art Show Recap

Sauk Prairie Rules!

The Good:

• There are people. Lots of people. People who apparently are unphased by the federal deficit, the blips in the stock market, recent back to school shopping or rain. The calendar turned to September and it’s a new month with new money to spend. And they spent it. On tye dye. Go me. This means I can pay for my husbands 50th birthday thingy (another entry for another time, promise).

• Pork Chop on a stick. $5 for 12 ounces of bone-in pork-a-licious pig on a stick. Oink! Pork Chop on a stick is not for dainty. Sit down at picnic table, rolls up the sleeves and Fred Flintstone that pork chop down to the bone. It’s a good idea to bring some floss. Worth every single smoked pork-chop-a-licious calorie. Yummy!

• Lots of first time grammas. Cool, hip grammas that think nothing of whipping out the Visa to buy cute little dresses, hoodies and rompers for their grandbabies. I’m putting all Grandmas on a big pedestal. They rule.

• The Square. My new fangled real-time gizmo that authorizes and captures credit card transactions via my smart phone. I received my “free” Square (really, it's free)  in time for Sauk which make credit cards transactions easy, peasy, lemon squeezy. Seriously – slicker then sh*t through a goose. No lie. Major snaps on the cool factor.

The bad

• The weather. This year is was rainy and drippy and overall moist. Not that it mattered. Cow Chip is a one day gig and the people come out in droves. The bummer part was all my stuff was just a tad moist which meant unpacking everything at home to dry out proper.

• Normal hassles with loading in and loading out, but let’s face it I’m seeing dollar signs. Dollar signs are like exercise endorphins. They make me happy.

Woot!

On the list for next year. Check!

Kicking it up a notch

You might think the kick I’m referring to is the spice level in my cooking.

Afraid not.

I’m talking about my exercise routine.

Let’s get a couple of things straight. If I never exercised another day in my life, it would be too soon.

I’d like to tell you that I look forward to exercise with the same enthusiasm as getting a pedicure. But I would be lying. There is a reason I have an exercise “buddy”. I need someone to guilt me into getting off the sofa and away from the Chester Cheese Puffs. True Story.

Oh sure, exercise gives your happy endorphins. Sometimes. The exercise people make it sound like 40 minutes of cardio is the same as a red wine buzz. It’s not. They are lying.

I think the real endorphins come from elation when the whole affair is over and I can take off my shoes and sit down.

My routine is getting a little stale. And now that I’ve settled comfortably into my 40’s, my body’s metabolism has slowed to pretty much a crawl. 30 minutes of walking or elliptical time ain’t getting it done anymore. I’m noticing ooze in places where there wasn’t ooze before. Such as…the ribcage. What is that anyway? Looks like a chicken cutlet spilling out from under my bra strap. Good god. Horrifying. Then there is the muffin top and the meno-pooch.

This is what eating ice cream every day this summer gets you. Fleshy.

Time to step up and pay the piper.

So I’ve decided I need to kick it up a notch. Confuse my muscles. Make them do something they haven’t done before. Yeah. Good plan.

So my first step in upping the ante was taking a Kick box Boot camp class through my health club.

I know.

The class is a mix of kickboxing moves and 60 second cardio drills. Surprisingly I didn’t pass out and die during the class. I held my own even though everyone in the class was younger. By a lot. However, I can tell you that upon getting out of bed the next day, I felt as if I had been run over by a large truck. This is good right? The run over by a truck feeling?

It means I worked hard. Or my body is deteriorating at a rate that is incomprehensible. Hard to say which.

So new plan…2-3 cardio type classes a week of 55 minutes each + 2, one- hour yoga type stretching classes. I’ll be reporting back in 6 weeks on the state of the muffin top, chicken cutlet and meno-pooch; although I think the latter is an unfortunate reality that will require nothing short of a trip to the plastic surgeon. If only.

I can hear you

This is an honest to god true story from the Good Neighbor Festival Art Show. You can read recap about that show here.

Me: Sitting in my booth watching and listening to a couple outside my booth discussing one of my tye dye one-piece rompers (you know, onesies, except I can’t call them onesies because it honks off the legal team at Gerber).

The guy: (Loudly with disgust and finger wagging): “$14.50 for a onesie! It’s not like there is that much material. $14.50! Ridiculous.” (Guys continued to rant for another 30 seconds)

Me: “I can hear you”.

Guy: Hearing me, hearing him, moves along to taunt some other poor artist.

Me: Hopping up on soapbox inside my head.

Dude. It’s a novelty item. You aren’t going to dress your baby in 20 tye dyes. But if you want to I’m your gal. And hey, the price of cotton went up like, 60-80% for wholesalers in the last year. And it’s hand-dyed. Which means one color at a time. One piece at time.

Me: Hopping off the soapbox inside my head.

Buy unique. Buy handmade. You might pay a bit more but isn’t it refreshing to know you’d be buying something that isn’t all “made in China homogenized sameness?”

Kohler - An Update

So yeah. I was accepted to the big “Holiday Craft Market” in Kohler, Wi. You can read about that here.

Silly me. I assumed acceptance meant all artists are created equal. Not so much with the created equal. New vendors are low man on the totem pole.

Low.  Very low.

Low man on the totem pole means that the 10x12 booth space I requested will not be a reality. Not unless another returning vendor befalls a non-fatal but disfiguring accident and is unable to attend this year’s event.

Low man means only 8x8 booth spaces are left. 8x8 isn’t very big when you display clothing.

Low also means you get relegated to some random banquet room, not the coveted “Grand Ball Room”.

Newbies must pay their dues.

The coordinator of the Kohler show…in my opinion has the most thankless job on the planet. I’m pretty sure coordinating the booth spaces and needs of 100+ narcissistic artists is tantamount to a hazing ritual in the events planning world. The hotel events managers of The American Club probably rub their hands in anticipation of who they can torture this year with the planning of the annual Kohler Holiday Mart….insert maniacal manager laughter here.

The coordinator has been great about trying to at least accommodate me, which I really do appreciate.

I do.

I am being 110% sincere. She could have easily dumped me in the 8x8 and left no room for discussion. So major snaps to the holiday event coordinator at the American Club for being so stand up about what I am sure is a no win situation for anyone.

I was able to use my powerful negotiation skills and wrangle my way into an 8x10 booth. I bet you didn’t think that an extra 2 feet of booth space costs $100. It does.

Booth space real estate ain’t cheap. It’s even less cheap at The American Club where a room is $300 a night.

No lie.

For the record I won't be staying at The American Club. I have 3 nights booked at the lovely La Quinta.

So – we’re off and running. Contract and check to be sent. Let the months of prepping begin.

More to follow.