My son plays baseball. It’s his thing. And because it’s his thing. It’s my thing. It gives me joy to watch him play. I’m his biggest fan. Which I tell him often and I’m sure causes the internal eye roll.
From t-ball to present we’ve spent every summer at the ballpark. He is a skilled player, excellent command of the game and great defensive skills. He doesn’t have the biggest bat in the line-up but he consistently executes. He’s practices hard and has earned his way onto all-star teams for being a solid versatile player. He has never hit a home run. He doesn’t pitch with the same velocity as a kid who has 6 inches and 30lbs on him. When other boys were growing 4-5 inches in a summer and smacking the ball out of the park, he was consistently one of the smaller players on the team. He’s had to work a little harder than some of the bigger boys to be noticed and hone his skills.
Baseball has provided many life lessons. As clichéd as it sounds baseball has taught the value of teamwork.
How to lead by example.
How to not be “that kid” that throws his bat or argues with the umpire.
How to be a gracious winner and a gracious loser.
How to hold your head up after taking a pounding on the field.
How to shake off hitting a batter, a strike out or multiple strike outs.
How to savor the moment of batting in the winning run during a district game or experiencing a hitting streak.
The good with bad. The sweet and the bittersweet. The wins and the losses.
All good life lessons.
In the big picture of life he has an awesome youth baseball experience. His hard work has paid off. He has been privileged to play on an All-Star team every year since he was 10. He has been on a district winning team and a state winning team. He represented his state in the Regional tournament. All things being equal – baseball has been more fair, than unfair, to my son.
Until this year.
One of the challenges of growing body, is it’s growing. Youth athletes are not fully matured physically, yet they are put through their paces. Injuries are bound to occur.
At age 13 it was “Little League Elbow” – kind of fancy name for growth plate irritation and overuse; which made sense. That was “the summer” of non-stop baseball; games, practices and lots of throwing. His body sent a warning signal. Please stop. Rest. Heal. And he did. He worked hard. He did physical therapy. He built muscle mass. He refined his technique.
At age 14 he battled some bicep tendonitis. He rested. He iced and continued physical therapy. He did everything he was supposed to do. He had a good season. He continued his PT through the winter.
At age 15, a mere four weeks into open gym conditioning for the spring season there is shoulder pain. Not soreness. But pain. Now in all fairness, the season hasn’t really started, so overuse can’t really be an issue here. But it causes concern so we trot off to Sports Medicine where we are delivered a nice curveball…. Little League Shoulder – another fancy name for growth plate irritation. LLS is normally caused by overuse (which doesn’t apply here) so it basically boils down to bad luck. He just has one of those bodies that have sensitive growth plates.
6 weeks rest. No throwing. No batting.
Tryouts are for the spring seasons are in 4 weeks.
Now as a parent I am the first one to say, life isn’t fair. It isn’t. But this is doubly unfair. It sucks actually. It’s a mammoth disappoint for a 15 year old to be faced with the possibility of missing the entire season just because his growth plates are sensitive. It is taking all of my parental acumen to look at the big picture and not break down into a puddle of tears.
It could be worse and it’s not. It’s fixable. It doesn’t require surgery. It isn’t a career ending injury.
It will force some challenging conversations with coaches, which is good experience. It will require honest self-assessment. It may mean he has to work doubly hard to make the team next year, if he misses the season. It will force showing up for open gym and participating in what he can, if only for political posturing. It will help him develop tenacity.
I have mixed feelings about a 15-year old being put into a position to have those conversations, but I am confident in the long run it will make him stronger, more confident and earn respect from his peers and coaches for facing a very difficult situation with grace and class.
I have confidence in his ability to weather the disappointment, if it comes to that. To come out the other side stronger. That all said, I would gladly take on this disappointment for him if I could.
In a heartbeat.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Handwritten Notes – A dying art form
I have a love affair with period drama. You know, Sense and Sensibility, Howards End and most recently Downton Abby. (If you’ve not heard of Downton Abby – rent Season One from Netflix. You’ll be glad you did. And Season 2 is currently being shown on PBS on Sunday nights and it was just released on DVD, so there is plenty of time to catch up).
There is a lot of letter writing in period dramas, lovely handwritten notes, eloquently articulated, on creamy thick paper before being precisely folded and sealed with wax. The letters are delivered on silver trays by the footman, while the recipient drinks tea and eats little cakes.
I have come full circle with my appreciation for hand-written notes. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude that hand-written notes are a rarity in contemporary society. The explosion of social media has all but eradicated hand-written notes from the norms of our culture. I get it. I do. Email is fast. It’s quick. It’s easy. It doesn’t require a note card or a stamp much less remembering to get the note to the mailbox in a timely fashion. Let’s face it. Our lives don’t include the footman making deliveries on silver platters.
There are two events that have stirred my fondness for handwritten notes.
One can hope.
There is a lot of letter writing in period dramas, lovely handwritten notes, eloquently articulated, on creamy thick paper before being precisely folded and sealed with wax. The letters are delivered on silver trays by the footman, while the recipient drinks tea and eats little cakes.
I have come full circle with my appreciation for hand-written notes. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude that hand-written notes are a rarity in contemporary society. The explosion of social media has all but eradicated hand-written notes from the norms of our culture. I get it. I do. Email is fast. It’s quick. It’s easy. It doesn’t require a note card or a stamp much less remembering to get the note to the mailbox in a timely fashion. Let’s face it. Our lives don’t include the footman making deliveries on silver platters.
There are two events that have stirred my fondness for handwritten notes.
- My disdain of “thank you notes” via facebook which you can read about here.
- I received one, an honest to goodness handwritten note. An actual thank you that someone wrote on a paper card and mailed to me. And gee, it was nice to get something in mail that wasn’t a bill. I was touched the sender would take the time to write me something. And then mail it. With a stamp. Maybe it’s because I do know we all lead busier, more hectic lives and she didn’t take the easier way out.
One can hope.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Winter Sloth
Editors Note: As I finished writing this entry, Madison is currently expecting 6-8 inches of snow. Big. Heavy. Sigh.
I had a tarot card reading a number of years ago in New Orleans. For $20 a gal with heavy eye make-up and lots of bangle bracelets at Madame LaVeaus House of Voodoo gave me a peek into my future. In addition to being wildly entertaining, I received a gold Mardi Gras coin (of only the finest gold plastic) and an index card with some notes about my reading. I still have the card tacked up inside my work cubicle.
“Summer is best” is what is says on my card in addition to the “8 of clubs”. I can’t remember what the significant of the 8 of clubs is supposed to mean. But I do recall the bit about summer. According to her, I am most productive in summer. That also means, in winter I am part sloth. True story.
Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder is the true diagnosis but if you read between the lines it’s nothing more than the winter blahs or hibernation like tendencies. Most winter days I can barely haul myself out of bed on time for work. On winter weekends I sleep in too much and then migrate to the couch to perfect the art of couch-potato-dom. An art I can do very well by the way.
Some winters are better than others. Cliché but true. Cold winters with tons of snow are the worst. The winters that have 100+ inches of snow beyond torturous. Cold, snowy and crappy driving. This winter is respectable. It’s been mild and snow free. I have seen pockets of sun. I’m still sloth like but only moderately slothy intead of full on sloth.
Sloth-dom also negatively impacts my ability to plan for the summer art festival season. I should be using the “off season” to plan. But motivation is low and when I finally feel like planning I’m scrambling in the 11th hour. A known fault but difficult to change. In addition to sleeping too much and lolling about, I tend to carbo load with all manner of comfort foods. Mashed potatos work best. So does homemade bread. With butter.
With the help of my neighbor I’ve been forcing myself off the couch and outside to take in some fresh air. So far a reasonable proposition as previously mentioned due to the mild weather. But mother nature has cruel tendencies and its only a matter of time until the temperature drops like a stone and the words “frigid” are used in the daily forecast.
Repeat after me. Summer is best.
I had a tarot card reading a number of years ago in New Orleans. For $20 a gal with heavy eye make-up and lots of bangle bracelets at Madame LaVeaus House of Voodoo gave me a peek into my future. In addition to being wildly entertaining, I received a gold Mardi Gras coin (of only the finest gold plastic) and an index card with some notes about my reading. I still have the card tacked up inside my work cubicle.
“Summer is best” is what is says on my card in addition to the “8 of clubs”. I can’t remember what the significant of the 8 of clubs is supposed to mean. But I do recall the bit about summer. According to her, I am most productive in summer. That also means, in winter I am part sloth. True story.
Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder is the true diagnosis but if you read between the lines it’s nothing more than the winter blahs or hibernation like tendencies. Most winter days I can barely haul myself out of bed on time for work. On winter weekends I sleep in too much and then migrate to the couch to perfect the art of couch-potato-dom. An art I can do very well by the way.
Some winters are better than others. Cliché but true. Cold winters with tons of snow are the worst. The winters that have 100+ inches of snow beyond torturous. Cold, snowy and crappy driving. This winter is respectable. It’s been mild and snow free. I have seen pockets of sun. I’m still sloth like but only moderately slothy intead of full on sloth.
Sloth-dom also negatively impacts my ability to plan for the summer art festival season. I should be using the “off season” to plan. But motivation is low and when I finally feel like planning I’m scrambling in the 11th hour. A known fault but difficult to change. In addition to sleeping too much and lolling about, I tend to carbo load with all manner of comfort foods. Mashed potatos work best. So does homemade bread. With butter.
With the help of my neighbor I’ve been forcing myself off the couch and outside to take in some fresh air. So far a reasonable proposition as previously mentioned due to the mild weather. But mother nature has cruel tendencies and its only a matter of time until the temperature drops like a stone and the words “frigid” are used in the daily forecast.
Repeat after me. Summer is best.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Survival and Resolutions
Hallejulah. It’s over. Done. Finished. The holidays are past me.
I survived. Barely.
My house is de-Christmastized.
Tree down. Lights put away.
All that remains in my too tight pants, a looming Macy’s bill, and a long joyless January and February.
I need to reintroduce myself to my tread mill. Apparently 10 days off work includes an unwritten but obligatory over-indulgence rule. Egg-nog, bacon wrapped dates (heaven), roasted olives (more heaven), salted caramels, bacon wrapped tenderloin, cocktail shrimp, assorted cheeses and a deep dive into the brandy slush (no life preserver needed).
Now my pants are tight.
Or maybe they just shrunk? Yeah! That’s it. The ol’ Maytag screwed up my pants. Bastards.
Stupid brandy slush.
But it wasn’t stupid. It was oh-so-tasty and fruity brandy-slushy-liciousness that provided much needed coping mechanisms at otherwise stressful family gatherings where sedation is not only required, it’s encouraged.
Now I could take the “New Year’s Resolution” way out of the too tight pants debacle, and tape a few well articulated New Year’s Resolutions to my fridge about how I will eat, drink and spend less and, of course, exercise more.
But who’s kidding who. Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m the living example of ‘on-the-wagon-off-the-wagon’ when it comes to diet and exercise. Never mind the spending. That’s the whole other litany of blog entries I haven’t even tackled yet.
The only resolutions I have a snowballs change of successfully completing include drinking more champagne and perfecting the pork chop (mmm, I just love a good pork chop! Pigs are so tasty!)
Or spa treatments.
I could resolve to go to the spa more, get a few more massages, pop for facials or change up my toenail polish color more often while talking myself out of another round of abdominal exercises.
Perhaps the best resolution includes resolving to accept my weaknesses for what they are, work with what I have, and move on to tasting more kinds of tequila. Or I could simply resolve to do what I need to do to survive the holidays each year.
Wait. I’ve perfected that one. Brandy slush and bacon wrapped dates.
Check.
I survived. Barely.
My house is de-Christmastized.
Tree down. Lights put away.
All that remains in my too tight pants, a looming Macy’s bill, and a long joyless January and February.
I need to reintroduce myself to my tread mill. Apparently 10 days off work includes an unwritten but obligatory over-indulgence rule. Egg-nog, bacon wrapped dates (heaven), roasted olives (more heaven), salted caramels, bacon wrapped tenderloin, cocktail shrimp, assorted cheeses and a deep dive into the brandy slush (no life preserver needed).
Now my pants are tight.
Or maybe they just shrunk? Yeah! That’s it. The ol’ Maytag screwed up my pants. Bastards.
Stupid brandy slush.
But it wasn’t stupid. It was oh-so-tasty and fruity brandy-slushy-liciousness that provided much needed coping mechanisms at otherwise stressful family gatherings where sedation is not only required, it’s encouraged.
Now I could take the “New Year’s Resolution” way out of the too tight pants debacle, and tape a few well articulated New Year’s Resolutions to my fridge about how I will eat, drink and spend less and, of course, exercise more.
But who’s kidding who. Haven’t you been paying attention? I’m the living example of ‘on-the-wagon-off-the-wagon’ when it comes to diet and exercise. Never mind the spending. That’s the whole other litany of blog entries I haven’t even tackled yet.
The only resolutions I have a snowballs change of successfully completing include drinking more champagne and perfecting the pork chop (mmm, I just love a good pork chop! Pigs are so tasty!)
Or spa treatments.
I could resolve to go to the spa more, get a few more massages, pop for facials or change up my toenail polish color more often while talking myself out of another round of abdominal exercises.
Perhaps the best resolution includes resolving to accept my weaknesses for what they are, work with what I have, and move on to tasting more kinds of tequila. Or I could simply resolve to do what I need to do to survive the holidays each year.
Wait. I’ve perfected that one. Brandy slush and bacon wrapped dates.
Check.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Commercialized Excess
I spent the better part of the weekend wrapping Christmas gifts. And when I was done, 2 days later, my living room was a practical example of Christmas commercialized excess.
I know that society has been bemoaning the commercialization of Christmas forever. But for real. It's gotten out of hand.
I am not a practicing Christian by any means, but I do buy into the whole "Peace on Earth/Goodwill to Men" angle of the holiday. The family aspect. The nice meal. The relaxing in front of the fireplace sipping a 1,000 calorie per glass of eggnog. I am past the age of 12 and while I do appreciate a nice gift, it's not that important to me. From my perspective, the magic of Christmas is for kids.
While I do like buying a few well chosen gifts for close family and friends. There is a societal perception that one must pick up "a little something" for every person we come into contact with on a yearly basis in the spirit of the season lest you be labeled a Scrooge. It's a layer of financial stress that I can't fully articulate. It has become a burden and not a joy.
This will come off as ungenerous and grinchy. So be it. I do consider myself generous and thoughtful gift giver but I'd rather do it on my own terms at any other point in the calendar year except the day when it is expected. My thoughtful well chosen gifts are replaced with the mad dash of gift cards so I have "a little something" for a laundry list of names. And frankly...all those "little somethings" along with all the other expenditures of the season, the booze, the special Christmas dinner, the hosted events, all add up to a big final total. A total that could be mistaken for a mortgage payment.
The commercialization of Christmas is real and it's exhausting. The malls start with the decorations and the music before Halloween. Then there are the ads. The doorbusters. The gazillionith rendition of White Christmas.
As I write this, it's 5 days before Christmas and I, for one, can't wait for it to be over. I am ready to settle down for a long winters nap.
I know that society has been bemoaning the commercialization of Christmas forever. But for real. It's gotten out of hand.
I am not a practicing Christian by any means, but I do buy into the whole "Peace on Earth/Goodwill to Men" angle of the holiday. The family aspect. The nice meal. The relaxing in front of the fireplace sipping a 1,000 calorie per glass of eggnog. I am past the age of 12 and while I do appreciate a nice gift, it's not that important to me. From my perspective, the magic of Christmas is for kids.
While I do like buying a few well chosen gifts for close family and friends. There is a societal perception that one must pick up "a little something" for every person we come into contact with on a yearly basis in the spirit of the season lest you be labeled a Scrooge. It's a layer of financial stress that I can't fully articulate. It has become a burden and not a joy.
This will come off as ungenerous and grinchy. So be it. I do consider myself generous and thoughtful gift giver but I'd rather do it on my own terms at any other point in the calendar year except the day when it is expected. My thoughtful well chosen gifts are replaced with the mad dash of gift cards so I have "a little something" for a laundry list of names. And frankly...all those "little somethings" along with all the other expenditures of the season, the booze, the special Christmas dinner, the hosted events, all add up to a big final total. A total that could be mistaken for a mortgage payment.
The commercialization of Christmas is real and it's exhausting. The malls start with the decorations and the music before Halloween. Then there are the ads. The doorbusters. The gazillionith rendition of White Christmas.
As I write this, it's 5 days before Christmas and I, for one, can't wait for it to be over. I am ready to settle down for a long winters nap.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
There ought to be a law
In case you missed the fantabulous update about the dismal nature of the big Kohler show, you can read about it here.
The Kohler show is a hybrid of both hand made and commercial vendors. Most of the commercial vendors are nicer things, such as candy companies and better knock-off designer jewelry. There was also, however, all natural jewelry cleaner...conveniently positioned right next to me. Who's so lucky?
Now the all natural jewelry cleaner booth consisted of a couple of tables with pepto bismal pink table coverings and 2 large signs that screamed "FREE RING CLEANING", ala QVC.
Next to the pepto pink ring cleaning lady was guy selling wooden frogs of various sizes. What's the purpose of the wooden frog you wonder? Well, the frog has a wooden pin stuck in it. If you remove the pin and stroke the wooden pin up the frogs back, it croaks. Big frogs make deep croaks. Little frogs sound like crickets. Who's so lucky?
For three, long, painful, sales-free days my Kohler show experience was a cacophony of piped in Christmas music, the "FREE RING CLEANING" sales pitch and frog croaks. I couldn't make this up if I tried.
"Ladies would you like a free ring cleaning"
"Croaaaaak"
"Once a week take this cream and rub it into your diamond. It's safe for all gemstones including pearls and opals"
"Jolly Old St Nicholas"
"Croaaaaaak"
"What the cream is doing is removing the sticky oxidation."
"Croaaaaaak"
"Silver Bells"
"It's all natural, with banana oil, coconut oil and grapeseed oil"
"Croaaaaak"
"Then rinse and dip in the brightener"
I wish I had blow dart gun to put us all out of our collective misery. Pfffffft.
Now, to be fair, I will say that the jewelry lady has a good pitch. I'm sure she could sell ice to Eskimos; however I am a jewelers daughter and I can tell you with 110% certainly that "oil" is about the worst thing you can put on your jewelry. What's sticks to oil? Everything. Which is the reason we all clean our kitchens with amonia or another like product to cut through the grease.
Never let it be said the buying public had the sense God gave a lemon. Women lapped up "all natural jewelry cleaner" for the "special show price" of $24.95.
Editorssnark note: Clearly these are the same women who fall for the Arbonne skin care sales pitch because it's "naturally and botanically based". You can pick em out of a crowd as they have lines in their forhead that could hold a dime and could really benefit from a little Botox. Chemicals have their place people; both in skincare and diamond cleaning.
The frog guy sold 1/2 his inventory. Apparently Northern Wisconsin has an affinity for frog dust collectors that make a frog noise. What do you do with this thing once you get home? Seriously?
Meanwhile, I couldn't give it away but every other lady bought an oil based product to rub into her wedding ring or a wooden frog.
Croaaaak! Cue the dart gun. Pfffft.
The Kohler show is a hybrid of both hand made and commercial vendors. Most of the commercial vendors are nicer things, such as candy companies and better knock-off designer jewelry. There was also, however, all natural jewelry cleaner...conveniently positioned right next to me. Who's so lucky?
Now the all natural jewelry cleaner booth consisted of a couple of tables with pepto bismal pink table coverings and 2 large signs that screamed "FREE RING CLEANING", ala QVC.
Next to the pepto pink ring cleaning lady was guy selling wooden frogs of various sizes. What's the purpose of the wooden frog you wonder? Well, the frog has a wooden pin stuck in it. If you remove the pin and stroke the wooden pin up the frogs back, it croaks. Big frogs make deep croaks. Little frogs sound like crickets. Who's so lucky?
For three, long, painful, sales-free days my Kohler show experience was a cacophony of piped in Christmas music, the "FREE RING CLEANING" sales pitch and frog croaks. I couldn't make this up if I tried.
"Ladies would you like a free ring cleaning"
"Croaaaaak"
"Once a week take this cream and rub it into your diamond. It's safe for all gemstones including pearls and opals"
"Jolly Old St Nicholas"
"Croaaaaaak"
"What the cream is doing is removing the sticky oxidation."
"Croaaaaaak"
"Silver Bells"
"It's all natural, with banana oil, coconut oil and grapeseed oil"
"Croaaaaak"
"Then rinse and dip in the brightener"
I wish I had blow dart gun to put us all out of our collective misery. Pfffffft.
Now, to be fair, I will say that the jewelry lady has a good pitch. I'm sure she could sell ice to Eskimos; however I am a jewelers daughter and I can tell you with 110% certainly that "oil" is about the worst thing you can put on your jewelry. What's sticks to oil? Everything. Which is the reason we all clean our kitchens with amonia or another like product to cut through the grease.
Never let it be said the buying public had the sense God gave a lemon. Women lapped up "all natural jewelry cleaner" for the "special show price" of $24.95.
Editors
The frog guy sold 1/2 his inventory. Apparently Northern Wisconsin has an affinity for frog dust collectors that make a frog noise. What do you do with this thing once you get home? Seriously?
Meanwhile, I couldn't give it away but every other lady bought an oil based product to rub into her wedding ring or a wooden frog.
Croaaaak! Cue the dart gun. Pfffft.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Painful Life Lessons - Art Show Style
At 44 (cripes, I still can't say that numbe out loud without flinching a little), one would think that I have learned all the big life lessons. I've had 44 years of the "the moral of the story is...", I should be done. Alas. Not so.
The "big" Kohler show was a protracted, painful, 3-day lesson in the grass isn't always greener on the other side." It's just more expensive.
I had expectations. I admit it. Big fancy, American Club, expectations. I spent months (months, I'm not kidding) prepping for this show. Buying stock. Alot of it. Dying stock. Alot of it. Configuring displays. Artfully problem solving how I was going to jam all my stuff in a too small, very expensive space. I was prepared and ready to sell.
What's that saying? Make plans, God laughs.
What I wasn't prepared for was the staggeringly bad loction of my booth. Location is everything. Of 101 vendors, I was 101. Stuck way in the back of the "Bay de Noc" room. The American Club venue is truly magnificent. It's opulence and over indulgence at it's finest. The doormen wear top hats with black wool coats with red trim. It's nice. I want to live there.
All of the other rooms have 2 doorways, creating "flow". The Bay de Noc room is a conference room broom closet. One entrance, like a hallway. There is no flow. There is only the average patron taking half a dozen steps inside, craning their neck to get a lay of the land, turning and leaving.
Strike One.
I also wasn't prepared for having another artisit that sold the EXACT SAME STYLE dresses as I do, 2 booths over.
Not kidding.
Hand dyed.
Not kidding.
Althought his were painted with little birds (ok, ewww). I am all for healthy competition but geez-oh-petes. There weren't that many childrens vendors, break it up a little.
And the artist was a head-case. Running over to my booth ever 20 minutes, checking my price points (mine were $28 - his were $32). He actually said to me and I quote "Your stuff is pretty but mine is a better value since there is more embellishment". What a tool. Please leave my too small, expensive 8x10 booth.
Strike Two.
And the most important thing I wasn't prepared for, and I should know, is the market dictates everything. Tye Dye just isn't beloved in the northern parts of Wisconsin. It's definately a Madison area type product. For good or for ill -- people associate tye dye with hippies. These weren't my people. These people wanted chickadees painted on heathered green dresses, not bright rainbow swirls.
Strike Three.
So for three staggeringly long days, I endured barely (and I mean barely) enough sales to cover my over-priced booth fee and my hotel. At the end of my show I took my bruised ego and my over-abundance of tye dye, packed up and went home.
Big. Heavy. Sigh.
The "big" Kohler show was a protracted, painful, 3-day lesson in the grass isn't always greener on the other side." It's just more expensive.
I had expectations. I admit it. Big fancy, American Club, expectations. I spent months (months, I'm not kidding) prepping for this show. Buying stock. Alot of it. Dying stock. Alot of it. Configuring displays. Artfully problem solving how I was going to jam all my stuff in a too small, very expensive space. I was prepared and ready to sell.
What's that saying? Make plans, God laughs.
What I wasn't prepared for was the staggeringly bad loction of my booth. Location is everything. Of 101 vendors, I was 101. Stuck way in the back of the "Bay de Noc" room. The American Club venue is truly magnificent. It's opulence and over indulgence at it's finest. The doormen wear top hats with black wool coats with red trim. It's nice. I want to live there.
All of the other rooms have 2 doorways, creating "flow". The Bay de Noc room is a conference room broom closet. One entrance, like a hallway. There is no flow. There is only the average patron taking half a dozen steps inside, craning their neck to get a lay of the land, turning and leaving.
Strike One.
I also wasn't prepared for having another artisit that sold the EXACT SAME STYLE dresses as I do, 2 booths over.
Not kidding.
Hand dyed.
Not kidding.
Althought his were painted with little birds (ok, ewww). I am all for healthy competition but geez-oh-petes. There weren't that many childrens vendors, break it up a little.
And the artist was a head-case. Running over to my booth ever 20 minutes, checking my price points (mine were $28 - his were $32). He actually said to me and I quote "Your stuff is pretty but mine is a better value since there is more embellishment". What a tool. Please leave my too small, expensive 8x10 booth.
Strike Two.
And the most important thing I wasn't prepared for, and I should know, is the market dictates everything. Tye Dye just isn't beloved in the northern parts of Wisconsin. It's definately a Madison area type product. For good or for ill -- people associate tye dye with hippies. These weren't my people. These people wanted chickadees painted on heathered green dresses, not bright rainbow swirls.
Strike Three.
So for three staggeringly long days, I endured barely (and I mean barely) enough sales to cover my over-priced booth fee and my hotel. At the end of my show I took my bruised ego and my over-abundance of tye dye, packed up and went home.
Big. Heavy. Sigh.
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