First buy an interesting vest from a thrift store.
I liked this one because of the tapestry-like pattern.
I also liked the red trim on the bottom.
It is always a good idea to seal your clay pot if you plan to alter it in any way. They make clay pot sealer for things like this. Imagine that!
Next cut the vest apart. Most people will have a plan before they begin this step. I leave that up to you. It might be a good idea to make a pattern out of a newspaper page. I, however just began cutting with reckless abandon because that's the kind of person I am.
Oh, and cut the lining off (out?) at this time.
Now slather Mod Podge on one side of your pot. Slather is one of my favorite words. Apply material one side at a time. It will be easier that way.
I left the top for the front section of the vest because the vest had that interesting front part. Your design will need to be contingent upon the material (vest) you find.
If you were organized enough to make a pattern, you will not encounter this problem. I had to cut and patch in the middle of the project. Remember the "reckless abandon" part? It's a personality flaw that I just have to live with. I blame this problem on the red trim that I wanted on the bottom of the pot but it kept crawling up as I went around. Jeez. What was I thinking?
Once you get the lower part of the pot covered, you will be able to cover the top part. Due to the "reckless abandon" flaw in your personality, (if you have this affliction), you will need to apply patches of material here and there. Don't worry about perfection. It is a planter. You will be putting Dirt in it for god's sake.
Hey! There are trimmy strings left over! Make a bow.
I am having people over. I have a huge indoor pool and there are many children and a few adults swimming in it. I have a friend with three children under 17 months old, all single births. (I know, she must be magic.) The oldest is a boy, then a girl, and then another boy. The oldest one’s name is Dean, and he can swim. As we chat, he swims across the pool.
We continue to visit. Suddenly, Dean is on the bottom of the pool and his mother dives into the pool in her long white flannel nightgown. While she is pulling Dean up from the bottom, I send another person inside to call 911.
When we get Dean out of the water, he has shrunk to about a foot long. I begin performing CPR on him, watching his little chest fill with my air and fall back down. I am remembering that he doesn’t need as much air as an adult, and try to keep my puffs tiny, even though I am in panic mode and my breathing is awkward. We keep watching for signs of life, and at one point I feel him move a bit, but he’s not really responding.
When a policeman, (not firemen or paramedics) arrives, he just takes the baby from me, who has now shrunk to about 2 inches long, and puts him in an envelope. He asks who called 911, because she gave him the wrong directions and it took him a long time to get here. He is dressed in a tux and has his date with him, who is dressed in a long, sparkly, green dress. She sits on the edge of the pool with her feet in the water while she waits for him to finish his work.
I feel that we need to discuss the baby, but he seems more concerned with the stupid broad who gave him bogus directions. He says the baby, being only two inches tall, wont take up any space and he’ll just toss it.
The baby’s mother is in shock or something, because she just takes her two remaining children, and goes home to tell her husband, who is a DEA agent.
The policeman decides that she is the reason her child is dead, because when you have three little kids like that it’s too much trouble, and if you only have two hands and all, then what are you going hold on to that third kid with, your teeth?
Another woman at poolside who works with Dean’s mother, begins to tell the cop that she probably did let him drown. I try to tell the cop, who is now in the water conducting tests, that Dean's mother loved him and that other woman just didn’t like anyone there because no one would go to lunch with her. Then, thank heavens, my dog woke me up.
There is a monumental bridge in Sydney, Australia, that spans the harbor. While cruising under it one day we noticed these little “ant people” crawling over the upper girders. This looked like something we should investigate! We discovered that for a price we could climb up there also.
Being members of the lunatic fringe, my sister and brother-in-law, (Barbie and John), and I took a taxi to the bridge.
Rancher Richie, not being a member of the lunatic fringe, decided he’d rather take a nap.
Oh, I am starting to get nervous just writing these words. We entered the office and signed waivers that said we promised not to sue them if we should happen to fall off and manage, somehow, to live through it. While waiting to don the ugly gray jumpsuits, I looked at the wall of celebrities who have participated in this activity and lived. Bruce Springsteen and the Olsen twins were pictured, but I didn’t get to notice others because I had to go put everything on my person into a locker as even something as small as a quarter could kill someone underneath, should one happen to escape out of one’s pocket. If any of us needed to wear glasses. They had to be strapped on. Then we had to hook this belt contraption around our waists that was attached to a little ball. Next we had to practice using it on a raised platform.
“There’s your boyfriend.” My ever-alert sister whispered in my ear.
He was a doozey! He had three teeth and didn’t look too “with it” if you know what I mean. His ugly gray jump suit was twisted around him so he looked like a two year old who had dressed himself for the first time. I decided he should be my new best friend.
I couldn’t leave Barbie without a boyfriend, so I found her one. He had a carpet of hair growing out of his ears. I would have found John a girlfriend, but Barb and I were the only girls in the group of eleven.
Then we took off to climb the bridge for the next three hours.
Our intuitive guide Jason, positioned Barbie and I, along with my boyfriend, in front of the line. We got the feeling he always keeps the Goonies close to him so he could watch out for them. We were the Goonies.
We began our adventure. When we were still on step one, I looked down. We were already so high up that the people below looked like dollhouse people. I felt as if I might barf, and I wondered if the little people under me would appreciate that.
Let me say here, that I am not afraid of heights. I am just afraid of falling off of high places, and I constantly picture of myself plummeting from them. With that said you will understand why I spent the first one hundred steps with my eyes closed while humming a light little dirge. Since I couldn’t see, I had to feel my way with each step, which took a little longer but I felt it was worth it.
As I became a bit braver, I opened my eyes but I kept them looking upward, sort of like Bernadette Peters did when Steve Martin told her not to look at her plate because there were snails on it, in the movie, “The Jerk.”
I still had to feel my way with my feet, and test for solid iron works before adding my weight. We were about a zillion feet high.
Our patient guide kept asking me if I was all right, as if I were a 58 year old pregnant woman. I began to get slightly more embarrassed than scared, so I decided to “watch where I was going” like my mother always said just after I stepped on a baby’s fingers or ran into an unsuspecting old lady.
Just as I was starting to get used to walking a mile up in the air on erector set walkways we came to several flights of, well, ladders, actually. They were arranged like a staircase in a building except that when we went from one staircase (or ladder-case?) there was nothing beneath us. Nothing. But. Air. (And quite a bit if it.)
So, when we got to the top of one ladder, we had to hover out over Nothing and turn to get to the bottom of the next ladder.
Did I mention there was Nothing beneath us?
I was completely traumatized by this part, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a commuter train rumbled across the bridge causing the ladders to shake like a seven point oh earthquake. I could see post-traumatic stress syndrome in my future.
I remember poking my head up through a trap door in the floor of the bridge and seeing cars and trucks whizzing by, but that’s about all I recall until we were standing at the apex, looking down on the majestic Sydney Opera House. The view was spectacular, and I was happily congratulating myself for finishing the adventure.
Then I realized we had to get back down to the ground.
Go there if you dare. I moaned audibly all through my meal. It could have been embarrassing if everyone else in the cozy little restaurant hadn't been doing the same.
My sister, Pegi and my niece, Whitney
Saffron Risotto for the sister with the braces on her teeth. (Delicious) I tasted everyone's!
What the rest of us had. Steaks, Pork Chops, and fish.
All absolutely so good it turned us into simpering fools.
The veggies cooked separately, in different spices and then piled up together, still crunchy!
Oh. My. God.
The wine was perfection.
I haven't had such good food since I was on that gourmet boat cruising down the Shannon River in Ireland!
No, wait a minute! I believe this was better!
Yeah, No.
I actually never burned my bra or any other article of clothing.
I was a Feminist, however. It was the times. you understand. I am one of the first subscribers to
"MS. Magazine." I wish I had kept the copies of that first year. They were exquisitely representative of the changing times.
This Doonesbury comic was published in the early seventies. I was attending Cal State at the time. I was taking a class called "Women in Literature" from a guy with a superbly raised consciousness. He was married to a woman who kept her maiden name! Un. Be. Lieve. Able.
The comic was clipped and stayed on my fridge for years!
This little conversation in a sand box was, and still is, my favorite Doonesbury comic.
My son gave the 100 pound book to me for Christmas. I found the sand box kids immediately.
Just send her a sweet email like this one I got yesterday!
Are you the same Lynn Guinn that taught at Willmore Elementary in Westminster, CA in the 80’s? If you are, I was one of your students – I was in your fourth grade class and had you for 5th and 6th grade English. I still have great memories of “Where the Red Fern Grows”, “A Wrinkle in Time” and all things Shakespeare. I was student body Treasurer, Secretary and President while there. I believe you also had my younger sister, Lisa in your classes. Maybe you’ll remember that we had a bet once and you said that if you were wrong you would “eat your hat”. Turned out you were wrong and you baked a cake in the shape of a hat for the class. After peaking in elementary school, I went on to Stacy Intermediate, Garden Grove HS and UCLA (BA in English and JD).
If you are the same Lynn, just wanted to tell you that you were a wonderful teacher and still my favorite. If you’re not the right person, sorry for the inconvenience and now you know about a great teacher. Take care.
My sister and bro-in-love were at our house to welcome in the New Year.
We did our welcoming a little early for our time zone but we can do that if we want to.
We watched Bette Midler's Vegas Special and then went to bed.
The next morning Richie fixed Eggs Benedict for the four of us.
THEN, and here's the good part, we graded my sisters science Ocean Reports.
I enjoyed it because middle school children write some funny stuff! I got fodder for a newspaper column!
