WMME 3: Things Boys Done Ta Me

Yeah.  There it is.  3rd issue.  Crazy.  I really like doing this.  I wanna write and make stuff all day long.  I can't of course, but here is the cool thing.  I didn't make this when I was in Baltimore.  I had one job then and lots more free time.  I have 2 jobs now and very little free time.  But it gettin' done now.  I'm pretty sure that's exactly what I was hoping for.  It's scary making that leap to open your own business.  We figure we are (conservatively) 20,000 hours into it, between the 2 of us, and all our money.  But the learning, ideas, energy and excitement are still there.  We love what we are doing and feel so blessed for the amazing experiences we've had and all the awesome people we've met.  Things feel right.  We have no idea yet if FOE will be sustainable.  It will or it won't.  We are doing what's important to us and so many wonderful people seem to understand that and encourage us.  Whatever happens, we've never worked harder, learned more or accomplished as much.  And all that, we get to keep that.  We just celebrated our 3rd anniversary.  I hope there are many more.  There's so much we want to do.  I just booked a 2015 show I want to see.  You learn how to be an entrepreneur by being an entrepreneur.  We're gonna keep working, and doing it our way.  3 years of FOE.  3 zines.  I'm not really sure how we did it, but we keep getting what we need.  Thank you to everyone who took a chance on us, extended their trust - that makes every single thing worth it.

Colorin' fer charity, agin!

 

Yeah, so I can color, maybe, but I can't make this post look like I want it to.  Markers, Yes!  Technology, Boo!  S'allright.  I kinda want to makestuffbetter soon, but I'm pokey at it.  Anywho, we have a coloring fundraiser at FOE.  I added the glitter bikini top.  I totally want that bikini top!  Also added some dranks too. 

I made this SIGN!

Checksitout!  I made mistakes, I made decisions, I learned along the way and I fussed.  I like it!  I mean, eye catching right?  Jim has to seal it tomorrow.  SO happy to have it done, now on to the vestibule.  Or maybe catch up on all the stuff I have been letting pile up while I hand-painted ma sign.

postcard for Mutti

Cut paper and laminated.  My Mutti takes good care of me. 

FEED ME, please and thank you

My sweetie SIL's sweetie Mum and her husband, sent us jams from Maine.  They love bird-watching.  I made them this thank you post card.  We love food gifts!  We love our family and friends!  I feel very lucky.

Butt Plugs

I make butt plugs.  Adorn your assholes people!  Oh just kidding.  How would I have learned to forge steel and make glass.  I lack ambition, I guess.  No.  See that little sign in the back?  Well, it's not really that impressive, but a few people have told me they like it.  AND, because I used cotton letterpress paper, no erasing!  So, like, seriously, free-hand-one-try.  Right.  I have penmanship!  BUTT, there are no jobs for a hand-lettering butt plug sign artist.  Locals, buy your butt plugs at Oh My!  And buy gifts!

SWEET BLOODY LOVE

Ah yeah.  Ima gonna see how it looks pasting a whole shortish story here.  I've been doing stuff, but not really post worthy stuff.  But I did write this little story and submitted it to a local publication.  Who knows.  I don't even know if it's good, or needs to be good to be accepted.  We'll see.  Maybe I put in a zine?   


SWEET BLOODY LOVE


There is something perfectly awkward and natural and sweet and stupid about the first time you find yourself in bed with a boy you love. All that luxurious privacy, comfort and time was almost more than my young heart could bear. I wasn’t sure how far we would go, but I tried to relax and prayed my body would cooperate. I was delirious with a combination of self-consciousness, desire, trust and fear. Perhaps Clayton was feeling the same way. If so, he was hiding it better than I was. With every noise I jumped and asked if it could be his grandmother. Interruptions did not seem to concern him. All his attention was focused on me and my naked body. That single-mindedness is breathtaking and dangerous.

We heard a key enter the lock and the door bounce against the chain. “Clayton? Clayton, are you home? Why is the door chained?” his grandmother asked from the hallway of her apartment complex. Clayton, feigning disorientation, mumbled something about napping and vague fears of home intrusion. I scrambled my clothes on and slid to the floor on the far side of the bed. Clayton threw on his robe and hurried to the living area to unchain the door. He returned, dressed quickly and whispered a plan. She would need to use the bathroom soon enough. I would wait, ready at a moments notice to be slipped out the front door. Alert, I eavesdropped on their conversation. She talked about her church retreat and how happy she was to take an early ride home. Clayton offered to make her tea. I smiled as I heard him turn the water on and off repeatedly, knowing what he was trying to prompt. She chatted away, not a bladder concern in the world.

Clayton’s grandmother gasped, “Clayton! It’s almost 7 o’clock! You’ll be late for CCD! You need to get going!” Clayton complained he wasn’t feeling well, linking it to the mid-day napping and odd chain-locking behavior. She wasn’t hearing it. And that’s when I heard Clayton leave. I was stunned, hurt and amazed. Quickly accepting the fact that I had an hour and a half wait, I surveyed the state of my own bladder and began crafting the story I would tell. That’s when I heard the door to his room open. His grandmother entered, walked straight to the far side of the bed and kicked me as she leaned over to turn on the floor lamp. “Nicole! Does Clayton know you’re here? You are not allowed to be here when no one is home!” Explaining the less damning story I’d concocted, she interrupted and ordered me to wait at the table while she used the bathroom. I contemplated taking off, but decided that would be admitting guilt. I sat down to await my scolding.

Just then Clayton bust through the door covered in blood. Clayton had been going through a John Lennon phase and favored all white clothing. The white of his jacket intensified the fantastic amount and surface area of the blood splatter. He looked confused and hurt to find me sitting at the table. His grandmother returned from the bathroom before I could say a word. The sight of all that blood further flustered her and she busied herself with nose-plugging, head-tilting and cleaning up the mess. She delivered a baffling lecture. I humbly apologized and promised to never stop by un-announced again. I was allowed to leave and walk the hour plus home, alone.

We had to wait until school the next day to talk. He thought I’d been faithless. I’d worried he’d been callous. While I was settling in to wait out an hour and a half on the floor, he had been standing outside the door punching himself in the nose to save me. We shared some beautiful stories, and really, what more could we ask for.