. . . isn't the name of a certain someone's new business, but then again, maybe it should be. Here I am channeling my inner hippie or Holly Hobbie (the patchwork skirt reminds me of her, and I should know; for the first years of my life, I lived in a Holly Hobbie-themed bedroom). Partly because I cotton to costumes, partly to help hawk the husband's new cutting board. That's right. He made this woodsy checkerboard wonder with his own two hands by cutting, gluing, sanding, and staining.
Isn't it stunning? It sort of helps me appreciate that old Science Channel show How It's Made (not surprisingly, a fave of the husband's) where more products than you'd think, some artsy, some not, are at least partly handmade as opposed to being cranked out in a factory.
When the husband's not painting houses, he's usually outside under the tent that I used to use for craft fairs, sawing away. He's become as addicted to his craft -- and the supply shopping that goes with it -- as I am to making jewelry and collecting carb-shaped handbags. It's nice to be married to someone who understands about settling down to make something, then emerging trancelike hours later without feeling like any time -- not to mention a meal or two -- has gone by. Also, I can relate when he criticizes his work and I'm forced to squint to inspect some infinitesimal imperfection and say, What are you talking about?!
Anyway, he's made about forty boards, plus some coasters, many of which he's gifted. At some point, I'll be pressed into service to help him open his own shop on Etsy.
Which, I suppose, is the least I could do after making him take my glamour shots.
