The Crafty Teddy Read Online Free Page B
articulated limbs so that they could be posed. Then there was our neighbor, Missy Hendrix, who made whimsical large-eyed bears in bold and unorthodox colors, such as magenta and orange. Another artist showing great promise was fortysomething single mom Holly Reuss, who had never created a stuffed animal in her life. Up until she’d joined the guild, her forte was making hand-sewn quilts. Yet under Ash’s tutelage, the quiet and reserved Holly had recently produced a superb cream-colored mohair teddy that was evocative of a Steiff bear from the 1920s. I’ll admit I was a little envious. It had taken me nearly half a year to make something that could be identified as a teddy bear at a distance of over ten yards and, in a few months, a number of the women were producing masterpieces.
The other problem was that, after a few guild meetings, I was beginning to feel as if I needed a major testosterone transfusion. The Civil Defense siren-quality warning sign was when I found myself offering informed opinions on mineral-based facial foundation powder and four-hundred-thread-count sheets during discussions at last month’s meeting. Afterwards, I worried if I was on the log flume ride to becoming a SNAG—a Sensitive New Age Guy—and wondered what the next manifestation would be. What if it was a craving to watch Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood ? The notion was enough to chill my blood.
I cleared my throat. “Actually, I was thinking of passing on the meeting today.”
“Suffering from an overdose of girl cooties?” Ash gave me a gentle smile that told me she wasn’t surprised by my announcement.
“Not yours. Never yours. But…”
“You’re the only man there.”
“Yeah, and I’m really dreading another Saturday morning listening to Rita Olmsted talk about how hard it is to find an underwire bra that fits properly.”
“That was a little over the top.” Ash saw my lips twitch and showed me her palm, signaling me to remain silent. “And don’t say it, because I can see the thought bubble over your head.”
“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh? Tell me that you weren’t going to say that Rita is always over the top…of both cups.”
I assumed a look of injured innocence. “I’m stung that you think I’d pay the slightest attention to another woman’s bust.”
“Sweetheart, I love you more than life and trust you implicitly, but you’re also one-hundred percent heterosexual male, which means you’re genetically-coded to look. The first time we met, I could have drawn a dotted line from your eyes to my cleavage.”
“As a matter of fact, you could do that right now.”
“You have a one-track mind.” Ash smiled and shook her head in mock disbelief, yet made no effort to obstruct my view. “But getting back to the guild meeting. The fact that the women discuss those things in your presence is really a compliment. It means they’re comfortable saying almost anything around you.”
“I know and I like them and I’m not quitting the guild. I just need a month’s sabbatical from the ladies.”
“I understand and, by all means, take a break.”
“Thanks, my love.”
“So, what will you do instead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe go over to the Brick Pit and visit with Sergei until the lunch crowd starts coming in. We can talk about your basic brainless guy stuff. You know: monster truck-pulls, guns, and which country has the best main battle tanks.”
“Wow. Men have all the fun.”
Pinckney’s Brick Pit was a barbecue restaurant owned and operated by Sergei Zubatov, my best friend in Remmelkemp Mill. Sergei was a former Soviet military attaché—which is a nice way of saying “godless Commie spy”—who’d immigrated to the United States shortly after the collapse of the U.S.S.R. Regardless of his past, I knew him to be a good and honorable man endowed with a wicked sense of humor and blessed with the talent to cook some of the most delicious North
The other problem was that, after a few guild meetings, I was beginning to feel as if I needed a major testosterone transfusion. The Civil Defense siren-quality warning sign was when I found myself offering informed opinions on mineral-based facial foundation powder and four-hundred-thread-count sheets during discussions at last month’s meeting. Afterwards, I worried if I was on the log flume ride to becoming a SNAG—a Sensitive New Age Guy—and wondered what the next manifestation would be. What if it was a craving to watch Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood ? The notion was enough to chill my blood.
I cleared my throat. “Actually, I was thinking of passing on the meeting today.”
“Suffering from an overdose of girl cooties?” Ash gave me a gentle smile that told me she wasn’t surprised by my announcement.
“Not yours. Never yours. But…”
“You’re the only man there.”
“Yeah, and I’m really dreading another Saturday morning listening to Rita Olmsted talk about how hard it is to find an underwire bra that fits properly.”
“That was a little over the top.” Ash saw my lips twitch and showed me her palm, signaling me to remain silent. “And don’t say it, because I can see the thought bubble over your head.”
“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh? Tell me that you weren’t going to say that Rita is always over the top…of both cups.”
I assumed a look of injured innocence. “I’m stung that you think I’d pay the slightest attention to another woman’s bust.”
“Sweetheart, I love you more than life and trust you implicitly, but you’re also one-hundred percent heterosexual male, which means you’re genetically-coded to look. The first time we met, I could have drawn a dotted line from your eyes to my cleavage.”
“As a matter of fact, you could do that right now.”
“You have a one-track mind.” Ash smiled and shook her head in mock disbelief, yet made no effort to obstruct my view. “But getting back to the guild meeting. The fact that the women discuss those things in your presence is really a compliment. It means they’re comfortable saying almost anything around you.”
“I know and I like them and I’m not quitting the guild. I just need a month’s sabbatical from the ladies.”
“I understand and, by all means, take a break.”
“Thanks, my love.”
“So, what will you do instead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe go over to the Brick Pit and visit with Sergei until the lunch crowd starts coming in. We can talk about your basic brainless guy stuff. You know: monster truck-pulls, guns, and which country has the best main battle tanks.”
“Wow. Men have all the fun.”
Pinckney’s Brick Pit was a barbecue restaurant owned and operated by Sergei Zubatov, my best friend in Remmelkemp Mill. Sergei was a former Soviet military attaché—which is a nice way of saying “godless Commie spy”—who’d immigrated to the United States shortly after the collapse of the U.S.S.R. Regardless of his past, I knew him to be a good and honorable man endowed with a wicked sense of humor and blessed with the talent to cook some of the most delicious North