What they really mean

I love my doctor.  I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned that before, but just in case you missed it…

So, I went back for a two month medication check.  That’s what he called it, but I’m fairly certain it was so he’d have visual proof that I hadn’t, in fact, completely lost my shit.  He actually came all the way into the room and stayed there, although to be fair, he pulled an Ali and floated like a butterfly just in case.  Poor guy.  I must give off waves of instability like a male lion gives off pheromones.  Maybe if I started marking my territory…

Anyway, where was I?

Yes, the Cymbalta is working.  No one’s died, me included.  I did mention getting separated from The Codefendants on the Metro in DC.    It must be working, doc, because all I could think when the train pulled away with my children in tow, leaving me on the platform, was “oops”.  He chuckled, assured me it really wasn’t funny (he’s right…it was kind of a riot) and then looked on the bright side.  At least they’ll have something to talk about in therapy.  Doc is my kinda guy.  

We quickly progressed through my shenanigans since the last visit: 41 miles walked in July; 49 in August; and 72 in September.  

Am I tired?  I have fibromyalgia and if that’s not enough, refer to the previous paragraph.

Am I sleeping?  Define “sleeping”.  Like…cat napping, like the dead, through the night, without waking?  Let’s see: yes, no, no, no.  Sounds like my side of a conversation right before I hang up on a telemarketer.  I am having some really vivid dreams, mostly about Himself, who’s dream self is very good at ticking me off.  I wake up and have to remind myself he has no clue how good he is at pushing my buttons when he’s unconscious.

I can see the wheels turning in Doc’s mind.  Let’s try another medication and see if we can’t get you on a sleep schedule.  I insist I have a schedule…it’s called a lack of one.  I might get 3 solid hours of sleep a night.  Maybe…if the planets align, the dachshund actually comes when called, and the Red Wings win the Cup again before I die.  Excuse me while I have a giggle here.  What the hell, let’s add another pill!

I’ve always been someone who’s taken several meds at once, thanks to several gastrointestinal issues and general nuttiness.  No biggie.  And there’s always some humor to be had.  If not, you may as well cash it in.

Case in point: lists of side effects.

Enlarged mammaries:  you’ll develop boobs big enough to feed Africa, China and at least two Balkan states.

Delayed gastrointestinal movements: the only stool you’ll see from now until the day you die is what’s on display at IKEA.

Accelerated gastrointestinal movements: the family expression here is “like shit through a goose”.  Good luck getting to the toilet in time, loser.

Dry mucus membranes: yeah, if the presence of camels and Bedouin tents isn’t a clue, it’s freaking dry in your mouth.  Never mind the sand exiting your nostrils.

And my personal favorite…

Increased perspiration: you will sweat like a two-bit whore on a pay day weekend.

Good times ahead.  

At least no one’s died.

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Live: From the Linoleum !

Life is all about carpe diem.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the joie de vivre of “why not?”  In my children this was never fun as it involved a Vesuvius-sized mess, blood or other bodily fluid, or one of those infamous “Mrs. Bowen?” phone calls.  Let’s call it a crapshoot and move on, shall we?

Yesterday I decided that the yard needed mowing.  Our yard dude, Matt, an eclectic juxtaposition of redneck and surfer with a farmer’s tan, moved to Florida and no male in my house mows because allergies.  Mowing is no big deal and I find I rather enjoy it especially if I’m peeved.  There’s nothing quite as cathartic as symbolically decapitating someone while chop-chop-chopping down blades of grass and weeds.  Or is that just me?  Don’t answer that.

The weather was gorgeous…around 84 degrees with a nice breeze.  Piece o’cake!

All together now…!

Idiot.

Suffice to say, it turned out hotter than I thought and our yard is huge.  It’s a push mower and paying someone to do the yard work has made me into, well…a pansy.  

I staggered through the back door as His Awesomeness rounded the corner from the hall, his arms outstretched, ready for a hug.

Don’t touch me!  I’m sweating like a hooker at a Friday night tent revival.

My firstborn shot me a look and quickly hied over to the fridge to pour me a glass of water.  I’d like to say he did it because he’s thoughtful but I’m pretty sure it had more to do with the fact that I grunted like a camel headed for an oasis.  It couldn’t have been pretty.

By now, I was wishing I was home alone, free to unleash The Girls like twin swords of Damocles from the confines of my sweat-soaked brassiere, but it wasn’t meant to be.  I gingerly lowered myself to the kitchen floor, prostrating myself across the cool linoleum, His Awesomeness looking on like she’s finally lost her shit but saying Mom, what in the hell are you doing?

No talking; just lower the water down here and back away.  I’m having the mother of all hot flashes.  Being smart and conscious of the fact that Mom exhibited all the signs of a woman on the edge, he handed down the glass and vacated the premises.

I lay there, beached like Shamu on the coastline of kitchen lino trying to understand why I do these things to myself.  My thoughts, like those of Kid Rock in his northern Michigan youth, were short.  I stared, chest heaving, under-boob sweat cascading down my sides, at the kitchen ceiling.  When had that stain appeared?  Tiny specks of dark red dotted the area over the sink.  Sibling bloodletting?  Ritual sacrifice?  Ah, bingo!, splattered marinara from when I’d dropped the pan into the sink.  

The popcorn of said ceiling has never been my favorite feature mostly for the fact that dust loves ceiling popcorn, mocking me and my lack of domestic cleaning skills.  As do spider webs.  And there, hanging like a macabre sticky chandelier, was the web of a daddy long legs.  I watched him, her, it.  I couldn’t tell from way down on the floor and, as I hate arachnids, I wasn’t getting close enough to inspect the bits.

All of a sudden it occurred to me that I lay flat on my back under the habitat of a creature that scares the bejeebers out of me.  What if it landed on me?  Simple: I’d die of a heart attack.  Then from somewhere deep in my subconscious, I heard my mother’s voice.  What if the paramedics come and find you on the floor?  You’re not wearing your good underpants.  What if, in their earnestness to save you, they have to cut off your clothes?  What then?  You want them to see your ratty granny panties?

Merciful heavens!  Not only do I have to concern myself with being attired in my bestest underpants for a potential car wreck, as per my mother’s admonitions, I can’t even have an in-home run in with wildlife for fear of needing to be ready at any hour of the day or night to entertain the presence of rescue personnel, the media and maybe Geraldo in the midst of my plight.

Nuh-uh.  No way.

Tomorrow I’m hiring a new lawn guy!



Double trouble 

Forty-three years of living has taught me there’s plenty out there that falls under the heading of miraculous.  At least in my universe.  

There’s the virgin birth.  The fact that, despite an appalling lack of success in nurturing anything green and /or flowering, The Codefendants continue to live and thrive.  Although some days it’s kinda touch and go.  And childhood experiences notwithstanding, brussel sprouts are actually quite tasty.

The retail industry would have me believe that almost anything is miraculous.  I have to look no further than my email to know this little tidbit.  My life will be changed instantly *snaps fingers* if I’d just connect with someone dubiously named %#&@ Buddy.  I’ll have the stamina of a wild beast if I’d buy this pill.  And if I’d just succumb to the allure of the Square Dance pan, my kitchen dreams would be a reality.  Funny, I always envisioned a personal chef making that happen.  But whatever.

As I shared earlier this year, I stayed up ’til the wee hours following my surgery, my days and nights mixed up like a baby’s.  At least I never wet myself.  Nope, it was me, Angela Lansbury, and an endless cycle of infomercials for almost six solid weeks.

I finally buckled under and bought a Miracle Bamboo cushion after trying one out at a quilt retreat.  I’ll never really know if they actually make one’s buttocks any cooler because, frankly, I’m not thoughtful enough to ask and they’re not talking.  But (no pun intended) my buns aren’t tired from the daily strain of driving to and fro to work anymore.

Riding high on my bamboo success, I decided in an unguarded moment while standing in the ‘as seen on TV’ aisle, to try out the Miracle Bamboo Bra.  There was even a helpful cutout in the packaging to allow me a feel of what was in store.  Never mind the weird looks I was getting from the dude behind me as I felt up an as yet boob-less brassiere.  It certainly felt like it’d be comfy and for $19.95, how could I go wrong?

After arriving home, I whipped out my new over the shoulder boulder holder and proceeded to give it a whirl.  Apparently what I’d been gratuitously feeling up in the store was the padded cup and anyone whose seen me knows bra padding is superfluous.  Kind of like an elevator in an outhouse.  I digress.

The fabric felt weird.  Familiar, but weird and although I could put a boob in it, I just couldn’t put my finger on it.  Over my head it went.  No fasteners, no underpinnings.  Just delusions, I suppose.  I fiddled, I shimmied, I mimed reeling in a baby hippopotamus because isn’t that how all busty girls get into a bra?  

Finally, I was there.  I gave the straps one last snap and let go.  

Here comes the miracle part.

The miracle is that I didn’t break my jaw from the recoil of my boobs hitting the carpet and rebounding skyward.  It was like the girls went bungee jumping only I didn’t hurl them off a bridge, I just turned them loose.  Or maybe unleashed them is a better phrase.  Sweet sister Sadie!

And then it hit me.  A memory, not a mammary.

The fabric was like that of pantyhose, a contraption I’d long since chosen to forgo because they freakin’ suck!  I’d just tried to truss the ladies into pantyhose.  No wonder they plummeted like Superman exposed to kryptonite!

Bottom line: unless you have boobies instead of a rack large enough to feed sub-Saharan Africa, please do not buy the Miracle Bamboo bra.  Your boobs, and any small children or pets standing at your feet, will thank you.

Culture and the art of not getting it

As a mother I occasionally have a yen to throw something a little different at The Codefendants and see what pans out.  Most times we’re all pleasantly surprised and wind up feeling a little smug and worldly as if to say well, we never had any doubts.  Piece a cake, baby!

Unless it’s food.  Generally speaking, if it’s food what pans out is vomit.  Here’s a tip for ya: NEVER FORCE A CHILD TO EAT BROCCOLI UNLESS YOU’RE COMMITTED TO CLEANING IT UP.

Where was I?

So, school’s out for summer (any Alice Cooper fans out there?) and they’re already bored.  Fortunately, His Awesomeness’ boredom is somewhat alleviated by a little thing called a job.  Sonic slush, anyone?  

Which leaves The Diva.  

She’s already made homemade slime.  Think snot, only purple.  She gave me a makeover because, at forty-three, I have no idea how to apply makeup.  She fussed over my lack of appropriate brushes and primer (isn’t that for walls?) and bemoaned my crepey eyelids and orange-ish complexion a la The Donald.

And then there’s that mecca for all brainiacs…the library.  📚.  It’s the summer of the biography in our house and she’s already devoured tomes on CS Lewis, Audrey Hepburn, Henry VIII’s six wives, and Mickey Mantle while I’m over here speed reading through raunchy romance novels.

Not to cast aspersions on our town, but there isn’t much to do here.  Which means you have to drive.  And hope that what awaits at the end doesn’t require funds from a body part you sold or a bathing suit.

Dallas, here we come.


It’s deja vu all over again!  It’s like Dallas knows we’re coming and just rolls out the welcome mat right along with the crummy weather, traffic accidents and nutty drivers.

Yay.

We finally arrive, after driving the I-35 corridor at 50 mph most of the way, at the Dallas Museum of Art.


Four floors of old stuff (apparently that’s me); really old stuff (pottery, textiles, paintings, furniture); and ancient stuff (as in sculpture).


Homage to Victory Boogie Woogie #1 by Leon Polk Smith.  I see a quilt here. 👆🏻

A Baltimore album quilt with trapunto attributed to Martha E. Keech.  👆🏻

We’d been there maybe thirty minutes when I realized The Diva was extraordinarily quiet and I looked over to find her stone faced, responding to my questions with one word answers.  Are you okay?  Fine.  Are you sick?  No.  What’s the matter?  Nothing.

Sensing a mood swing of epic proportions and not wanting either of us to lose our shit in what was essentially a mausoleum for old, really expensive stuff, I was trying to think fast.  And quietly.  

Light bulb 💡 

Are you overwhelmed?  

I got a look that was part relief and part duh 🙄 and after giving ourselves permission to skip the stuff that made us check each other for a pulse, we more or less hustled ourselves through the remainder of the early American section and most of Africa.  I’m pretty sure there was plenty of other stuff to see, but most of it was a blur interspersed with me asking myself  what is THAT and what does it MEAN?

Forgive me for being a philistine, but I don’t get art at all.  To me, it’s like attending car shows with Himself.  A car’s either pretty or ugly and sounds good.  End of story.

With art, I stand there, head cocked like an eager spaniel and hope I don’t scratch or widdle on the floor.

Like this 👇🏻.  It’s cool and it’d look great as a quilt, but 🤷‍♀️


Or this 👇🏻 by Christopher Wool.  What does it mean?  No more home and no more coats.  Huh?


This (by Leon Frederic) 👇🏻I get, but the gratuitous display of breast unsettled The Diva.  Do we really need to see that? she intoned.  Beats me, but it’s just so beautiful and nurturing and hey, I get it! 


The detail…swoon.

Anyway, we’d made it down to the lower level with all the sculpture.  My favorite!  It never ceases to amaze me how ancient dudes got the drape of fabric, the curl of a lock of hair, the detail just so from rock.

How did they do that?!  Genius.

I’m marveling at it all when I hear a huge sigh, one generally reserved for a climactic final cinematic breath and the words every mother wants to hear uttered aloud in what was a fairly crowded room.

Another penis.  What is it with all these penises?!

I was stuck somewhere between wanting to be zapped by lightning on the spot, hoping for a huge sinkhole to open beneath me and making that ugly braying donkey laugh I generate when I’m really amused and trying not to be.  Nevertheless, I had some splainin’ to do.  She didn’t believe me about the ancients’ love of the human form and isn’t it beautiful, etc, etc.  All she saw was nekkid men.  I’ll admit to never understanding the ancient use of urine to bleach items or grabbing ones testicles as a attestation of ones truthfulness (hence the word testimony) but whatever.  Naked people look good, even the fat ones and can we please bring back the appreciation of such from Rubens?!  Can I get a hallelujah?

Maybe I should just stick to getting my culture from yogurt.

Anyone seen my brain?

So, I’ve been at retreat since Thursday and accomplished tons.  But that’s for a later post.   And before you ask why, it’s because I’m the mom and I said so.


Today, I’m working on yet another Bonnie Hunter pattern.  For someone who doesn’t like scrappy, I’ve seemingly leapt from the precipice of sanity with a rebel yell of ‘screw it, let’s do it!’ and ne’er a fair-thee-well.  Or maybe that’s frat boy.  🤔.  Whatevs.

Idiot.

So, back in January when I had my lady bits yanked and was confined to home for six solid weeks (sounds fun in theory, but the reality is like being promised a night with Tom Selleck and getting PeeWee Herman.  I want to shower in bleach just thinking about it 😱).  

Where was I?

Oh, yes.  Post-surgical recovery.

So, here I was: a nifty abdominal incision, unable to lift anything more than my own substantial badonkadonk into and out of the recliner (because we’re idiots and bought a really tall bed I had no hope of clambering into for the foreseeable future); and a dachshund with questionable mental faculties, the temperament of a band of pillaging Vikings, and a penchant for nesting in my lap atop aforementioned incision and not moving.  Ever.  

Geez, I’m tired just writing all that.

Anyway, what I was, was bored.  My days and nights were flip-flopped and I’d be awake all night with Jessica Fletcher and an endless loop of infomercials.  I was *this* close to caving in and buying a Square Dance Pan, but that woman was annoying.  Like a lifetime of wearing granny panties and suddenly switching to butt floss aka thongs.  Annoying.  But I’m still not convinced I don’t NEED a Miracle Bamboo Cushion.  And my bodily neighbors to the north might really be on board with a Miracle Bamboo Bra.

Yet again, I digress.

Once I got myself straightened out timewise, I thought it’d be brilliant to cut out some quilts.  Never mind the fact I had pre-surgical time to do this.  Nope, pre-planning is for funerals.  Just saying.  Never mind that I was the lone passenger on the Narcotics Express and made a valiant attempt at wielding a rotary cutter whilst under the influence and scared the bejeebers out of myself.  But what I did have going for me, was my Accuquilt Studio.

Light.  Bulb.  💡 

Generally speaking, I’m fairly bright.  Unless you ask The Codefendants.  To them, all brain function ceased in 1999.  But still, I’m not dragging knuckles through the gravel and I manage to not disgrace myself by wearing pajamas to the Walmart, so, you know, there’s that.  Sigh.

I thought why not use this nifty device, sorry, I’m back to the Studio here (squirrel!) and cut out the roughly six million pieces in this quilt!  Woohoo.  So, I got down to bidness and proceeded to cut out the required 1 1/2″ strips I’d need.  And then it happened.  

The instructions clearly stated to cut 1 1/2″ squares.  And being a good citizen, I did.  

No questions.  

No qualms.  

Instructions say cut, I cut.

And before you say it, yes, I am well aware I could’ve strip pieced these.  The thought has occurred.


Someone hold me.

Ugh

According to the statistics provided by the ever-helpful WordPress gnomes, my last post was in October.  Hmm…my, where hath the time doth flown? 

I started blogging back when His Awesomeness was a wee-ish tot as an outlet for frustration and angst (and whatever else you’d like to call it) on the parenting front and it morphed into an occasional commentary on life, marriage, and quilting liberally sprinkled with my native tongue, sarcasm.  

Mostly it’s fun.  Who doesn’t like kvetching about offspring, stretchy pants that don’t stretch, and parent teacher conferences where you’d really like to pull a Rhett Butler and ‘frankly, my dear…’ but don’t want to be that mom?

I have a sense of humor:  morbid at times, definitely off color (because vulgar is my second language) and occasionally totally inappropriate for the moment.  So be it.  Or should I say ‘fuck it’?  And yes, I spelled out the entire nasty word.  No asterisks today for you in blog land.

I haven’t felt funny, upbeat or remotely human in ages.

I could point at any number of things, all of which most of us deal with at some point in our lives, so it’s not as though I’m saying I’m special.  I’m just…done.  It feels achingly familiar to the post partum depression I had the pleasure of experiencing after the arrival of the spawn minus the plan to do myself in.  And yes, at that time I gave it serious study.

All in all, things are going swimmingly for The Co-Defendants.  Hurrah!  We are passing with flying colors (grades, not gas…well, both, but gas involves glitter because my little snowflakes are special), getting along (at school, at home not so much) and one of them has even found amor.  So it isn’t them.  I haven’t had to bury a body so you know it isn’t Himself, bless his heart.

It’s me.  I admit to being a Type A personality, as near to anti-social as one can get without garnering the crazy cat lady moniker and not getting in the least that whole human contact thing.  The humor has fled.  I don’t feel funny; I feel angry.  Angry me is unpleasant.  It’s seething and simmering.  Hell, I don’t even like me.  

So if you all will bear with me while I figure it all out, I’ll come back and be kinda-sorta-mostly funny.  And if the f-bomb has run you off, well, I guess I’ll wish you well and you exit stage right.  Watch the last step though…it’s a doozy.

If there’s anything funny about it, just know I’m typing this on the toilet and trying to wrangle a phone and a needy dachshund at the same time.  There’s a visual…and maybe some humor.

Until then, I’m afraid I am one giant stagnant soup of fuck-it-all.

Blogging, Quilting and Griping (and possibly cursing)

Do you know what happens when you go almost an entire month without blogging?  I do.  But you knew that right, that I already had the answer because, naturally, if I’m going to pooch screw something I’ll immediately get on here and tell y’all all about it.  Because why writhe about in angst and shame alone, amiright?!

For the love of Pete, all I wanted was to update about my progress on the mystery quiltalong.  Hey, I’m ahead this time!  And then, boom, there’s the payback for my chutzpah. 💥. The entire post was written and all I had to do was hit publish, but no, I had to go back and correct that grammatical error and poof, the entire thing swirled the bowl and was gone with a resounding flush. 🚽

So, here I am trying for Blog Post: The Redo.  Wish me luck.

Tomorrow is the day for another clue reveal in the Chasing the Sun mystery quiltalong of which I am taking part.  You can find the page on Facebook and join in…it isn’t too late!


This past clue is the only one I’ve managed to finish ahead of time, never mind that they’ve all been bite-sized and really manageable.  With me, there’s just no telling what’s going to happen.  Kind of like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, only without Gump.  Or the chocolates.  Sigh.

At any rate, I’ve stitched up a heap and wound up with some bits, pieces, strips and even some blocks.  Some of the bits I can’t explain, like four strips of one inch blocks…🤔

And four of these purple thangs…🤔🤔

And one itty bitty square in a square…🤔🤔🤔


Best not to think on these things too long.  I need all the brain cells I can muster.

The first block to be completed was the Children’s Delight.  I’m still questioning the wisdom of the deep purple, but the instructions called for black, so…dark purple, black…same difference.


Golly, I love the orange Grunge…so much, in fact, that I went back and bought the rest of the bolt.  Hey, it was lonely in that shop!

Each of the clues has involved what the designer called ‘Unit A’.  After dealing with sixty of them over the course of virtually every single clue, I have renamed the little turds.  No, that’s not it.  I could tell you, but the sound of my mother’s voice enunciating not only my first name, but my middle name as well in That Tone that all mothers use, is the only thing stopping me.  Little bastards.  No, that’s not it either.

Don’t ask me what my problem with them is because I can’t tell you.  It’s like the adage about trying to define porn: ‘I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it’.  I hate Unit A almost as much as Brussels sprouts and every sport except hockey (go Red Wings!)

In the end, what I’ve got (so far) are 4 Children’s Delight blocks, 16 Courthouse Steps and 60 eff…, I mean Log Cabin blocks.


There’s still a truckload of fabric left to be cut. Better hope no one comes to visit because there’s no where to hang a coat.


While I bide my time until tomorrow’s reveal, I’ve pulled out Double Delight by Bonnie Hunter again and am in the process of piecing 130 3 1/2″ nine patches.  Yes, that’s 1-3-0.

At least they aren’t Unit As.

Still at it *sob*

The hand quilting of Mary Ellen’s sunflowers continues.  

That sentence could pretty much be the blog post in its entirety, but I have this love affair with the English language so I’ll carry on for a bit.

Since the February retreat, I’ve accomplished very little on the quilting front.  It seems the quilt just doesn’t want to be quilted at home.  It needs my retreat buds as much as I do.  For an introvert, that’s a little weird, but there you go.

There are nineteen blocks, plus an abundance of sashing and nine patches.  I have finished the quilting on exactly one block.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Here’s a picture of my start.  


This isn’t a process I can rush because my stitches wind up looking like a drunken sailor made them.  Not pretty.  Watching TV while quilting is out because I get distracted.  In a moment of weakness I thought I’d watch some Outlander and manage to keep on task.  *Graham McTavish, slobber, stitch, slobber.* What a truly stupid idea. 🙄
Pandora and some earbuds seem to be my best bet.  Classical for smooth stitches; ZZ Top for when I want to look back and wonder where I went wrong.  In the words of my grandmother: they’ll never notice it on a galloping horse.  Alrighty then.

Anyway, some progress has been made.  

From the first outlines of the petals, flower center, and three concentric rings…


To the beginnings of a crosshatch design…


To a completely crosshatched block.


Tomorrow I’m having a quilt-in with my Mama and a friend so maybe I’ll get more done.  My needles are loaded and ready to go and I’ve even made the first stitch.


Here I go.  Again.

Of Quilts, Kids, and Questionable Odors

Mine is a world filled with the wondrous wonderfulness that is beautiful fabric: its softness, its supple textures, its exorbitant price tag.  Pretty fabric, lovely fabric, jump into my stash.  

I always say this weekend I will sew, which roughly translates to after tending to everything else.  

This weekend, ‘everything else’ has amounted to a plethora of experiences, some of which I’d just as soon avoid.

First up, letting His Awesomeness get behind the wheel. 😱  

This child, like his father before him, is a curb hugger.  I cannot tell you the times I’ve shrunk toward the driver’s side in an effort to, please, sweet baby Jesus!, don’t let us hit that mailbox!!  He doesn’t seem to appreciate that there’s plenty of asphalt for all to enjoy.  Never mind the fact that there is no oncoming traffic.  Meanwhile, my posterior is doing something my Mama nicely refers to as ‘working buttonholes in the seat’.  As much clenching as my butt cheeks have done, you should be able to bounce a quarter off ’em. Not that you’d want to since we’ve never formally met, but, you know.  Frankly, driving lessons should fall to the father, I mean biological here, not God, but boy have God and I had some pretty intense conversations during those drives.

In an effort to relax, I turn to Lennie the Featherweight.  Sewing for me is like a wonderful night on the town with a good looking man without all those pesky expectations of what happens when you get dropped at the door.  Lennie doesn’t care if I drink or swear, wear undergarments reminiscent of grannies and he certainly doesn’t expect to be invited in for a nightcap.  

On that note, I finished one flimsy and have moved on to another.  Clearly, quilting it isn’t high on my list of priorities, like shaving my legs in the dead of winter.

I don’t name my quilts, but this one reminds me of water flowing over rocks.  I love it.   

 
I’ve started another one that’s all flannel, because obviously, when the temperatures start to climb, you want to work with fabric that’ll  make you sweat like a hooker at a Saturday night tent revival.  Idiot. 

   

This past Friday, I said goodbye to my favorite volunteer who is moving to be closer to family.  I’ll miss you, Mr. Todd.  

And to round out my week, our newest furbaby decided it would be epically delightful to roll in something that smells of a wonderful dichotomy of sewage and death.  My Lulu never did this.  I can only guess that it’s a hound thing.  Bad Ziva!  

I’m hoping this next week leaves out the surprises and just leaves me with a tighter tush.