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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Ode to the dude

Dear dude in the school pick up line,

Hi, we’ve never met and judging by your questionable taste in music and assorted behaviors I’ve been privy to, I hope it never comes to that.  

Let me start by saying I’ve spent some of my best years held hostage to the drop off and pick up lines of various school campuses and therefore consider myself something of an expert when it comes to viewing the personages of The Line.  These are usually female persons in various stages of dress, makeup, and readiness for liquor.  Yes, I myself have dropped the darlings at school whilst clad in fuzzy pajamas and sans brassiere…only to pick them up hours later similarly attired.  Don’t judge.  Shit happens.  There are the skinny minis who are skinny and mini due to either genetics, a strict diet or an unhealthy meth habit.  These woman actually wear yoga pants to do yoga.  These women also do not wear underpants.  Or else they’re wearing butt floss.  I’ve never been brave enough to ask.  There are your typical workaday moms, office armor fully in place with a visage that conveys anyone messing with her will be dispatched without mercy or last rites.  These are feral women; women on the edge; women whose last nerve is one whine away from being tripped.  These women are busy and you’d best put some hustle in your bustle when dealing with them.  Then there are the bird moms, you know the chirpy, perpetually happy, Starbucks fueled PTA chairs, volunteers and general menaces to the rest of us who’d be only too happy to forgo yet another damned fundraiser if you’d just take a check, thankyouverymuch!

Never, and I do mean NEVER, have I ever seen a man in the pickup line.  You, my good man, are my first and, God willing, you’ll be the only.  Because unlike the ladies of The Line and my sainted Himself, you sir, are a dick.

You do not drive ‘round the corner and assimilate quietly into the line.  No, no.  You arrive with fanfare, your truck engine trumpeting like a fart blazing from the nether region of an octogenarian after an all you can eat Mexican buffet at the senior center.

I’ve observed you for weeks now and with each passing weekday, I keep hoping your current or your ex will arrive in lieu of you to pick up your monsters.  Sure, we women can be spiteful, bitchy and somewhat competitive (ahem), but we aren’t clueless.  We KNOW how to comport ourselves in public.

Point 1:  I can only assume that the large, obnoxiously loud, tricked out diesel truck you drive is compensating for your shortcomings…one which is visible to all in that you can barely see over the steering wheel.  You sir, have a bad case of SMS, short man syndrome.  And by the way, your stinky truck’s got nothing on Himself’s 1968 Roadrunner.

Point 2:  You are aware, of course, that despite your dollar store aviators, I can, in fact, see you? Scowling at me as if I’m a fresh pile you just stepped in isn’t very endearing.  And while we’re on the subject, stop it.  It’s creepy.

Point 3:  Naturally, you also know that the windshield and windows of your vehicle are clear, right?   I see your daily DIY sinus excavation while trolling for those pesky nose goblins that just won’t turn loose.  My, but you are one determined lad.  That, as well as other actions most people consider private, are best completed at home.  Behind locked doors.  Under cover of night.

Point 4:  It is apparent to all present, as well as those living three counties over, that your four-wheeled chariot sports one hell of a sound system.  Personally speaking, I’d rather listen to a herd of cats mating on a metal roof during a hail storm than have my ears assaulted by what passes for country music these days.  I suppose someone else in the line may share your love of the garbage.  I also suppose there may indeed be life on Mars.

Would it be wrong to ask your offspring to ride the bus?

Sincerely,

The Codefendants’ Mom

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.

Tools of the Trade 

Hand quilting has given me an all new appreciation for the wonders my hands can perform.  And the foreknowledge that I’m going to be monstrously arthritic in my golden years.  Good times ahead.

I’m even staying up past my bedtime to get in a few extra stitches.  

My biggest problem so far has been getting and keeping a grip on a needle that feels like it’s the diameter of a human hair.  How’re you supposed to hold on to something that small?  My hands get all sweaty and I’m wiping them on my shirt or pants just to get some grip.  Then the pendulum swings and they’re dry as the Sahara with zero traction.  


What’s a quilter to do?

Finger cots!  That’s right; the answer to my prayers.  

Do you know what happens when you ask for finger cots?  You get offered everything but.  I do not want a thimble, be it plastic, metal or leather.  I don’t want those stick on polka dot thingies.  My fingers don’t need pasties, thank you very much.  I know what I want, but it seems the vast majority of folks have no clue what I’m talking about as I tended to get a lot of head cocking…think cocker spaniel.


But mention the words ‘miniature condoms’ and people are all over it.  Like they didn’t already know what I was alluding to.

And that got me thinking…where did finger cots originate?  Then it hit me.

They’re Smurf rubbers.  

How else do you explain one head honcho with seemingly hundreds of lookalikes milling about who all refer to the leader as ‘Papa’.  

This Smurf didn’t find latex so Smurfy.

Have you ever even seen Mama Smurf?  Nuh-uh.  She’d had her fill of the amorous Papa Smurf and his unwillingness to keep his necessary covered and beat feet for parts unknown.  Although, I suppose all that amore could explain why they all seemed so damned happy and fa-la-la-la-la-la-ing all the time. 

Know where I finally found them?  The cots, not the Smurfs.

In the first aid aisle of, wait for it…

Walmart. 


Let the good times roll on.

Over or Under: A Question for the Ages 

So, I’ve been working on this hand quilting since Wednesday night and have been running into a few issues with the whole process.  

It’s slow.  Like grocery shopping with toddlers…or a husband.  Same difference.  It’s all bright and shiny and they want to look at and handle every friggin’ thing in sight when what you really want is to get in, get out, get home.  Hellaciousness on an epic level.  Much like I imagine a forced marathon viewing of the Kardashians would be.  

My posture is atrocious.  Not that I’m going to change what I’m doing because I have to have something to grouse about, but schlumping about like a jellyfish can’t be the most inspiring view ever.  At least I’m wearing makeup.

After a while, I can’t feel my feet.  I’ve been making myself get up and change positions fairly regularly.  Like a pregnant woman or spouse of a snorer.  But, dang it, I got stuff to get done!

And finally…

What do you do with the ladies?  Your BFFs?  Your gals?

I’ve convinced myself that hand quilting is for the flat chested, because bellying up to a quilting frame with a rack big enough to feed the entire African continent is a trial, y’all. It didn’t bother me at first, but the longer I sit here, the more apparent the problem becomes.

So, gentle reader, logistically speaking, does one’s rack float (haha) atop the frame, exposing Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to potential needle puncture  as in this photo…


Or, do the mammaries hang (low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie ’em in a knot, can you tie ’em in a bow?) below the frame like a fleshy pair of sword of Damocles?


Plus, I’m also wrasslin’ the bulk of the quilt.

I even attempted to wedge the frame betwixt my bosom and jelly belly, the wood and fabric equivalent to a pinch of chaw between your cheek and gum.  It got ugly real quick.

So, here I sit, alternately flopping Fred and Ginger onto the work surface like a pair of fresh caught trout and shoving them under as if dunking The CoDefendants in the pool.  There is no satisfaction to be had.

So, my bodaciously endowed Quilting Sisters, any suggestions?

In the meantime, I’ll sit here juggling body parts and praying for the end.

And to think there are those who think quilting and quilters are boring. Eejits.

Look in My Eye…

 

🎉🎉🎉Come one, come all!  It’s Two-fer Thursday at Maison Imperfect!🎉🎉🎉

Come see a bad, bodacious, jelly, bonzer, v.g. dachshund in her element!  She’s a sphinx in a canine kielbasa package!

Want to know just how much a dachshund’s bladder can hold?!  Want to see poo in a completely unnatural habitat?! 💩💩💩💩. Want to see aforementioned dog singlepawdedly destroy a cage?!  Want to see an otherwise rational woman lose her ever-loving mind?!?! 😜😜😜😜😜😜😜😜

Today, is your day!  Look no further than Casa de Imperfect!

I cannot for the life of me figure this dog out, but if I base my assumptions by her facial expressions, and, trust me, she has them, these inadvertent expulsions are retaliatory in nature.  That’s right.  She’s a vindictive crapper.  A peeved pisser.  She’s one ticked doxie and she’s not takin’ it no more!!

And before you say it, no, she isn’t bored.  She’s got more toys than Barbie has shoes, each toy stuffed with some tasty num-num.  There’s a view of the backyard and the radio playing in the background.  NPR.  Maybe that’s the problem.  Meh.

If she had middle fingers (or fingers at all, for that matter), she’d flip them at me.  Look at this face.  This is the face that says, “Sorry, luv, but screw you.  No one owns this be-otch !”  

Don’t fall for the pseudo-innocence of this expression.  Gramma and Papa are already goners.  She’s a con man with fur; bladder and bowels her tools of the trade.

Don’t miss out on Two-fer Thursday.  As Mrs. Bowen can attest, it’s the shit!! 💩🐾💩🐾💩

Where’s the bottle opener? 🍺

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.

Hijacked Accounts, My Email’s Whack and Offers I Can’t Refuse

Mail.  

As a kid, something in the mailbox meant a number of exciting possibilities: an invitation, a birthday, Christmas…a rubber snake.  Ahem.  As an adult, it means bills, credit card offers and the occasional postcard offering me a discounted rate on Playgirl.  Yay, me.

In my mind, email at least means freedom from someone wanting me to pay up…after all, I gave birth to two of those.  Sure, there’s the daily detritus in the form of school grade reports (grab the Xanax), little ‘just checking in’ notes from teachers (almost as bad as principal phone calls), offers for dates with hot Asian ladies and marriage to Russian brides and, my personal favorite, offers of male enhancement products.  Personally speaking, I’m looking for something  to shrink my badonkadonk, m’kay?  I’d like to know what triggers this deluge of horse pucky.  Is it me searching ‘kilted hotties’ on Pinterest?  Gawd!

Lately, I’ve been getting email wanting me to confirm my Friar Lawrence Twitter account.  I’m sorry….whaaaa?  Then there’re the Instagram updates from some redneck I’m not acquainted with who spends quite a bit of his time waxing rhapsodic about his girl and life in general, turning my account into something of an enigma.  Where’re the offers for Dr. Hardy Wood’s Root Stimulator?  Poof, gone.

Anyhow, in an effort to keep an eye on His Awesomeness and his many varied social media accounts, I decided to reactivate my own account and commence snooping.  I tried Instagram for five minutes several months ago and decided I’d have more fun ripping out my eyelashes, but a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do.  

Eight follow requests awaited me, evenly split between pimply-faced dudes and buxom twits.  ‘What form of madness is this?‘, I asked His Awesomeness. ‘You’re just awesome, Mom‘, came the immediate retort, forcing my b.s. meter to full tilt.  No male on the planet’s that on his toes in the face of female skepticism, amiright?

By now you’ve reached the same conclusion I had.  My own son hacked my deactivated account…linked to my personal email, may I just add.  Criminy!  At least he had the grace to look chagrined.  It’s a wonder they make it through puberty.

Himself offered to patrol His Awesomeness ‘s account, a sacrifice he assured me he was willing to make.  I took him up on the offer.  At least now there’s time to place that Canadian Viagra order.

Inevitabilities and Wal-Martians

People watching: it doesn’t cost a thing, is calorie-free and highly entertaining.  After Tom Selleck and kilts (oooh, a  kilted Tom Selleck!), is there really anything better?

I think not.

Driving to that bastion of dastardly capitalism and questionable clothing options that is Wal-Mart, a fellow driver and I had a run-in with, what I can only call an ‘other’, The Village Idiot.  

He sat astride a rumbling mass of metal, a crotch rocket, (which us car driving dorks are endlessly chastised to watch out for because motorcycle!) behind the lady in the lane to my left, blaring music and oozing what I can only assume he thought was an air of menace.  His taste in music sucked donkey balls, so being the peace lover I am, I rolled down the windows of the old mom-mobile and assaulted his eardrums with Great White.  

Judge not.  

As the light turned green, he zoomed betwixt myself and my lane mate and made a dash for the next light …which the traffic gods saw fit to turn a lovely shade of red.

Score and burn!!

Gleeful at this turn of events, my thoughts turned pious and I prayed the traffic gods kept the light red just to jack with the jerk.  They didn’t disappoint. 

As my lane mate and I pulled up behind him, we exchanged glances that said ‘One day, this dude will imitate cream cheese on a bagel and schmear himself on the pavement’.  And onward we rolled, like bosses.

The Village Idiot is one of life’s little inevitabilities, like being rendered temporarily incontinent while laughing or sneezing (something us moms can appreciate) and that one chin hair that thwarts all attempts at being plucked making one look like a Kung Fu master with a double D rack and mom jeans.

The second highlight of my day was at Wal-Mart.  I do love me some Wallyworld, y’all but it seems I always miss out on what every other Facebook post and YouTube clip shows: The Wal-Martian.

Today my wish was granted.  As if the graciousness of the traffic gods weren’t enough.  Sigh.

Wal-Martian watchers will tell you this breed can be spotted in any aisle in the store, but today I followed it outside.  

It took me a bit to realize what set these ladies apart from the pack as I can be somewhat slow on the uptake and then, boom, there it was….two ladies still attired in pajamas and house slippers, rumps shaking like gunnysacks filled with a writhing turmoil of fighting cats.  Mesmerized, I watched as She of the Well-worn Heather gray Britches, looking like Chewbacca’s long-lost cousin, shuffled about on pants legs that looked like they’d been set upon by rabid chihuahuas.

Sweet baby Jesus, they do exist!  

Now, I myself, being a big-legged gal, can appreciate the comfort afforded by roomy britches but I leave the trailer park at home and put on some real pants when I leave the hacienda.  

Girls, your pajama pants want to stay at home!

Now I’m off to pluck that chin hair.