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.

Tell Me When You Feel Something

As I age, I’d like to say gracefully here but that’s for pussies, my list of things I hate just keeps on growing.  I’m practicing for my curmudgeonly matron routine here…you know, the one to match Himself’s sweater-wearing, shuffling old fart routine.  He’s already achieved that status, but let’s keep that on the down low, shall we.  By the time I’m considered old, I think that’s 41 according to my offspring, I’ll have the routine down pat.

There are some things that have absolutely no business in polite society.  Some might say I’m one of them, what with my snarkiness and potty mouth, but let’s face it, I make life just a tad more interesting for the uber-mommies scrunched into their blinged out blue jeans and high-stepping it into their gas guzzlers in the school pickup line.  I’m talking about things like Steven Segal movies, pot-bellied hairy men in speedos, Uggs, and dentists.

I hate dentists.

His Awesomeness’ first dentist happened to be Himself’s childhood dentist.  Can you say ‘ancient’?  Yeah, like Stonehenge ancient.  The man was an absolute turd who wouldn’t let me go back to sit with my son on his very first dental visit.  We never went back.  Good riddance.

The next kid dentist was a chirpy lass with a perpetual smile, bright white teeth and a happy-happy-joy-joy jibber-jabber that made me want to grind glass with my back teeth.  No one’s that happy, especially one who deals all day with squirmy, sometimes screaming children, without the benefit of pharmaceuticals.  I bet she went home and pulled the wings off flies, y’all.

My own childhood dentist was about an hour away.  I always knew when Mother chim-chimed about taking a trip to Temple that the proverbial poop was about to hit the fan.  To this day, I hate that city.  You suck, Temple!

My love for dentists has obviously not grown over time.  Unfortunately they’re a necessary evil, like mothers-in-law and tampons.

I had the pleasure on Friday of an emergency visit as I thought I’d broken a tooth.  Yippee.

The office is home to three male dentists/orthodontists and a bevy of young buxom ladies who man (ha-ha) the front office.  Let me be frank, I’d be a heckava lot more inclined to show up all cheery like for a visit if they’d put a muscle-bound lad (minus the steroid gap between his front teeth) at the front desk.  But I digress.

I sat in the spacious waiting area so long I could feel my arteries hardening.  When I finally got to the back, I discovered the dentist du jour would be the short, condescending little putz who makes me yearn for the fat, hairy dude in a speedo on the Southern Comfort commercial.  This guy is a wiseacre.

‘So you broke your tooth?’

No, I think I broke it.  You’re supposed to figure out if it’s fact or fiction.

‘What makes you think you broke it?’

It’s just an idea I randomly pulled from my nether region.  And you know, I had some extra cash and thought, hey it’s Friday and I’m at work and naturally I wanted to use some of my precious vacation time to be here looking at your smug little puss instead of staring at culture plates of someone’s mucus.

He poked about in my mouth for a bit before announcing to the hygienist that he’d be needing the ‘vitality meter’.  Mind you, I hadn’t had a Xanax so the ominous tone with which he announced ‘vitality meter’ made me pucker a bit.  I don’t mean my mouth.

As it turns out, ‘vitality meter’ is dental code for ‘oral cattle prod’.  I’m not sure if it’s electricity or vibrations he shot through several of my teeth, but I’ve decided if he ever wants to try it again, there will be ground rules.  Or should I say ‘rule’?

You wanna use that thing on me again, I’m going to have a handful of your most prized personal accoutrements.  Instead of me raising my hand to let you know ‘when I feel something’, I’ll let you choose between a jerk, a twist, a yank or my fingernails attempting to turn you into a eunuch.  Your choice.

God visited the plagues on Egypt.  He should’ve sent dentists, too.

What’s In a Name?

When Himself and I were doing the whole baby naming gig, we took several things into consideration.  If it was an ‘in’ name, it was out in our book.  Same thing for cutesy, avant garde or just plain weird.  I can’t see me going to a doctor named Moon Crater Tinkleturd, can you.  We wanted something that sounded youthful when they were kids and distinguished when they grew up and moved out.  My exact comment to Himself was ‘I want them to have a distinguished name that would sound good regardless of which side of the defense table they may find themselves’.  Yes, I may have been aiming a bit low, but I was aiming for realism with just a touch of pessimism thrown in for good measure.  The Co-Defendants have very nice names although, to be fair, I rarely use them.  As they’ve grown up they’ve acquired several nicknames, some of which I use in public and others which I don’t.  No, I won’t tell you what they are because these are the people who will pick my nursing home.  I haven’t gone quite as far as Bill Cosby who claims his kids thought their names were Dammit and Jesus Christ for most of their formative years, but I confess I’ve come fairly close.

I’m not sure what my parents were aiming for with my name; perhaps they were just aiming for a lot of letters…22 to be exact.  I’m just glad I didn’t turn out male (mostly because NOT stopping to ask for directions is just asinine) because they would’ve named me after grandfathers Jesse and James.  No, I’m not joking.  I will say that I don’t ever remember them calling me by anything other than my given name which suits me just fine.  My mother always did, and still does, have a conniption fit when someone calls me ‘Steph’ and would have a mini rant about the fact that there were 4 more letters to my name.  I’m not sure that it offends me as much as it apparently does her.  It’s just something I don’t prefer…right along with any other nickname you can come up with for me unless it’s Benevolent Empress of the Universe.  That I could handle.  Now, there are some people who can get away with calling me variations of my first name.  They’re mostly relatives, older friends or my spouse who, interestingly enough, calls me Steph.  But I really like these people, well, most of the relatives, and so they get a pass.  Everyone else, not so much.

Take for instance what I got called recently….Stephyupagus.  Now, I grant that I may be older than the offending utterer and a bit on the chunky monkey side, however, I do not resemble a hairy-assed dinosaur.

Photo credit: Bing

I’m sure the look on my face said it all, but not being the queen of tact and really, really, really needing a paycheck, I smiled and moved on.  I’m not one for the quick comeback but Himself granted me a reply for the next time…and you know there’ll be a next time.

‘Thank you, Twatamous’.

I can’t wait for next time.