The Internet Wins

Part of having officially arrived at "Old Fart" status is coping with my hyper awareness of the lack of research, accuracy and useful information disseminated by the media. The demands of a 24 hour news cycle have made it impossible to give a story it's due and move on.  It has to be whipped into a frenzy and subject to all kinds of speculation by "experts" who clamor for attention and air time. Most troubling is how hard it has become to watch the news without frequently hearing, "according to unconfirmed reports" and "X Network News reports" when you are on a different network than X News and they don't have a clue if it is accurate but the teleprompter rolls with it anyway.   I understand how the Internet has conditioned us to expect instant access to events, but without any practiced eye reviewing them for content, factual accuracy or relevance? In doing that it has also made many of the people who bring us that news incredibly lazy.

This morning was a case in point.  For the second time in as many days, my husband (who serves in elected office) was misquoted regarding a city issue.  The really sad part?  I listened to him patiently  explain -  point by point - to the reporter how he was misquoted the day before, yet after all that the reporter went ahead and published the same damn misinformation for the second time.  Joe even attempted to help the kid out by recommending he call someone else connected with the story, to the extent he gave him the name, place of work and street the guy lives on to help him out.  The reporter's response?  "Oh.... I'll just Google it."  In the process of "just Googling it" the reporter came across some clearly outdated interviews and presented that information as current. Additionally, he didn't bother to "Google up" the one person who could clarify the information and make this article oh, I don't know, ACCURATE?

[caption id="attachment_2861" align="alignright" width="300"] Bass Rocks, Gloucester[/caption]

One of the things I love and admire most about Joe is his thick skin, his security in his own ego and his incredible ability to roll his eyes and shrug off the number of inaccuracies in newspaper ink.  My Irish soul rails up and demands action - he just shrugs it off as young-reporter-inevitable and goes peacefully on with his life. I admire that ability more than I can express. He is eleven years older and a diabetic, but he will surely outlive me because I will expire of repressed rage and angst. He is so "glass half full" that sometimes I want to strangle him. In fairness, he has wisely (and accurately) stated that if we were both of the same ilk, "We would have thrown ourselves off the rocks a long time ago."  Thank heavens for balance in the universe.

I bet a lot of "reporters" rely on Wikipedia "The Free Encyclopedia that ANYONE Can Edit!" and Google to do 95% of their job for them. Equally lazy college students are picking up material for term papers off the internet and then getting busted for plagiarism because there are software programs specially developed for colleges to combat such rampant abuse. Fast and easy trumps accurate and intelligently researched every time.

Let's end on a high note. One of the best commercials EVER made is this one by State Farm Insurance:



Yup, the internet wins.

It's About Your Hair....

 

I know it's been a while but the slump continues. I've got a boatload of observations, rants and helpful advice for misguided youth but the fact of the matter is that no one really wants (or needs) to hear most of it. However, the "hair" thing is entirely different. I want to go over a few things about hair and as I'm still unemployed and getting more than a little manic about the whole thing, I'm going to indulge myself and throw down on hair.

I used to have long, thick, beautiful hair. When I would go in for a perm they would always use 2 kits because of all the H A I R. It was great. In 1987 I had ovarian cancer and my hormones shifted enough to leave me with very fine hair that was absolutely impossible to style. At this same time all the beauty shop stylists in the world had a huge secret conclave and decided to throw out all their curling irons and apparatus in favor of a round brush and a hair dryer. They could move more bodies through the chair that way, and I get that, but they also seem to really believe that every woman on the planet has hair that can be styled with merely a round brush, a hair dryer and the right "product." (Calling it "product" allows them to charge exorbitant prices.) I'm living proof it does not work. I still leave the salon looking like someone poured a bucket of water on the crown of my head - my hair is flat to my scalp. I've asked them to try different things - to no avail - and I'm running out of places to try so I'm thinking I'll just go to one of those drive-through $15 cut places because what the hell it doesn't make a difference anyway?

One of the most tremendously fabulous things about being unemployed is that I do NOT have to get up every day, wash & dry the hair, line up the products, curling irons (2 sizes) and bang out a presentable 'do. The release is intoxicating. I always knew doing the hair thing every day was a monumental pain in the ass but never realized just how big that pain (or that ass) was. Summer is the worst - it's already 90 degrees outside so who in their right mind wants to turn 10 minutes of hot, blasting air on your head? Then fire up the curling irons? Insane.

On days when I'm home I take a shower, comb my wet hair back and clip it in to place up and off my neck. It feels clean and tight to my scalp and OUT OF MY WAY and I absolutely LOVE IT. This is how most men have it, you know. They just bounce out of the shower, towel the head, give it a swipe with a comb and go. How did our gender get so blatantly ripped off? Don't' tell me a woman's hair is her crowning glory - my brain is my crowning glory thank you very much and my brain tells me this hair thing is way overrated and a monumental waste of time and money. I'm not completely without vanity - I did the complete "do" thing today because I have a board meeting tonight - but it has given me pause about how much time and money and TIME and wear and did I mention TIME and abuse we inflict on our hair and ourselves. Whassup with that? If we're not burning time styling it, we are busy removing it from legs, armpits, etc.

The proof of how deeply this is embedded in my subconscious became apparent to me in a dream last night. The Queen Mary II was in Gloucester harbor and a friend arranged for all of us to spend a week on board, just docked in port, but enjoying all the amenities of the beautiful ship. My husband Joe left the ship every morning to go to work at the store (he would do this in real life, BTW) while I had fun on the ship. The dream continued with me suddenly on land and meeting up with my friend John who was told me we were late and it was time to leave for the ship and a big black-tie gala dinner. Now, I do love me some black tie and remember thinking about how fun it sounded....and then I thought about staging the equipment to bang out the hair, etc., whether there was enough TIME to do a presentable job and I just thought, ".........nah. Too much work."

IN MY DREAM I THOUGHT THAT.

Even friends in my waking life are starting to notice my boycott. We had dinner at the yacht club the other night and I did the whole 9 yards with hair, etc. When we settled in on the patio for a drink, one of my closest buddies said, "Wow, you look fantastic! Really nice! See what happens when you make an effort?" I nearly dropped my drink. Conversation paused and I burst out laughing. Tom would never hurt a hair on a fly and I know he didn't mean it the way it sounded - but it was a gobstopper. He apologized profusely but I honestly knew what he was trying to say and wasn't offended. (FYI He's not off the hook- every time I see him I make a point of noting whether I did or didn't make an "effort" that day.)

[caption id="attachment_2729" align="alignleft" width="130"] Me, just after a haircut. Maybe a little longer hair - but basically spot on.[/caption]

Right now some stylist somewhere is reading this and saying, "Oh all you need is the right cut/product/technique." It has been 24 post-cancer years of trying and believe me, I've tried everything. (And why do stylists always think they know more about MY hair than I do? Have they spent 54 years with it?) Right now I'm sleeping in little sponge rollers to see if that works. I've spent months trying to grow it out so I have some length to play with, but it is tempting to go back to a short cut and just do the "Mo" look. It's what I end up looking like anyway. My husband knows not to comment negatively about my hair regardless of how I decided to deal with it that day. He is a smart man who knows he will live longer that way.

So think about it. Think about all the time and effort and expense. Maybe it's my advancing age (and advancing wisdom, BTW) but I'm taking a new look at the whole "hair" thing and see where it goes.

 

I Meme'd

Now I feel better.

My Night at the Opera (House)

The Boston Opera House is a magnificent theater built in 1925 and recently renovated and restored to the tune of $50 million dollars. Friend-Joe is a huge fan of theater and as Husband-Joe is not, Friend-Joe is my perfect companion for a night of musical magic. Perfect because he not only pays for everything (woo hoo!) but he has impeccable taste (dinner at Blu before, dessert after) and all I have to do is take the train in to Boston and meet him there. I don't even have to drive home - he does!   Bonus - I was on a crowded Green Line train and since he arrived at the restaurant before I did he ordered my favorite martini and had it delivered just as I sat down.  My mother was right. Every woman needs 2 husbands - a straight one for sex, and a gay one for everything else.

The Opera House was filled to capacity (or at least it was after the first late-seating interval which brought in about 75 more people) for a production of Les Miserables. I was completely dismayed to learn you could (and were encouraged) to buy drinks at the lobby bar and take them in to the theater. Seriously?  You can't watch the first act without a drink in your hand?  Worse yet I kept hearing plastic cups fall to the floor as people finished their drinks.  I realize theaters are in desperate financial straits and the revenues from liquor must be a boon, but It felt like being in a crappy movie theater.

Late arrivals kept pouring in well into the first act. I'm amazed that so many people  would spend that much money on a ticket and be 20 minutes late for the show. Whatever. The first act was wonderful. At intermission, up came the lights and the following thing happened:

If you click on the fuzzy (sorry) picture, you can see everyone obsessively punching open their phones and checking their messages and email.  Whoa. I had my iPod touch in my purse (podcasts for the train ride) and snapped a quick picture of the ocean of obsession/compulsion surrounding me.  It made me very, very sad.

Then things got worse.  Everyone returned for the 2nd act (with their beverages properly replenished) and the 12-ish year old girl sitting next to me started leaning her head on (I'm guessing) her grandmother's shoulder and complained she did not feel well.  The grandmother (who was humming along off-key with the music) did not appear to care. Bitch had that "I've waited a year for this night and NOTHING is going to budge me" look on her face. (You'll agree with the use of the "B" word - keep reading).  I tried to concentrate on the show but when the girl started sipping water...and then spitting it up on the floor.....and heaving and spitting..... I wanted to be sucked into a black hole.  I knew if one whiff of that hit my nostrils I would be joining her pronto.  The grandmother?  She just kept patting the little girl on the back and humming (serious pitch problems) along with the show.  I was flabbergasted.  I was PISSED. Not only was she a pain in the ass with her humming, but  I could not believe she wasn't going to turf that poor child out of there pronto.  Then the poor girl started dry-heaving again in earnest and I must have jumped into Friend-Joe's lap because he whispered, "Do you want to go stand in back?" and I said, "Yes!" and we were out of our seats and up the aisle in a nanosecond.  We watched the last 10 minutes of the show from there and applauded the curtain calls as a sea of douchbags -  er - people stormed the exits like there was a raging fire. Show some courtesy, people, applaud the effort and appreciate the talent - it's a LIVE PERFORMANCE for pete's sake.  Then (and only then) the B-word grandmother comes sauntering up the aisle with her still-heaving, softly crying young charge and she looked at us,  shrugged her shoulders and said, "Accidents happen!" like it was nothing at all.  I was torn between whether I should call  Child Protective Services or  just bitch slap the woman right there. What a terrible thing to do to a child.

Walking back to Blu for dessert Friend-Joe and I talked about the decline of our civilization. The Boston Opera House was absolutely stunning - elegant, opulent, dripping in class. The audience was largely the complete opposite.  I am deeply disturbed by such a culture shift.  I found the movie-theater concessions and people bolting from their seats disturbing.  I've had to abandon movie theaters because I can't deal with all the talking, the flashing smart phones, texting, feet up on the seats -  and the trashy floors.  Now I have to abandon live theater?  I feel like I'm turning in to what I used to call an "Old Fart" but now I understand why older people want to stay home and be left alone.  I'm right there. RIGHT there. Honest.

Why Quilts Matter - to Me

As a museum (and quilt museum) professional, I have a major chip on my shoulder formed by years of friends and acquaintances dismissing what I do as not a "real job".  Tell people you work at a quilt museum and they tilt their head a little and say something like, "(pause...) Well....isn't that niiiiice! You must lovooooove it!" They act like it's just a big 'ol quaint, cozy sewing bee.  Let me tell you something - there is nothing cozy about it. We have layoffs, budgets, deadlines, evaluations and performance goals. We are dealing with decreasing revenues and increasing costs - AND we have to deal with the general public e-v-e-r-y day. Believe me, it's a real freakin' job.

I promised a review of this program and here it is. I really did not know what to expect when I popped a copy of Why Quilts Matter: History, Art and Politics into my DVD player. There are some quilts in the series from the collection of the New England Quilt Museum  (where I have my "pretend job") so we received an advance copy.   I was so afraid it was going to be all Sunbonnet Sue and ditsy prints and old grannies with their white hair in a severe bun at the back of their neck - or go on to reinforce other negative stereotypes about quilters.

BOY WAS I WRONG.

I was positively thrilled at how wrong I was.  Shelly Zegart has taken the quilting bull by the horns and put it all out there - the good, the bad, and the dicey politics. There are nine programs in this series, each featuring good scholarship and interviews with experts. These are interspersed with photographs, images of many beautiful quilts and some good b-roll of exhibitions and colorful locations.  I downloaded the nine episode guides to my iPad so I could follow along with the narration. When I saw a particularly beautiful quilt all I had to do was look down and see the name, maker, location, etc. Nice touch.

The best pat?  Oh, how I bonded.  I bonded with the Gee's Bend quilter who said, "When I finish the top I love it, and then when I take it out later to quilt....I get another breath of it."   I nodded knowingly when Shelly Zegart talked about how quilting is often dismissed as "just" the work of women or looked upon as a domestic chore - not an accomplishment or an art or craft. I stood up and cheered when Shelly took on The Sun Sets on Sunbonnet Sue, threw down about the MYTH of the Underground Railroad Quilts, and called out THE QUILT POLICE on their marginalizing hostility. I felt proud to be a quilter, I felt my peeps were finally getting some respect.

As a museum professional I especially enjoyed Episode 6: How Quilts Have Been Viewed and Collected.  There was a wonderful discussion of how quilts are appraised and evaluated (just because they are old doesn't mean they are priceless, people)  and what makes them historically important. It was so gratifying to see it put out there for all the world to see and learn what epic changes and the rise of authoritative scholarship that has come about in the past decades.  The existence of The Quilt Index is one shining example of the tremendous knowledge base that has been created. The database of over 50,000 quilts, essays, lesson plans, and images has become the preeminent starting point for quilt research and exhibit planning.  Let's not forget the mothership - The International Quilt Study Center in Lincoln, Nebraska.  I guarantee that if you visit their website and play with the Quilt Explorer you will look up 2 hours later and say, "WHAT? WHAT TIME IS IT?" There are numerous organizations that promote quilt scholarship and research. The American Quilt Study Group is one of the most preeminent of them, and I am proud to note they are also based in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Fair Disclosure: I was born and raised in Nebraska.  When I hear people disparage the fact that the IQSC is located in Nebraska I get a little sideways. I grit my teeth and nicely point out what a great idea it was to locate it in the CENTER of the country where everyone has equidistant access. I then take the opportunity to educate them about the outstanding textile studies programs in place there long before the IQSC was founded.  

Let's wrap it up: this program is well worth the purchase price.  Yes, you'll see it on PBS but you won't see it all because you'll miss an episode and you won't be able to realize the full impact of this production. It will move you, inspire you and enable you to carry your head a little higher. If we truly want to promote and continue the work, art and craft of quilting we need to make it a priority.  We need to support this kind of scholarship and PR  with our blogs, our actions, and our money.  Buy it from the Kentucky Quilt Project. Buy it from your locally owned quilt shop or from a museum.  Just be sure you share it with as many people, guilds, neighbors, townspeople, church groups as you can.  It is a wonderful production that will entertain, inform and enrich anyone who appreciates something truly beautiful.

Quilts really matter to me.  I've given up more financially rewarding job opportunities to do what I do.  I don't want to burn out for a corporation. I don't want to come home exhausted to benefit a bunch of faceless stockholders. Don't kid yourself - I come home burned out and exhausted all the time. My daily commute is a 100 mile round trip. The cost of gas is killing me. I do it because I want to be around this kind of art. I learn from my co-workers and visitors every day. I'm willing to do it as long as I can because I thrive on the emotion I have always felt when seeing a quilt for the first time. It never lessens. I have the curators trained to call me when they are opening boxes for the next exhibit.  I want to be with them and see them first. When I go upstairs to open or close the galleries I have my own private time with the quilts and it just. fills. me. up. I am inspired, I feel creative, and I feel proud knowing I use my daytime hours to care for, promote and share this art. I can then go home and use my talents (and what I have learned at work) to create my own beautiful quilts.

Quilts have always mattered to me. From my earliest childhood I have always felt and known hand-made objects to give off a sort of emotion, energy, karma - I'm not sure what to call it.  I feel it when I touch quilts made by others - especially old ones. They almost whisper to me. Willa Cather (another Nebraska girl) called it, "That irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand." This quote says it best:

It took me more than twenty years, nearly twenty-five, I reckon, in the evenings after supper when the children were all put to bed. My whole life is in that quilt. It scares me sometimes when I look at it. All my joys and all my sorrows are stitched into those little pieces. When I was proud of the boys and when I was downright provoked and angry with them. When the girls annoyed me or when they gave me a warm feeling around my heart. And John, too.  He was stitched into that quilt and all the thirty years we were married.  Sometimes I loved him and sometimes I sat there hating him as I pieced the patches together.  So they are all in that quilt,  my hopes and fears, my joys and sorrows, my loves and hates.  I tremble sometimes when I remember what that quilt knows about me. 

Marguerite Ickis, quoting her great-grandmother in the book,  Anonymous Was a Woman, 1979, Mirra Bank, St. Martin's Press.

Just Not Feelin' it Today

Sometimes you wake up with a gray cloud over your head and sometimes you wake up IN a gray cloud.  Nothing drastic,  just an overabundance of crap.  Here is a sample:

1. Got a phone call from my NEW Bernina repair dude.  The same Bernina I spent almost $300 on getting it cleaned, the motherboard rebuilt, etc. just a few months ago is now going to cost me an additional $200 plus to get it CLEANED AND REPAIRED AGAIN.  The first dealer (who shall remain mercifully nameless until I really snap) did not wish to honor their warranty. It's a building-the-pyramids long story,  but suffice to say I'll never go back.  New Bernina dude talked my ear off telling me about all the bits and pieces and mechanisms that were maladjusted, and the fact that there was OIL AND LINT INSIDE THE MACHINE (after I brought it home the first time I used it less than half an hour before it malfunctioned) so I'm feeling like I got royally fleeced by the first repair dudes......


2. After I hung up from the 2nd Bernina dude, I burst into tears.  My husband gave me a beautiful, mushy card for Christmas that had two crisp $100 bills inside it - and I cannot for the life of me find it.  I am sick to my stomach.  It was truly a gift worthy of "The Gift of the Magi" love, and I was already SO upset about it -  so when Bernina Dude II said, "$200" I just wanted to sit on the floor and weep.  So I did.  (Except we had company for supper so I ran into the far room and had a private bit of weeping.)


3. Youngest sister spent the weekend with my Dad (in pseudo hospice) and reading her emails and reports just left me so sad, angry, bitter and heartbroken.  I have never had my faith and beliefs so tested - and I'm a freakin' cancer survivor, for pete's sake.


4. We are in the first 1/4 of a 2 day blizzard, so I lose another day of work tomorrow (most likely) and will feel that sting in the paycheck.

See what I mean?  And in the middle of all of this, Shannon from Monkey Dog Quilts has so very kindly gifted me with a "Stylish Blogger Award" !  How nice is that?   I told her I don't feel very stylish today, sitting here in my sweats and my hair pulled back with a headband.  So before I can share 8 things about myself and award it to 8 other bloggers, I'm just going to chill out and pull myself out of this funk.  Either that, or I'll make a pot of coffee and eat some bar cookies. Better yet - I'll give you the recipe.  These things are like heroin  so don't say I didn't warn you.  It is one of my favorite recipes from childhood - thanks, Mom!

BUTTERFINGER BARS

Mix together in a 9 by 13  (or whatever is close) pan:

1. 4 cups of uncooked oatmeal (the real stuff, not the instant garbage)


2. One cup of brown sugar


3. One half cup of white sugar

Melt one cup of butter (two sticks, just go with it) and pour it over the mixture, stirring it around as you go.  Then press that mixture into the pan, bake it for 10 to twelve minutes at 350.  Let it cool.

Frost with one cup of chocolate chips (melted gently in a saucepan) and add 3/4 cup of  CHUNKY peanut butter to the warm chocolate - blend together, then pour it over the cooled base.  Chill and devour.   IMPORTANT:  There are 8 ounces in a cup, and 12 ounces in a bag of chocolate chips.  I just throw in the whole bag, melt it,  and add an extra dollop of chunky peanut butter.  You get a nicer ratio of chocolate to base.  ( If you use  the word "ratio" it makes it science,  so it's okay - no guilt.)

Enjoy.  You can self-medicate with prescription drugs or you can self medicate with chocolate.  If you think chocolate is bad for you,  ask Charlie Sheen how it's all  workin' out for him......

Seriously?

The last two weeks have been a hazy blur, and not in the good way.

Dad suffered a  series of markedly down-turning events that necessitated a very quick trip home.  As a consistent target for TSA bitches  I'm not a fan of flying to begin with - much less when the day has to begin at 3AM to catch a 6AM flight. The TSA's were manageable on the outbound flights from Boston, no hammer complexes there.

After a few days of hospital roulette (never knowing who the next assigned doctor would be, ever getting an update on some test results, or wondering if the wastebaskets would EVER be emptied) we ended up moving him to a local rehabilitation center.  For reasons known only to fans of the movie Birdcage,  I have nicknamed the place Bob Fosse.  I spent the next few days there with my sisters and brothers trying  vainly  to honor my Dad's wishes about his health care proxy.

"Fosse" is a Catholic institution that currently has 3 local priests  with a parent/patient currently in-house; consequently the place is crawling with RC priests.  I'm ok with that, my little brother is one of them.  Here is what I am not OK with:  one of them (pretty much a stranger to me no less)  took the opportunity to get all pastoral on my ass at a time when I was trying to pull myself together and say goodbye to my Dad for what well could have been the last time I will see him alive.  I told him three times I was not going to have that conversation with him right now, and that I really had to concentrate on my father.   I understood his deal,   I knew he thought he was being helpful, put he pushed back with a lengthy  fairy tale  about how " your  Dad's suffering is  not in vain, his suffering will save other souls and that when he is in heaven there will be people lined up to thank him for his suffering because he saved their souls....."    and I threw a big, red bullshit flag.

Seriously?  A line of people thanking Dad?  It sounded like a coffee shop in a bad Disney movie.  I am  RC by faith and by grace but what heaven will or will not be is not definitively known to any of us. We can hope, conjecture  and read Catherine of Siena until we are blue in the face but I believe our puny human minds cannot begin to comprehend what lies ahead.  I think it is much bigger and better than anything we could ever come up with and I am content with that knowledge.

Father Get-All-Up-In-My-Grill was shocked when  I threw that BS flag and tripled his horrifically patronizing efforts to educate me on the error of my thinking. It set off an avalanche of reprimand and judgment.  ( I was also told to go to confession.)  He started peppering me with questions, all of which I answered pretty calmly.  Here is a sample:

Father Grill:   Are you married?

ME:  Yes.

Father Grill:  Children?

ME:  No.

Father Grill:  (One eyebrow critically raised)

ME: I had ovarian cancer.

Father Grill:  Oh.  (Evidently that was pardonable)  What is your married name?

ME:  Ciolino.

Father Grill:  Ciolina?

ME: No.  Ciolino - with an O at the end.

Father Grill:  Oh, is he Italian?

ME:  No, Sicilian.

Father Grill:  (Scared look)  Ohhh, Sicilian.  Did you learn to make the pasta?   (SERIOUSLY, HE SAID THAT.    I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. )

ME:  No.  I don't have to.  My husband makes it when he wants it.

It went on longer than I ever should have permitted and he left the room wearing more skin on his body than I ever should ever have left on it.  I was angry and shaken and grieving - and all at the same time.   I refuse to dwell on it or give it any more time or thought than I already have.  Instead, I will take that experience and offer the following suggestions for visiting the sick that all of us can use:

1. Speak softly.  Noise in the sickroom is anathema.  Ditto for perfumes and well-intentioned  aromatherapy.


2. Be brief.  The family and the patient are both exhausted.


3. Be useful.  Ask  them if you can bring them water, coffee, dinner - anything. Walk the hall with them.  Anybody need to be picked up at the airport?  Anybody need a ride to the hospital?


4. Be present.  You don't need to regale them with stories of your own family illnesses and/or deaths, it isn't a throw-down.  Just be present.


5. Be honest.  Spare them the "oh wait and see, he'll be good as new in no time, " especially when that is NOT going to happen.


6. Be cognizant. It is about what they need, not what you want to give them.

I remember years ago when we lost mom and people started showing up at my folk's house with all kinds of food.  It was all home cooked and all wonderful.  Since there were about 24 of us there at the time (children & grandkids, spouses, etc.) it made meal times much  less difficult. Then, and I'll never forget this,  someone showed up with a huge box of stuff and just left it very quietly.  It was filled with big packages of paper plates, cups, napkins, rolls of paper towels.... and toilet paper.  It was the most incredible, thoughtful,  useful thing ever.  Who knew?  Someone did, and I'm happy to pass it along.  We should all be so useful.  Seriously.

Deja Pallooza

Okay.  Not 30 seconds after I sat down at my Bernina to work on my iBuddy tote bag, the machine stopped working.  Specifically, the needle stopped going up and down.  The machine hummed, the feed dogs fed - but nadda from the needle.  WHASSUP WITH THAT?  After a frantic phone call to the Bernina place that just did the brain transplant, cleaning and repair, I found out it was a "mechanical issue" and was not covered in my 6 month "all work, etc. " warranty.  Seriously.  SERIOUSLY?  I'll give you seriously - I'm seriously pissed off.  I need to get it fixed, but I'm shopping for a new repair place.

Back to the drawing board - back to my cherry pallooza tribute wall hanging.  It's all hand sewing, so I guess I can do that without a machine, right?  Rats. I was SO in the mood.

Ladies in Limbo

I have known for some time now that I am no longer the "target audience" for advertisers, movie makers, shoe,  purse, dress or other  fashionista types.   I have literally been there and bought that.  I am no longer that stupid. I don't live for trends, what is  "in season,"   what is not,  or what other people (or magazines)  think or dictate.   I have become what I used to hold in contempt - I am the woman in Glamour magazine with the black bar across my eyes - the GLAMOUR DON'T,   if you will.

I'm okay with that.  But there is a problem.  I am not dead yet.

This became more apparent than ever two nights ago as I found myself shopping for shoes.  Frankly, I'd rather have my colon irrigated than  go shoe shopping.  (At least I could drop a few pounds in the process and have something to show for the effort.)  Normally I just go online to Zappos and order my shoes, sending back whatever does not fit.  This time I needed something quick and was keen to find something to fit comfortably over a slightly dented left  foot. (Proof positive that vacuuming is hazardous to your health - especially if you drop the heavy new attachment on your foot.)

I went in to one of those DSW shoe superstores (first mistake) that claim to be thee source for great shoes.  I felt like I walked into a time warp - was it the late 70's?  Was disco back?  Are hooker shoes all that women wear to work now?  The first 4 or 5 rows were dismissed without a second look - I already ruined my feet in my 20's with those stupid high, spiked heels.   Granted, I weighed about 120 pounds. I also chain smoked, drank coke for breakfast, and lived on Doritos and peanut butter  toast.   (My early 20's were the  peak  of bad-decisions-all-around when it came to my health and my feet. )  I wanted something - dare I say it - comfortable?  I wanted real shoes, nice style,  well constructed and smart-looking.  The array of shoes said either "hooker" or "nursing home"  - there were no shoes in between the two extremes.  No shoes for the ladies in limbo.

Why is it that clothing and shoes for women in their VERY early 50's are either one extreme or the other?  What happened to classics?  What happened to tailored shirts, jackets with shape, beautiful woven fabrics?  I have shopped up and down the pay scale and cannot believe what passes for quality. If I am at Nordstroms  I should be able to expect some nice quality for the price, right?  Seam finishes?  Forget it.  Shape?  No way.   No tucks or darts.  Or style.  I am not ready for the Alfred Dunner separates for a long time, thank you, and I do wish there was an easier way out than going back to sewing for myself again because that means less time for quilting and sewing the things I enjoy.

I am about 90% ready to go there, though.  I  am ready to go back to my tracing wheels and dressmakers carbon and hem gauges and pins.  I still have a few patterns, too.  I think my Bernina might blow up if I start sewing anything but quilts on it but that is a chance I might have to take.  I have no idea what I'll do about shoes, though.  There is a limit to what I'm willing to make for myself, and I know they would probably turn out worse than some of the old fuddy duddy shoes available now. There was a little girl in the museum yesterday with the cutest shoes that lit up and sparkled when she walked.  I want a pair of THOSE.

Canadian Geese are Extinct!

Hooray!  Canadian Geese are extinct!  How do I know this?  THEY NEVER EXISTED IN THE FIRST PLACE.   It is that time of year  when these migrating,  flying poop machines start hanging out at  golf courses,  traffic circles, football fields, you name it.  Eat,  Fly,  Poop if you wanted to write a book about it. TV stations start doing cute reports about all those "Canadian Geese stopping traffic by wandering off the golf course and in to the street.  Yuk yuk yuk,  back to you, Bob."

Canadian? Really?

I'm not sure who started calling them Canadian geese, but they are not. They are Canadas. A single one is referred to as a  Canada goose, a flock would be called a flock of Canada geese.  They are not Canadian geese because they are not Canadians - those are 1) people,  who are 2) citizens of Canada.  Whenever I hear someone call them Canadian geese  I always ask them if they had little bird passports tucked under their wings, or had a hockey stick strapped to their back.   Yuk yuk yourself, dude.

It's always a good day when you learn something new, right?   So - all together now - CANADIAN GEESE ARE EXTINCT.  LONG LIVE CANADA GEESE.  Except for when they are pooping all over the place - I mean jeez, dudes,  really.

Our next lesson will be debunking the saying, "The proof is in the pudding."  In addition to being only  half of the actual expression, it this form it makes absolutely no sense.  It will make sense when you learn the full  phrase.  Your homework assignment is to look it up and write a one page report, single spaced, 1 inch margins,  ink -  not pencil.  No fountain pens.

Class dismissed.

Swiss Cheese Memory

As much as I wish this was about my fond recollection of swiss cheese, it is not.  Something very strange is happening and I do not like it one bit.

Yesterday, after an almost summer-long hiatus from my sewing room, I sat down to my freshly cleaned and repaired Bernina to see how quickly I could get back in the swing of things and finish up some quilts. I decided to make up a few potholders to warm up my skills and found out..... I was all over the map.  I kept pushing the wrong place on the Bernina to get my back stitch,  I had to thread the bobbin twice to get it running smoothly, and all in all was just amazed at the lack of continuity in my head.  I've had this machine for about 6 or 7 years and I know it cold.  Or so I thought. After  finishing up 3 homely potholders (no worries, they get used and stained regardless) I decided to finish up some pin cushions from an old silk log cabin quilt that had seen better days.  I had cut the usable squares earlier and started trimming them with black ribbon to stabilize the edges.  Jeebus, what a mess.  That ribbon was slippery and I had to wrap my head around which presser foot to use, feed dogs, etc. and at the end of the episode I cut the thing up  only to  start over after trimming my nasty edges.  All the Fray Check in the world couldn't save it,  poor thing.

I might blame this on the infernal summer heat baking my brains to a level of irreparable damage.  Or, I could just chalk it up to being rusty.  But I never choose the glass that is half full - it is always half empty. (And in grave danger of being empty at any second.) I am so afraid that this is me,  aging.  I'm 52 and much too young for this crap.....but when does "aging"  actually start? I know it will happen eventually - but am I at the threshold of that "eventually"?  I used to pride myself on the number of balls I could keep in the air and nail them all accurately and quickly.  I could dispatch any number of things in a day.  Now it seems like I look upon the increasing number of  tasks  as an additional challenge to my sanity.

Remember the Ed Sullivan show?  There used to be a  guy on there who spun plates on top of 6  foot poles.   He would start one spinning, then pick up a pole and start the 2nd plate spinning.  Then he would run back to the first, give it a spin, spin the 2nd again, and put up a 3rd plate.  Pretty soon he'd have 8 or 9 plates spinning around and he would run back and forth,  frantically giving each of them another spin just as they would wobble precariously.  (Behind this, the orchestra would be playing the Sabre Dance to add to the drama.)  It was wonderful to watch back then, but not so wonderful now. I feel like I'm the one trying to keep all those plates  spinning, and I'm afraid I'm breaking a few of them.

Ornament Rain Man

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Just about everyone who really knows me has, at some point in time,  looked me square in the eye and said,  "Your head is filled with useless information."   I am actually ok with that.  I have a memory for minutia and it pops up at the most amazing times.  It serves me well - many of my passwords incorporate old phone numbers or zip codes or even the dates of various - well,  never mind.   On the down side, I  remember (usually verbatim)  hurtful things said or done or overheard.  (Sometime I'll tell you the story about my kindergarten teacher correcting me on a sentence.  Seriously.)  On the upside,  I can also remember things that happened long ago but made me  feel creative and clever.  Here is one of my favorites.

In between hot flashes  I have tried to think about  snow and Christmas and maybe  making something new with which to deck my halls when I remembered something Mom played with years and years ago.  She taught us how to make these weird ornaments from scraps.  The ones we made back then were done with bits of reds and greens and Christmas-y prints.  I had the necessary materials already in-house, so there was no fussing.  I did not want to make actual tree ornaments  (I haven't got much in the way of scraps of  Christmas fabric) so I did one with some batik scraps.  It was  kind of nice to look at,  so   I selected some of my precious scraps of Japanese fabric  to play around with and see what I could create.  It finished up well  but I had  a *$#&$%  of a time with those beautiful fabrics that unravel if you so much as LOOK at them.

By this time I was pretty much satisfied that I remembered how to make them (there are a few tricks) but at a bit of a loss to know what to do with them.  For now they are just going to sit on a shelf in my sewing room.   The best part of the project was thinking back on  making them with Mom.  I miss her so much.  I guess we never think that what we do  now could be remembered years later with so much love.

Sometimes it's good to be a Rain Man.

Even Steven

"Even Steven" was something my mom used to say  a lot  - probably because with 6 kids there was a lot of dividing up to do and there was much less chaos if things were evenly distributed.

This weekend I officially become "even Steven." Twenty six years ago on Labor Day Weekend I left Nebraska and flew out to Boston to start the next chapter of my life. Twenty six years later, here I am.  I have had one foot in two very different lives for 26 years  each.  Even.  Balanced.  Or not.

First of all, I can't believe I am 52.  (I expected to be MUCH older when I turned 52, probably close to being dead because back then it sounded so ancient.)  I know like my brain is more fully formed than it ever was at 26  and I do like myself a lot more.  While I am happily  free from so many of the concerns that overwhelm the 26-year-old mind, I look back and am a little in awe of myself -  I uprooted my life, my culture,  everything I had and knew to move halfway across the country. Yikes.  I was motivated by a broken heart, a fatigue of singing at all my friend's weddings (and then  babysitting their children) but mostly  because I had to feed the wanderlust that  took root when I began reading books. Those days of lying in the grass and watching the contrails from jets stream across the sky  - oh how I wanted to be one of those people ON the jet,  going somewhere,  anywhere - just going.   I wanted to  see,  do, and experience the big, wide world.

Would I do it over?  In a New York minute.  There are parts of both lives I would never want to repeat, which is moot anyway since we don't get a do-over in life.  I can't choose which life has been richer or more satisfying because each has had tremendous joys and gifts.

It will be interesting to see which way the scales tip in the next 26 years.  I have a lot of places to see (when am I EVER going to get to Paris????) and a lot of things to do out here.  I do know that when it is all over I want my body to be burned and my ashes to be scattered along the Platte River in Nebraska.  That saying about "you can take the girl out of the country but you can't take the country out of the girl" is true.  Life is where you live it, but home......is home.

Homage to my Sherpa

[caption id="attachment_1122" align="aligncenter" width="283" caption="Now That's a Bear! Created By: Debbie Janes Photo by: Jeff Lomicka"][/caption]

Deborah Janes is my sherpa.  I have the very good fortune to work with this talented woman and I learn from her every single day that I do.  In addition to being one of the most talented quilters I know (click on the above picture)  she has an endless supply of patience.   Seriously.  I know I sometimes ask the most basic questions of her and she manages to look thoughtful (like she has never been asked that before) and give me an answer that in no way makes me feel like an idiot.

I think I am most in awe of the latter - someone with her skills and abilities could easily take the high and haughty route but she does not. Heaven knows there are enough **QB's on the planet.  She demonstrates such a genuine love for what she does that it becomes contagious.  I've seen people in the museum shop watch her, ask her questions, and she draws them in to whatever she is working on and always tells them, "Oh yes you CAN do this,  it's fun!" and they walk away shaking their heads in amazement....and encouraged by her infused energy.

I am inspired by Debbie  for these and other reasons that go beyond what can be discussed here.  She has faced major battles in her life and she meets them head on.  I try to remember her example when I am asked questions (not about quilting) by tourists in my husband's store, by people who think working at a quilt museum is (tilt your head to the side) "sooo cute!" and who generally exhibit a disregard for personal property.  (I honk the hell out of my horn when I see someone throw a cigarette butt out their car window.)  I think we all have knowledge and gifts that we need to share with others even if we don't realize it ourselves.  I hope before I leave this earth I have been a sherpa to someone, or a whole lot of someones.

**QB's  =  Quilt Bitches.  We all know a few..... make sure you aren't one of them.

Out of the Frying Pan...

.......and in to the fire.  It has gone from hot to "heat wave HOT" in a matter of days.  We're looking at a five-day heat wave and that means working on something I can do downstairs in the company of R2D2 (our portable AC machine)  in the family room.  R2 does a pretty efficient job of cooling the room but eats electricity like a big ol' hog.  I'm OK with paying the higher electric bill if it enables me to breathe and sleep like a human being.

This heat wave prematurely jump starts my annual fall side-excursion into wool felt.  I like the change-up in fabrics and textures (and skills -  I have to remember how to embroider).  Bonus - you can watch TV or a movie while you do this  so what's not to love?  The only downside is that there is a hurricane named Earl lurking out there in the Atlantic.  This alone is not a problem, but every local TV station is working terribly hard to manufacture a frenzy about "this might" or "it could" and frankly I just do not need the drama.  Keep us reasonably informed and if something actually materializes you may  THEN push the frenzy button. The  weather reporters out here are epic at crying "wolf" about hurricanes . 9 1/2 times out of 10 these earth shattering predictions have  fizzled to nadda far offshore.  If and when one actually does materialize  there is a danger that  people are going to ignore the hysterical warnings just out of habit.  I need one of those "easy" buttons to edit the level of hype in news these days.  Since I do not have one, I will content myself  by making like Donna Reed and embroider my little ornaments.  It relaxes me to do these things and I could use that these days.......

Contemplating Ceilings

I feel like indulging myself in  some really selfish whining so if you can't handle it just  bail right now. It's my blog and I'll bitch if I want to -- and I want to.

I have spent an unfair amount of my life staring at ceilings, namely the drop  ceilings found in doctor's offices.  I have had  a LOT of surgery over the years so I am something of  a connoisseur of ceiling construction, examination garments (paper and cloth) and the accoutrement that goes with yet another trip to the doctor to see what-the-hell-is-wrong-this-time.

My most favorite ceiling was in the OB/GYN offices of my beloved and much missed Dr. Rose Osborne.  Rose was not only a hell of a surgeon, but for a "cutter" she had a great sense of humor. Rose always had pictures on the ceiling so you had something to enjoy and contemplate while your feet were in the stirrups.  God I loved that woman - and I miss her dearly.  Cancer often takes the best from this earth and I'm getting a seriously bad attitude about the "why" of it all.

Most hospital or doctor's offices have dropped ceilings with or without the little black dots.  I have counted those dots many times while waiting for a doctor, physician assistant, EMG, EKG, MRI, X-ray,  or any one of the endless round of procedures I seem to have on my chart.  A few ceilings have that textured popcorn stuff that is pretty droll and gives you nothing but endless craters to contemplate as you prepare yourself for what comes next.  I'm surprised that no one has thought to put a flat screen on the ceiling so you could watch a movie or take in a sitcom - have a few laughs while you get tubes and electrodes stuck into places where the sun don't shine.  It sure would make a difference. Hell, it would make a huge difference. The pharmaceutical companies should cough up some serious bucks for those things instead of the wine-and-dine golf outings and  BS they pay for now.

I feel at this point I have earned my own examination  gown (they call them a "johnny" out here) that I could whip out of my totebag and put on with some aplomb.  I'd certainly make it out of some attractive print, maybe a Kaffe Fassett, so I could at have something  pleasurable to wrap up in for the duration. (The bleached out drab greens and blues are  surgical and so depressing.  I'm just sayin' . )   As for the ceilings - well, hell - would a little something up there bankrupt your practice?  I don't think so.   I'm not asking for the Sistine Chapel (although a poster of it up there would be a pisser)  but is it really asking too much to tack something up there so those of us trapped in a tarp with three armholes can have a little something to look at while we ponder what  orifice or vein is next to be violated?

I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon this morning at a sports medicine clinic.  I can't wait to see what they have on the walls.   Judging by the age of the building,  I can  tell you right now the ceilings are going to have fluorescent light fixtures with  those cracked ice lenses.   There will be pictures of patients shooting a basketball, or back on their slalom skis swooshing about with "thanks Doc!" penned across the bottom.   I'll bet anybody $100 that  their ceilings are bare of any posters, much less one of a  50- something  female with a spinal fusion from scoliosis gone to hell-in-a-hand basket.  Any takers?

I didn't think so.

Wanting to Walk in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes

George Gordon, Lord Byron, must have been thinking of a woman wearing a really good embroidered silk kimono when he wrote that lovely poem.  My love affair with nightgowns began when I was very young. This picture shows me going out early -  in very bright sunlight -  to fetch the morning milk.  I knew the nightgown would provide the necessary elegance to undertake such an act at an ungodly hour.  (It was before I drank coffee and could manage a few basic functions....but I digress.)

My mother was prolific on her sewing machine and I had beautiful nightgowns all through my life (even college).  I could give you colors, trims, details about them that should have long ago disappeared from my memory banks.  To this day  I seek out and feel a little thrill when I find something really nice. A new nightgown by   Eileen West has been my annual birthday gift to myself since I turned 50, but deep down I'm yearning for something really spectacular, something I have wanted for years.

I want a silk robe kimono.

An authentic one,  none of this eBay or Pottery Barn crap.   I have this "champagne taste on a beer budget" syndrome that extends into the strangest areas of my life. Purses? Meh.  Shoes? Pffft.  Jewelry?  Got it, don't wear it.  But a good nightgown and silk robe?  Tie on a bib, I'm slobbering.

Most movies are memorable for the story they tell but  I also remember them for the truly important stuff.  In one of the most poignant scenes of the movie DeLovely, Ashley Judd gets dressed for an opening night just after suffering a miscarriage.  She's weepy, the music is haunting, and all I can see is this drop dead gorgeous silk kimono she is wearing as a robe.  It is thick, heavy, buttery, gorgeous. The colors?  OMG.   In Gosford Park, Kristin Scott Thomas rocks  a silk nightgown (likely trimmed with Calais lace) and shrugs on the most spectacular ivory kimono, embroidered with all kinds of muted tones. Her face is covered with night cream for God's sake, but she still looks positively STUNNING.

I'm not at all  surprised at my love affair with nightgowns and robes.  I have never felt especially pretty in my entire  life - even when I was young and thin and pretty-ish.  The nightgowns and robes are just for me - not for public consumption, not for competition or approval.  They exist solely to please me.  I feel pretty in soft, lovely things.  I feel elegant and pampered and sophisticated.   I like the feel of it on my skin and the whooshing sounds they make when I "walk in beauty" to refill my morning coffee or cross and uncross  my legs as I read the newspaper.   That is probably the same experience other women get when they are rocking a new pair of designer shoes, the latest purse, or something off the fashion pages.  It isn't really important what that thing is that gives us  the feeling of 'walking in beauty.'  It just matters that you take the time to do it for yourself.  Women generally spend too much time and energy caring for others and neglect themselves.    Whatever it is that  makes you feel like you are walking in beauty,  to borrow a phrase from Nike -  "Just do it."

Stay-In-Your-Nightgown Monday

Design Wall Monday has been preempted by Stay in your Nightgown Monday. The 2010 Lowell Quilt Festival is in the history books and I'm taking a day to decompress.  While the festival closed on Saturday, the museum is open on Sunday and it's one of my 'regular' work days.  I woke up Sunday morning wishing I could take a roll of duct tape and strap a couple of puffy pillows on my feet and call them shoes.  (Probably  not advisable to attempt the  one-hour commute with pillows strapped to my feet. )  I could also use an IV drip of ibuprofen for sore muscles. Bonus - I'm sporting a large BUO (bruise of unknown origin) on my right forearm, pretty attractive since it is too hot to wear anything with long sleeves. Really attractive.  Yes,  today I need to stay home in my nightgown and just.....cocoon.

Between the ramp up to the festival and the actual three-day extravaganza the days are long and the hours are demanding.  A good friend managed to get me two nights at a very reduced rate at a Holiday Inn near the festivities.  I'm never one to complain about hotels (I think we stayed in one twice during my entire childhood) but I think I'll be writing the management on a few issues.  Namely the following:

1. Why do you put the coffee pot in the bathroom?  DO NOT  put the coffee pot in the bathroom.  Do you have any idea how gross and disgusting that is? I get the dry heaves just remembering it  and I don't need to pay for the privilege.


2. Touch up paint.  Buy it in bulk and apply it generously because  it makes a big difference.  Lotta bang for the buck.


3. Put a sign in the hallway that says, "Unattended children who repeatedly  run screaming up and down the hallway will be shot on sight."  If you don't have the stones to do it, leave a BB gun in my guest bathroom.    (Hey - then you could move the coffee pot to the far corner desk in the sleeping area.  Think about it.)


4. Doors to the room should not only lock securely but they should be actually CLOSED.  This picture shows  (I turned off the room lights) just how much room was between the door and the door jamb.  Color me paranoid but I don't feel all that secure when you could swing a cat through the crack in the door.  The one along the bottom  was even bigger.  (Note: apparently not big enough for them to slide a copy of my bill beneath it (enabling rapid checkout) but I'm guessing big enough to slide under  a Sunday edition of a newspaper without having to expend much effort.) Just sayin'.

All of that and more is why today is going to be just for me.  I'm tired - mentally and physically.  I need to be left alone for a while.  I want to soak up some quiet and take a ridiculously long shower and do girlie stuff like scrubbing and buffing and putting nice moroccanoil on my feet and sliding them in to clean, cotton socks.  I want to be pink and fresh and centered.   I'm going to snooze, read, pad around in my socks and let the world turn without me. I'm always better after I do, and that makes life easier for everyone around me.

PS - I will also be enjoying as many cups of coffee as I like, from my coffee pot that is not located remotely close to a toilet.

'Scuse Me While I Miss the Sky

It is Sunday night and it is  happening.  Again.  You wouldn't think so after this long, but it is definitely happening again.

This Labor Day marks the 26th anniversary of my moving to Massachusetts. I was 26 when I moved here, so my time-life  pendulum will officially swing to this part of the country in a few short weeks.  You would think after 26 years I would not still get the August blues but I do.  I have them now.  Neck deep.

August is always the time of year I am most homesick. I'm not sure why - the change of seasons, the memories of school starting  and that fresh new start feeling you'd get purchasing textbooks and notebooks and wondering what (and who) the new year would bring.  It always seemed to me the new year began in the fall  when the last bloom of summer dies and the whole process begins again. Football season starts - college ball, what's not to love? It is also thee best time to be outdoors and see acres and acres....of sky.   I miss the sky terribly. I am surrounded by dense populations, buildings, wide stretches of  concrete highway.  There is very little sky - it is either blocked by buildings or by trees. I need sky - serious sky - 360 degrees of sky.  It is nowhere to be found out here.   I need to get out where I  can breathe and walk or drive for miles and just see open space and sky.  I need to go home. I am homesick.

When I fly in to the Lincoln, Nebraska airport (my favorite airport in the world) I begin a ritual.  It starts with crossing the street from the 4-gate terminal to the parking lot (yes, across the street) and getting my rental car.  There is a ticket stub you feed into the machine so the arm at the gate will swing up and let you pass.  But get this - written in beautiful scroll across the gate/arm is the phrase "WELCOME HOME."  I burst into tears every time I see it. I am weepy just writing about it - I am so homesick.

Then I'm out on the road, flying along (speed limits are much higher!) and the whole sky opens up.  My head unzips and my shoulders relax and I can't begin to express the  feeling of weight lifting  off my spirit.  I am most at home under the sky.  When I was little I used to stretch out in the grass for hours and watch clouds to see if,  from heaven, my Grandma McGill would peek over the edge. (Okay, I was very little.) Then I'd find shapes of things and wonder where the clouds blew off to and whether I'd see distant lands myself someday.  My mom was a huge fan of a good sunset - I think I have loved the sky since I was a fetus.

I feel saner and calmer under a wide swath of sky than just about anywhere else.  I miss the Nebraska sky, the slower pace and the kinder people.  I don't know that I could move back there, but I definitely need to go home and recharge the batteries of my psyche, inhale my family, sit with my Dad  and maybe eat some  proper hash browns.

The picture above is of the Platte River (a mile wide and an inch deep) which will be my final resting place someday.  I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered somewhere  along that river.  I hope to be near a cottonwood tree (it exemplifies my "if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be" spirit) and bonus -  I'll have an eternal view of wide open sky.  Heavenly.

$tupid iPhone Charge$

The latest weapon in Apple Computer's diabolical  world-domination scheme  is - get ready for  this - ringtones.  Honest.  I have an old iPhone that was given to me by a friend who, like me, is a gadget whore.  He could better rationalize getting a new one if he found a good home for his old one, and believe me there is no good-er home for a gadget than with me.  I don't use it as a phone - AT&T is too rich for my blood -  but I do have it loaded with all kinds of  apps.  One of my favs is actually named "Quilt Fab" - it calculates yardage, binding, sashing, etc. for any size quilt.  Bitchin'.

I also like the alarm clock on the iPhone.  I can hook it up to play any number of preloaded ringtones but recently I decided I wanted something new, something different - something..... funny.  It's good to wake up with a laugh, right?  Since nothing is funnier than farts  I hightailed it to my iTunes  and purchased a couple of 20 second clips from the  Worlds Funniest Ringtone Collection. ( I also purchased a ringtone of the Brandenburg Concerto, so don't go pointing fingers lest somebody pull it. )

So - get this.  They aren't ringtones.  Seriously.  THEY ARE NOT RINGTONES.  Lyndsay (Yes, that is how you spell her name.  Another poor child with a stoned parent who decided it would be cute for her daughter to spend her entire life spelling out her name for people)  clued me in on how I have actually purchased  SONGS, and for another charge I could "convert it" in to a ring tone.  Seriously.  I had to read the email about three times because I could not believe that the 20 second ringtone clip I paid for and downloaded had to be paid for TWICE so it could actually be USED as a freakin' RINGTONE.

There is more.  Songs you have ALREADY  purchased from iTunes can also be converted in to ringtones.  You select the part of the song you have ALREADY PAID FOR and PAY FOR IT AGAIN so you can use the 20 seconds you have, again,  ALREADY PAID FOR as a freakin' ringtone.  I am serious.   This is either incredibly greedy and evil or  the handiwork of a diabolical  genius.  I'll let you guess which side I'm coming down on here.

I already know you can download software and edit music clips and cram them into iTunes and use them as ringtones but folks I do have a life  and on my long  list of  chores,  creating ringtones comes just after "clean toilets" and "mop baseboards."   I think the whole thing just stinks.  Apple Computers is one of the richest companies in the world  yet they want me to keep paying for something I have already purchased.   That's like going to the store and buying fish and getting home and finding out you have to pay again if you actually want to cook and eat the fish.  Buy a sweater for work?  You'll have to pay an extra fee if you want to wear it around the house. Give me a break,  Apple.  Say what you will about Microsoft (and believe me, I have plenty to say about them too) but at least they left some money on the table for independent developers and don't charge me if I want to use the 'help' menu in MS Word AND MS Excel.

Thus endeth the lesson.  PS - I  even hate eating apples, the skin sticks in between  my teeth.  Stupid evil fruit.