The Lent Thing - Baltimore Style

I was reading back through an old post about Lent when it dawned on me I needed to pull the trigger on this year's Lenten resolutions.  As I explained here  there are 3 things that need to happen: I need to 1) stop doing something, 2) start doing something and 3) something that is kept private. (i.e. I can't give up potato chips and make that the "private" thing because it would become apparent very quickly as I'd be in the police notes pretty fast.)

So why after all these years do I still cling to making Lenten resolutions? For those not familiar with the  Baltimore Catechism, I invite you to look over the following:

[caption id="attachment_2424" align="alignleft" width="193" caption="My Youth Started Here"][/caption]

This is the "beginner" version of the Baltimore Catechism.  Anyone who went through similar formation can still do the rapid-fire answers to questions like, "WHO MADE YOU?" and "WHY DID GOD MAKE YOU?"

After that you graduated to an expanded version, the St. Joseph's Baltimore Catechism.  That contained  more of the same on an expanded basis.  More to memorize.  More to stand up and parrot back to Here-Comes-Sister-Celestine-Riding-On-A-Jellybean.  (Our idea of really giving the nuns a hard time.)

There is something to be said for using rote memorization to train the memory but when I look back at these images I don't feel so much proud of having a well-trained mind as horror at what kind of ideas we were trained with.

[caption id="attachment_2442" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="FYI  Gay People Want to Marry The Person of Their Choice, Too"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_2450" align="aligncenter" width="499" caption="GIRLS: REMEMBER YOUR PLACE!"][/caption]

I have a dear friend who is my sherpa guide to hedonistic consumption.  I like to tell him he is "an occasion of sin" because he tempts me towards all kinds of impurities like expensive linens and splurging on gourmet cheeses and wines. My knee-jerk reaction toward what I perceive as excess was based on the following:

[caption id="attachment_2432" align="aligncenter" width="584" caption="Priorities, Beeuches!"][/caption]

Yeah, television is definitely an occasion of sin. "Bonanza" was pretty scandalous. Ed Sullivan?  Don't get me started.  Pure filth.

John would be considered a "BAD COMPANION!"



He's actually a pretty good companion. (We rarely sneak a cigarette.) He's taught me a lot about myself, including that we all deserve to have and enjoy nice things without beating ourselves up about it.

I'm all for a spring housecleaning of the soul but this year feels different. I've been sorting receipts for taxes and am appalled at the number of office visits, doctor visits, etc. that have piled up over the past year, and continue into this year.  My health has really sucked for the past 18 months (BTW, I'd be happy to give up lumbar steroid spinals for Lent) and I never did buy in to that "all pain and suffering can be offered up...will strengthen your faith" BS. So what to do for Lent when I already feel quite full-up with the existing penances in my life? I think I'll flip things and make this Lent a time for feeding my soul instead purging all my "impurities" (like my lust for potato chips).  I'm going to find things that nourish my heart, help me cope with my aches and strengthen my beliefs and values. I'm going to replenish my tool chest of life and faith skills.  While that approach is not in sync with the Baltimore Catechism I believe if I can do that for 40 days I'll come out on the other end as a stronger, better, faith-filled person - and that is what I believe to be the purpose of Lent.

Swap Performance Anxiety - Part I

We've already covered my anxiety issues with creativity in art, but I've taken it to a new level.  In the world of social media, the online quilter community is alive, well and active!  I ventured in to an online swap organized by an online peep  who threw out the idea of having a secret Santa swap via Twitter. I jumped right on that idea as a great way to venture in to my first-ever swap.   (Disclosure - in the evenings, I sit with my iPad and enjoy an adult beverage while I read through the tweets of like-minded quilters, comics, and others.) These "adult beverages" get me to do things I might not normally do if my performance anxiety fears are not properly repressed.

ANYWAY, I signed up for my first swap.  It took a little time for Amy to sort out the participants (I think there are over 50 of us) and get us all partnered off. There is a $15 limit, it can be hand made or not, and finished and in the mail  by December 10th.  Easy peasy, right?  Right.

Sure. Unless the Secret Santa Swap partner is a quilting uberstar.  Holy crap.  When I saw the name I nearly fell over.  My first reaction was to bail out.  Honest.  What do you do for someone like that?  I spent the first week just spiraling.  I spent the next week attempting to do some sashiko in her favorite colors.  It came out nice, but not "here is something I made just for you" nice, but "what the hell are you on" nice.  I caved in and set it aside. It's not that bad, just not good enough to offer someone with her background.  Crap.  It's just a swap, right?  It's not eternal judgement, right?

In the end, I decided to.....WAIT.  I mailed the package today and I can't really say what it is in it until it is received by my partner.  I'll reveal who it is (and what I sent) in a later post.  In looking at the pictures of what other swappers sent (on a Flickr page) I'm feeling pretty okay about what I ended up doing.  Not great..... but okay.  That's enough for me, the twin sister of Stuart Smalley:

Heavyweight Featherweight

Isn't she beautiful?
This is my foster-sewing machine, lent to me by a dear friend who understands my Bernina-separation-anxiety (and is probably tired of hearing me endlessly whine.....)

Anyway, she is comfortably nestled in my sewing room and I have already used to her make a few blocks for a shop sample quilt we are doing for the New England Quilt Museum gift shop.  She sews like a dream - those of you lucky enough to have a featherweight can attest to the beautiful, straight stitch.  It even smells good. It  smells like my mother's old Singer did way back when.  I was mid-project when the Bernina gave out and now that I can continue I have no idea how or where my head was when I started the project.  I was going to make a snazzy carrying case for my iPad and I had it all mapped out in my head how the different layers and separators would go together.  Now - nadda.  I vaguely remember... but not well enough to jump back in and finish.  (I have learned the hard way that you do NOT sew when you are 1) tired, 2) frustrated or 3) unclear on the details.)

I have an extra reason to be thankful for such a portable marvel of a machine. I spent an hour and 45 minutes crammed head-first into  a steel coffin (AKA MRI machine)  on Sunday and found out today that they DID NOT SCAN MY KNEE.  Lower spine, yes - knee, NO.  Since my original trip to the doctor was about not having any feeling or sensation or support in my knee (causing 2 horrific falls) I was speechless to find that it was the one thing they did not scan.  Today I have a 4PM appointment with my primary care physician (who has foisted me off on PA's for the last several years, just sayin') and we are going to have a 5-alarm come-to-Jesus.  I am angry and horrified that I underwent that terrifying (I'm claustrophobic) MRI against my wishes and have nothing to show for it that didn't already show up on an MRI we did just six months ago.

Bottom line -  when I get hauled off to jail for gutting him like a fish I will at least have this little  featherweight  in its elegant black carrying case with me so I can make some stylish prison garb to wear to my anger management therapy sessions.  Seriously.

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......

Workshop Phobic

Well, tomorrow is the big day.

I'm leaving for a weekend workshop in New Hampshire where I am going to attempt something I have never done before.  I have never participated in any kind of "artsy" workshop.  I took a one day class in calligraphy about 15 years ago, and that was it.  Whassup with that, you ask?  Plenty.

I had the misfortune of being one year younger than my sister who actually did have some artistic talent.  I marched through junior high and high school art classes one year behind the "talented sister."   Every year  I was greeted with the same thing:  "Oh, are you Pat's sister?  Are you as talented as she is?"  And every year the teacher(s) found out the answer was "NO,"  not even close.  It's hard to shake that off.  (If you are reading this, Pat - I don't hold you responsible, but would it kill you to dust off that Bernina and get back to creating?)

At the tender age of 16 I spent a year in a walking body cast.  Consequently I am terribly self conscious and building self-esteem was not a big part of my parent's agenda.  I got through life by staying under the radar and keeping the peace.  Can you tell I am a middle child?  Once, in a grade school 4H project, I had to cover a box with contact paper.  I would have had an easier time constructing a cold fusion machine.  My mother, completely exasperated, gave up on me and let me finish the damn thing myself.  It looked horrible.  To compound my shame, I got a white ribbon on it and it was displayed at the county fair for all  to see.  There is no shame like the shame of a 4H white ribbon.  It kneecapped me.

So what is the workshop?  We are going to paint on paper, cover, then embellish, a box.  I kid you not.  I can't believe I am doing this.  So what has changed?  Not much,  other than there is a little voice inside me now that says, "why the hell not?"  I have mercifully matured to the age where I don't really care what other people think.  I  really don't need the  affirmation of strangers.  I may make a total mess of this project but it is something I want to try.  I'm happy to have reached this point in my life.  If I'd had this awareness in my 20's I'd be running Apple by now.

Of course it helps that I'm taking this with a friend who, like myself, shoots from the hip and appreciates strong adult beverages.  We're staying at her sister's house so it should be a remarkably comfortable and relaxing get-away.  What's not to love?  I will even promise to post a picture of the result, even if it does belong in my "white ribbon" gallery.  Life is short.  Let's all get out of our comfort zone and see what happens.

Turkey Wars

Strap on your party livers, it's Thanksgiving week - the beginning of the "best in eating" season EVER.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday - it's mellow, it is easy (anyone can roast a turkey) and it combines leftover turkey sandwiches, football, and napping on the couch.  It is the trifecta of relaxation.  I understand there are some universal  issues that come up around this time, so I'll go ahead and clear things up for everyone.

1. The toilet paper should unroll over the TOP for easy access.  You're welcome.


2. Stuffing or dressing?  Not worth an argument, either one will suffice.  It is more important that you pay attention to the ingredients than what you insist on calling the finished product.  Purists will call what is cooked inside the turkey "stuffing" and what is cooked outside the turkey "dressing."   What do I call it?  The main reason for roasting a turkey.

What goes in the stuffing (or dressing)  is of paramount importance, and the source of many arguments, family discord and marital stress. Everyone likes THEIR family recipe, whatever they grew up with.  (I have noted this phenomenon also occurs around how to make potato salad.)  It is understandable, but there are entire generations that insist on putting oysters, raisins, cranberries, apples - you name it and  people use it to ruin the centerpiece of the meal.

My husband's mother was Sicilian and  not clear on the concept of  Thanksgiving.   She called it the Festa della Toyko (phonetically and loosely translated as "the feast of the turkey").  She stuffed the turkey with a mixture of ground beef, rice, and sugo (sauce).   My husband adored it and still tries to recreate it every Thanksgiving.  (It is never placed inside the turkey  or anywhere near my mouth, I can tell you that right now.)  Living in New England, there are an abundant number of locals who make cornbread stuffing (I am not making this up) and think it is "normal."   Whatever. Again, it is what you grew up with that makes the holiday.  (Many people grew up with not brushing their teeth regularly either, but that does not make it right. Just sayin'.)

Here is how I make my stuffing:   I wash out the turkey, removing the packets of giblets, neck, etc.  All of the bits and pieces go into a large pan on the stove where I add water, an onion, celery, and seasonings.   This needs to simmer gently for at least an hour, maybe longer (usually until the movie on TV is over.)  I find the hand written recipe from my mother, take out the large yellow pyrex bowl (that made a thousand batches of this, birthday cakes, etc.) and read through the recipe just for love.  I don't need to see it, it is engraved in my head, but I love looking at her handwriting.  Bonus - it gives me a feeling like she is still here with us, looking over my shoulder.

I melt the butter in a large skillet, remembering my mother's hand-written admonishment, "damnit Jo, don't let it burn!" and saute the finely chopped onion and celery until it is lightly translucent.  Then I start tossing it with the cubed, stale bread, adding sage, poultry seasoning, a little salt, and moistening the whole batch with the broth made from the turkey trimmings.   At this point I remove a portion of the stuffing to a separate bowl - this is the "stuffing" batch - and continue adding a little more broth to the "dressing" portion.  It needs more moisture as it is being cooked outside the bird.  Then I hit a sheet of heavy aluminum foil with non-stick spray and lay out the remaining dressing and shape it like a long, thinnish loaf.  This way you can slide it in to the oven alongside the roasting pan and it "fits" the space without needing to make room for a blocky casserole dish.   When the turkey is finished, I combine the stuffing with the dressing and THEN put it in a covered casserole dish and put it back in the oven while the turkey is resting.

I am experimenting with adding a beaten egg to the mixture, it is supposed to "puff it up" but I'm not getting that sense just yet.   I really do love this centerpiece dish,  it makes the meal and also makes a leftover turkey sandwich even better (yes, I do eat it cold.)  However you make it and whatever you call it, enjoy.  Even with all that is going on in our homes, our cities, our country and the world, we still have more than most.  Give thanks for that abundance.  (And for pete's sake, don't screw up the stuffing/dressing.)

Creativity Block

I'm dry as a bone - word dry, inspiration dry, imagination dry.  I'm blocked on every level and it doesn't look like that will change anytime soon.  This is doubly unfortunate because the holidays are upon us and the decking of the halls (which I normally LOVE) has just left me......meh.

I have been trying to come up with something for our quilted holiday village at work. I decided to go rogue and do a quilted igloo (what the heck -  it's a house, too,  right?) but it just isn't happening.  I wanted it to look primitive and sincere but I think I'm getting more of a "what were you thinking" kind of vibe.  I might caulk the joints with some pearl cotton embroidery floss, that might pull it all together, but until I do I'm not even going to attempt to finish the entrance/door block.  It could all be  for naught.

I'm bummed that I'm not in the usual pre-holiday groove.  Granted, there are some serious family issues going on right now and I feel like I  have been hit by a grain truck, but I really wish I could find the trigger to get my hands going on something.   I always feel better when I'm sewing or embroidering.  Maybe I'll pop in the movie ELF - that always makes me smile, and maybe  it will jump-start my engines.  What do you do to get yourself out of  a rut?  I'd love to hear from you.

Think I'll Tie One On.....

Well, not in the usual (for me) sense, but there is nothing like the awareness of the great needs of others to put  your  family Thanksgiving in perspective.  It's also a good way to take a break from your troubles and remind yourself that others everywhere are with you, either  neck-deep in their own troubles or offering you a hand to help you out of yours.  No wonder Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

Continuing my "be useful" theme -  check this out and Tie One On!

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.

iNeed iPad Distraction

My cup runneth so far over I can't see daylight.  If you are a praying reader, please remember 3 dear souls (and their families) who are negotiating life passages as we   e-speak.  That's all I'm gonna say for now.

I need a project that will occupy and  ease my mind for a while.  Nothing is quite as capable of  soothing my spirit (and confusing my brain) as making a project that involves a zipper.  I was recently (and most magnificently) gifted with an iPad and a wireless keyboard.  I decided to take some trip-treat fabric from a friend's recent journey to Paris and fashion myself a stylish little tote bag for my newest, bestest iBuddy.  I'm not sure which handles to use (the pink ones are much pinker than they appear here) or how it will all sort out, but I'm home for a day and I have nothing to do until 8PM when Joe gets home and I whip up a simple carbonara for supper.  Wish me luck.  Pray for my peeps.  Thank you.

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.

(Blank) of the Day

In honor of today being International Talk Like a Pirate Day,  I decided to offer a few of my own  "of the day"  favorites.

1. Official SAT Question of the Day.  Bonus: answer the question and it will tell you if you are correct!


2. Word of the Day. Merriam Webster Online offers a new word  every day.  Many of the words you will already know (if you, too,  had a mother who was also a Scrabble fiend),  others  will surprise you.  Each has a little speaker phone icon next to it so you may hear it pronounced correctly.  I'm waiting for the day they do "zoology".


3. Cool Site of the Day is always interesting  and you get to give it a thumbs up or down.  Participatory web surfing is good!


4. Quilt of the Day is usually featured on the Quilt Index Facebook page, but this link to their homepage always has a new quilt shown every day, and always something  to admire and covet.

There are scads of "of the day" sites, many for jokes, scripture, recipes - you name it,  it's got an "of the day".

As the weather gets cooler, I pull out my old videos and DVD's of holiday movies.  I pop one in when I'm in for a long stretch of sewing or ironing.  Right now I'll watching "ELF"  and it  reminds me of my own personal favorite "of the day" thingie.   "Answer the Phone Like Buddy the Elf"  day is -  I think -  on Saturday, December 18th of this year.

You gotta love it - and you gotta do it!

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.

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.

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.