Lost photographic opportunities

The grocery store beverage cooler next to the checkout line had three rows of drinks: a neat row of sodas; a neat row of water bottles; an upended, wildly ravaged row of Red Bulls. Vair telling.

After swiping debit card, screen politely offered: "Prostate Cancer? Yes/No" 0_o

[im]balance

My computer died a week or two ago. It went *poot* and turned off and never turned on again. I said, "Oh well," and left it as a paperweight, certain that somewhere, sometime, there would be somebody who could retrieve my 6-years' worth of photos, drawings, and crap poetry off the beast. Mike tore it to bits and animatedly tried to explain the problem. Something about a logic board. I imagined he was a sock puppet. His puppety brow furrowed and his timbre dropped, presumably delivering bad news. "Aww, that's too bad," I said. I did not always used to be so disinterested in computers; after all, I have a degree in computer animation. It's just that since then, fallout from computer activity has been the bane of my existence - from carpal tunnel syndrome and headaches to ickiness and heartbreak. I keep it simple now; photo albums, video chat with my mother, journals, yodeling cats, and story-writing. My email inboxes are silent, punctuated by to-do reminders and child updates and transaction confirmations. Sometimes I write an email I don't intent to send and save it to my drafts folder to delete when I am not feeling so pathetically shmoopy. It is not vair exciting, which means I will live longer and draw more little red doodles to litter all the surfaces of my home. Just the same, I have the advantage of all computer-raised generations; the raccoon-ish ability to fearlessly push buttons and click things and see what happens. Yesterday my co-worker threw up her hands at a jammed typewriter, and had to turn away when I started pulling the covers and rollers off of the machine to see what was stuck in its bowels. Answer: an aluminum sticky-foil label. I felt very pleased with myself for having displayed some useful mechanical skills. But then today I sat down, leaned over to throw a scrap of paper in the garbage, and my slip slithered off and dumped me from my swivel chair onto the floor. Authority still = nil.

In other news, after almost a year incommunicado, my persistent Mexican suitor tracked me down again. There is something to be said for persistence. But there is more to be said for proximity. Persistence + proximity + patience = babies. Just ask dxfh, who made sure he had the most of all three and waited me out on my doorstep. Sometimes you have to admire men. Sometimes.

a hum and a dance

Ten Year Plan

We've still been tossing around the idea of starting a brewery at Lake George in our 40s, and have been tinkering with a checklist for the next 10 years. Most of this rests on Mike, as developer of beer and learner of business skills and saver of starting money, but I've also been flipping through my hopes and dreams, and come up with a few things of my own to work on. I'm fine with breweries, but experience tells me not to hinge my Rest of My Life on men in general, and man in particular. [Although I remain cautiously optimistic.] Formidable Goal #1: make a comfortable living with illustration, able to afford a mortgage and health insurance. Big Formidable Goal #2: own a home. Big Formidable Goal #3: get over it, find closure, mend my heart. In any order. Runners-up that did not make the top 3: buy a Studebaker; make my own cheese; raise exotic chickens. I figure I can compartmentalize all those under goal #3.

On clothes and work

A few Fridays ago, a patron tilted her head at me, smiled ambiguously, and said, "It's so nice that you're able to wear just anything to work, and that's ok." I had a sudden fear that I had forgotten my pants, and looked down at my clothes; black suit jacket, blouse, dark-wash jeans, sneakers. I didn't think she could see the sad sneakers. Jeans? Confused, I smiled and said, "It's Friday!" She seemed satisfied with that, and I noted her outfit as she ambled away; straw hat, blue tank top, pink leggings, and crocs. Hrmm. But there must be something to it, because today someone at work said, "Oh, you're wearing a summer dress. I guess those are nice to wear, they're, like, not too hot, or something." I checked, and the skirt went down to my knees, it wasn't tucked into my knickers, and my basoomas were covered by an undershirt. Maybe I just don't have any sense about these things, but it seems to me that if all your bits are covered and nobody can see the cat hair/spitup/tea splotches, that should about do it.

This morning I arrived half an hour early to a dark and empty building, crisp and cool against the heat weighing down the air outside. Leaving the lights off, I plugged my ipod into the speakers in my office, slipped off my shoes, pulled out my hair tie, and danced until my skirts were a-flying. HOOORN! And I didn't even smack into any door frames. (Try it yourself, here. Loud.)

Having fetched the library mail, I stopped at the bulletin board to see if anyone had defaced our summer reading program ad yet, and saw a flyer that only said:

LOVE
of my life
LOVE
of my life
LOVE
of my life

I have no idea wtf, but I wanted a picture of it.

le sigh. Hot summery day.


LOVE
(of my life)

Wonky remote cozy

Aw, such a cozy little remote.



This morning my mother repeated her request for an "official hanging thingie for the remotes" to dangle from her couch-side shoji screen, which inspired a dive into the stash cupboard and some scribbled measurements in my sketchbook. Since I am crap at measurements, I just started improvising. Here is another tutorial:

The Wonky Remote Cozy

Assemble your goods: main color, backing color, pocket color, and trim color. Also stuff to measure and cut it with. Maybe some tea. And a walkie-talkie for calling for help.



Cut the pieces (dimensions below), and iron some interfacing onto the main color. I don't know if the wet paper towel does anything, but it makes me feel like I'm doing something special.



Cut some backing fabric for the pocket strip, pin them face-together and stitch around like a pillowcase, leaving a gap on the bottom to flip it right-side out. Press. Don't worry about the open gap, you'll stitch that shut later when you attach the backing.

Mark .5" in on both sides of pockets, then every 4 inches to create the 3 pockets, press to make creases. Pin edges to the front facing, stitch along creases, leaving it baggy, then stitch across the bottom, overlapping the extra fabric to make pleats.

Pin the backing fabric right-side down onto the front, pulling it a bit tight so it won't be baggy when you flip it. Stitch around the edges, leaving a 3-inch gap at the top to flip it. Double-stitch to be extra secure and also to fix those crooked seams.



Flip the whole thing right-side out.



Cut out some strips for trim, just an inch or two longer than you need. Cut two extra strips, fold over lengthwise, faces together, stitch side and one end, and turn inside out for straps.

Now stand and stare at the top trim for a long time, trying to figure out how to get the straps attached without showing while also getting the corners neat. Decide to think of it as a hat, only stitched to your head. Layer the straps between the right-facing strips of trim, making sure the straps are against the corners, pin to the backing, and stitch straight across through all the layers of fabric, hoping your needle doesn't break.



Stitch the corners straight down, trim off excess, flip it inside out, roll the edge, and stitch across the whole thing again.

To add snaps, assemble the pieces where you want them and bang the hell out of them with a pestle and - when that fails - a hammer.

Ta daaa!









With creative measurements, you could even make pockets for stowing trinkets, mail, small animals, and more! Amazing!

Delicious fawns

The Fakakta Pot mitt, a semi-tutorial.



1. Get your lovely copy of Amy Butler's In Stitches and look at the beautifully illustrated directions for pot mitts.
2. Toss it over your shoulder, because who needs directions for a pot mitt?
3. Assemble two sandwiches using scraps of fabric and batting from your stash.
4. Attempt to lower the feed dogs, realize you don't know how, and decide that it isn't worth walking across the room to get the sewing machine instruction manual because, hey, if it's a bit bunchy and crooked that just gives it character and that "homemade" look they charge so much for. Whoever they are. Quilt lines down both of the mini quilts.
5. Run out of coordinating thread and use whatever is laying next to the machine, even if it's a horrible contrast and highlights all your mistakes.
6. Trim, fold over, and stitch the second mini-quilt to make it shorter than the first. Decide that a zig-zag looks fancier, change your mind when it goes horribly askew, but leave it anyway because it's just a pot mitt.
7. Make strips of complementary trim, never mind cutting on the bias because that looks hard and you've already been making a pot mitt for over an hour. Layer the mitt and stitch the trim around the borders. Wad up the corners because the book explaining mitered corners is all the way over there on the couch.
8. Decide to make a hanging loop later, or maybe buy a grommet next time you go to town.
9. Buy something online to console yourself. I chose a jewelry hanger.

Ta daaa!

In other craftiness...

During my lunch breaks at work, I've been drawing cards on tag board. The red pencil doesn't show up on a xerox, so I've been copying them to paint with acrylics. If that works out (we can't find our acrylics at the moment, trunks to be rummaged) I can see this being the method that finally gets my graphic novel finished.

Tea party - chupacabra needs refreshing:

Memorial Day Weekend

More stripes on the quilt top:




Our basil has sprouted, despite Gavin's enthusiastic drownings. Perhaps we put just a weeeee too many seeds in there... I don't know a lot about nature stuffs. I like wild growth and unruly gardens, maybe there's a book on the anarchist [willfully ignorant] gardener I can find somewhere. It'll be short; "plant, water, neglect, repeat".




More when the baby is not going ballisticimus...

edit: he's being nice again.



Sookie has become a ratter, thumping and hurling rats all over the lanai, darting through the living room with dangling corpses, and then kissing my face with her little ratty lips. Po, inspired, has started venturing outside a few steps, then becomes addled by her own daring and scrabbles through the house on her tiny legs, poops in the bathtub, and climbs on me to nuzzle with her poo paws. Evidently I am made of an attractive wipey-type substance.

Being a holiday weekend, most of the folks hereabouts have opted to avoid a trip to town, and the men descended on the general stores to clean them out of meat. Mike came home with giant steaks, which were delicious even though I caught them on fire while he wasn't looking.

Ahead: very exciting stuff.

On losing 3 lbs

"Ok, I'm off to work. How's my outfit, do I look cute and skinny?"
"You look very cute."
"But not skinny?"
"Super cute."
"So that's a cute but not a skinny?"
"Just think, you're skinnier than everyone at work!"
"But not skinny outside with other people."
"You look really cute."
"Ok, not skinny, but cute - cute/stupid, or cute/attractive?"
"Yes - no, you look good."
"Nice?"
"Yes."
"Ok. Not skinny, but nice and good. I'll take it. Off to work!"

Productivities

Progress on the stripey quilt-top, which looks a little mis-matched but will come together when the other colors and borders are on. Yes it will.



New shoes, since the jungle reclaimed my only other pair of comfy footwear, turning them into biodegradable horrors:



Last night Gavin and I finished the floor pillow we've been working on. I did the sewing, he did the stuffing. We ran out of fill, so we butchered some old pillows and used their guts as fluffer. We used Heather Ross' Mendocino:



Action! With mermaid swimming into my ear a la Wrath of Kahn:

non-productivities

Yay, dirty laundry! I can't be a pretty craft blog, as much as I want to be a Miss Perfect, too. It just won't happen until I change my name to Tallulah Teagarden.

So, I have Lily Allen to thank for my proclivity toward the eff word lately, which I will henceforth refrain from using, lest I become a slattern and impede my ascension into Ms. Teagarden. Yesterday I used the word to rationalize my use of it the previous night. Having stayed up much too late - watching John Adams of all things - I finally shuffled to bed at 11pm [yes, that is too late!] while answering the call of hunger coming from the infink. Mike clicked off the television, grabbed his flashlight, and went out to look for the cat. This usually entails a brief trot around the perimeter of the house, usually in his undercrackers - as was the case that night. So off he went, and half an hour later I crept out of bed to see whether he had snuck back in and had been eaten by the computer. He had not, and the cat was at the door mewing. I let her in, looked out all the windows into the darkness, scared myself with my own reflection at the sliding glass door, and finally sat down to watch the clock and work up an indignant lather. I picked up the laptop and typed off a frothy rant to kill time. This failing to make him appear, I tiptoed outside as far as my sleeping-children mom-tether would allow me, and did not see him from the lanai. A tourist's car was parked in the driveway. Surely not, I thought. Who arranges to have an illicit rendezvous in the middle of the night on a Monday with their family right upstairs to catch them? Perhaps he has been gored by a wild pig, or hit by a car, I consoled myself. Twenty minutes later, I primed myself at the door, then set off at a run to skirt the house and see if I could find his body. I skidded around the corner and found him standing in his underwear [ok, boxers] talking to a woman in the light of the downstairs hallway. I used the eff word, causing them to both jump and clutch their hearts. The tourist quickly ascertained her position and began trying charm me, but I had the mega-hump and did some barking and posturing and stomped away into the shadows. Mike trotted after me, then stood rooted quivering in the living room like a squirrel while I scolded him for standing talking to a stranger in his underpants for an hour in the middle of the night on a weekday. His head was angled as if he were trying to hide defensively behind his glasses, and the way the frames crossed his face made him look cock-eyed. I wanted to either slap them off or become unhinged and laugh like a loon. I stumped away to bed instead, and dreamed I was married to Jon from Jon and Kate Plus Eight, which made me wake in a cold sweat of dismay. Stupid library tabloid subscriptions. Over breakfast [read: cereal on the couch with laptop] Mike apologized for being a squirrel, and I slap/patted him in forgiveness. "I do trust you," I explained. "I trust you to pay your bills, take good care of the kids, cook dinner sometimes - I just don't trust you not to stop and [eff word] some random tourist when you go out in your underwear to look for the cat, that's all." He frowned. I wondered if maybe I shouldn't have said that out loud. But hey, if I have trust for him in some places, it will grow into other places. Like flowers.(mold?)

Anyway, that is all adventure to recount to the glassy-eyed grandchildren, and things are otherwise luurvely hereabouts. We've been eating grilled meats on our lanai, one of our friends gave Mike's latest brew a rave review, Leif has been very cute when he has not been screaming about his poop, and Gavin has been snuggling up and falling asleep against me every night to Alexander McCall Smith. Is good.

Pre-memorial weekend

It's been a while since I've found anything interesting in the pages of library books, but this lovely thing fluttered out onto my lap this week:

front


back


ooer.

The weekend in review:

Cookies were made and consumed. I still use the awesome recipe I copied years ago from my mom's fantastic old handmade cookbook. The jar is pretty crap for cookies, though, because it has no seal and we were forced to eat the lot of them before the ants could get in. I cleaned it out and filled the jar with embroidery yarn, which takes longer to eat.



After a year of winging about not being able to loiter like drunkards on our lanai, I bought patio chairs. Tonight: chairs and grill and meat and booze and cards. ^_^





We finally emptied the last boxes from our big move - the boxes we hadn't gotten around to opening from two moves ago. Inside was a heartbreaking medley of old photos, love letters, tarnished treasures, torn bits of poetry, lecture notes punctuated with doodle commentary, and locks of hair. Need to make archival boxes and squirrel them away where they will be safe and I will never have to see them again.

Gavin's friend came over and they spent the day wielding light sabers, eating the contents of the snack cupboard, and sewing from my scrap jar and button box while I worked on some quilt squares. We snuck out behind the house with a plastic shovel and filled a pot with dirt and worms, poked basil seeds into it, and put it in the sun with water. Big kids are fantastic creatures.

Kind of a perfect afternoon.

Blessed hormonal rampage

Many years ago, newspapers and energy drinks conspired to push St. John's Wort into popular consciousness, and my mother dabbled experimentally in the trendy new substance for a few months before discovering that the stress in her life had magically transmogrified into the inclination to eat bowls of cereal in front of Teletubbies after work every day. She was distantly alarmed.

This is much the same as how I've felt for the past few years. I tapped out emotionally after the unexpected miscarriage that transformed an impulsive dalliance into a long-term reconcilliation with my mate of 12 years (gah), and the subsequent immersion into new parenthood was like being dipped into wax. It seems to be sloughing off, though, and while I look a bit worse for wear, all my bits are about where I remember them. I feel torn between pinching Mike's cheeks and wringing his neck, I sing along to Fairies Wear Boots and listen to I Can't Quit You Babe without crying, and my urge to make stuff has returned! I've been writing stories again, drawing cartoon panels, inking illustrations on postcards, re-designing my webspace, looking for my silkscreen supplies - I liiiiive!

Now if only my computer wasn't fakakta, I could scan stuff and prove it. Poo.

Also I think I want to buy a house. I'd like a big table in a room all to myself, with pretty boxes and apothecary jars to store my crap in, and a little red garden door outside, to trip up the zombies. That would be lovely.

edit: camera saves the day!

Last night I started some Kaffe Fassett zig-zags:



doodle of Stella:



Sookie works on her refinement, but she still plays the piano like a raccoon:

textiles a gogo

5" Freespirit squares arrived in the mail today, 90 pieces in a random assortment. I divided them up by color, for zig-zag stripes:




The candy quilt is finished! Seen here with a porkchop:



Action shot:

A Wednesday morning

For Mother's Day, I ordered a bundle of Anna Maria Horner fat quarters. They are delicious.



Gavin and I are planning a visit to the fabric store this week, as he's started learning to sew. Last night we sat and designed his quilt, with vair manly black, red, and blue stripes with blocks of flames and Star Wars. He snuggled up to me on the couch a few evenings ago while I was reading the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, so I read aloud for a few chapters, and since then we've been reading it at bedtime every night. No wizards and dragons for this boy yet, but at least he's not the kid asking the librarian for books "where people get shot in the face".


Sookie and Po have been becoming chummy in the warm weather:




Despite her wake-up routine of laying across the baby's head purring and climbing up the window screen to pull down the curtains, Sookie earned her kibble today by catching a centipede under the bed. Mike earned his by throwing it into the banana trees - with points detracted for not throwing it onto the neighbors.

Of a May

Fun stuffs:

Earlier this month, we arrived at work to a pervasive and possibly toxic smell. I decided to evacuate the building and call the fire department. When the firemen did not answer their phone, I called the police station and asked the office lady if she could run next door and tell them to come over to smell the building. While this made sense to me, evidently they have these nifty "radios" now and don't actually have to run anywhere, so the entire fire-force (?) was interrupted from their "training" swim at the beach and came lights-ablazing down to the library ten minutes later. The site manager from the school's septic construction team swore up and down that it was not his fault, and ran back and forth with his clip board while the firemen cruised around shaking their wet hair and adjusting their heavy equipment (ooer). Problem: busted hole in the old septic tank and burning plastic from portions of PVC pipes being cut for the new septic tank. The site manager actually hung his head in shame while the firemen had fun taking down his name and the name of his company. We aired out the building and let people in once we determined nobody was going to be poisoned and die. Excitement!

Cover thine eyes: as of today, I am no longer in the "post-partum" stage of lifes, and back to being a regular womanly-type person. It was fun while it lasted. This change was undoubtably triggered by Leif's half-weaning. This is to say that he weaned himself off of just one of my breasts. Now they are absurdly lop-sided, like one has been popped, and I find myself wearing basooma-holsters with reinforced shapes - like lycra viking plates - until I can finish knitting a falsie. I just found out that in Australia they shear possums for yarn, which has me completely a-quiver with delight. I hope it comes in tit bit pink.

Mother's Day! As per my new tradition, I took the bull by the whatsits and bought my own presents, which wasn't completely necessary because the boys (with some help from my mom) pulled together some gift cards, an ipod jogging holster thingie, and some wee picture frames. We hefted a slab of ribs, fresh beer, and episodes of Flight of the Conchords on top of the festivities, and it was a pretty fantastic day. My mom opened her gifties on ichat, then spent her holiday taking her motorcycle exam and flirting with giant biker men. I think this year may safely be ticked off as a success.

troubles

Mike's wallet was stolen. By old people at Home Depot. The customer service people missed the training days that covered "service" and "customers", so we were left to our own detective skills to track down and relocate the stolen articles. This means, of course, that we sat in the car canceling all his cards because we are pretty crap detectives. Mike was getting trembly-lipped by the time we had to go home, so I jerked the car into the Krispy Kreme parking lot and bought way too much in the way of fried breadstuffs and coffee. I skirted around a group of scruffy man-people near the bathroom, wondering when I had gotten too old for scruffy men, and noticed them walking out behind us as we packed up the little 'uns into the mamacar. "YOUR BOX!" they screamed as I drove away. I rolled down the window and lifted my sunglasses. "YOUR DONUTS!" They pointed with their free hands, clutching their 5 cent coffees. I got out and saw that I had left our precious donuts on top of the car - and on top of them: my wallet. I became completely unhinged and cackled hysterically all the way to the gas station.

Gavin wants to finish this post:

"So we went home and ate Krispy Kremes. Then we brushed our teeth. Then we got our bedtime clothes on. Theeeeen we went to bed. And that's it. They gots his wallet, haha"

grumpus

Our hateful chain-smoking drunky donkey-sex lounge-music downstairs neighbors have acquired - dun dun duuunnn - an electric keyboard.

And aside from the Girl from Ipanema, we are treated to tone-deaf raspy warblings of Stairway to Heaven to electronic beat #6. Jimmy Page is somewhere weeping.

tvs grroooogg

Exhausted and limp in front of food tv last night, we had the conversation that was probably taking place in many homes throughout the country.

Every dish must be a riddle based on a popular food phrase, like "peas in a pod". As the chef struggled with something for apples, I murmured, "One bad apple spoils the bunch."
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," said Mike.
"Hair of the dog that bit you."
"That's not food."
"It could be."
"Peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers."
"Shit hits the fan."
"You say tomato, I say tomahto."
"Yours sounds tastier than mine. I have rotten apples, dog hair, and shit."
"You could make a stew."

nom nom nom

Misc with the dxfh

The heat makes the air heavy, blurring the horizon. I revel in it these days. It used to be that I suffered the long hot summer months in anticipation of the crisp snug coolness of the winter holidays, but the events of recent years have turned me into a creature of the sun. Several nights ago, lulled by companionship and soft music, I rolled onto my back on the livingroom floor and tucked my head under Mike's chin. "Look at the moon," he said, and I saw the oval shining through the skylight, red as a bloody eye and staring. "It was red that week," I said distantly, and he nodded. I rolled away before it could pin me to the floor. I am faster than the moon, fwoosh!

I've taken up quilting, which involves a great deal of shaking cats out of batting that is not mentioned in craft books. Mike had been hovering, so I offered him a pair of pinned squares, "Want to try sewing?" "Sure," he said, and he took the fabric, sat down on my stool, fiddled curiously with the unfamiliar machine, and then proceeded to sew a perfect seam. By the end of the evening, he was whirring confidantly down the length of my quilt top in a neat line.
"This is what I love and hate about you," I told him. "You'll try anything, and you'll be good at it, and you have no damned sense about it. 'Scottish dancing? Hey, I'll be an instructor! Knitting? I made a lace kimono! Beer brewing? Here's an Irish Porter! Illicit drugs and sex? Sure, sounds fun! Deliver this box for you?'"
"Fly this plane?"
"'Put this package where?'"
"Crash into what?"
We laughed and shared a beer.

Blasted man.

Trip to town

On the way to town for a meeting, I passed under the now twice-fallen landslide. Kind of furtive and mousie-like. And yelling "PANTS!"




Am working on first grown-up sized quilt. With bits of cat sewn in.



Work proving to be quite amiable. Spent lots of money in the book store yesterday, and arrived at work a champion of industry; bearing stripper bits (ooer - floor cleaning device), supply orders, and delicious new books (of which I have already checked out "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies"). As manager, am facing issue of janitor's increasing frequency of crude semi-sexual-harrassment remarks. Determined to shush him soundly at next opportunity. Was thwarted, however, by librarianly circulatory system, as this morning, inspired by own expemplary work ethic (for a Friday), I proclaimed, "I'm in such a good mood today!" and he quipped "What, did you get lucky last night?" and before I could blither, "SHUSH, you, no more of that. Anyway, silly man, librarians don't do such things," I lost my ability to speak, my head turned puce, he burst out laughing in surprise, and I ran away. Curses.


Ahem.