It’s that time again.
I said it once and it bears repeating. As a reminder, “Mothers Day 101″ – check it out.
Mother’s Day 101 Redux
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Why Quilts Matter DVD Give-Away
When working at the New England Quilt Museum I was fortunate enough to get a peek at a DVD called Why Quilts Matter: History, Art and Politics from Shelly Zegart and the Kentucky Quilt Project, Inc. I loved it. I talked to the TV while I watched it. I wrote a blog entry about it and was later asked to write a guest blog for their website. Before any of that happened I purchased two copies of the DVD so I could own one and donate the other to my local library. I feel that strongly about it, and continue to encourage others to do the same. (BTW, there is no monetary compensation involved here)
A few weeks ago I was contacted by the Why Quilts Matter people (who are kickass fun, BTW) and asked to view one section of the documentary and write some study-group type questions for a new Continuing the Conversation guide to the series. I was delighted to do so, and was sent a copy of the DVD as a “thank you” gift. Since I already have a copy I decided to give away the gift copy. I really don’t like the whole blog “give-away” thing, mostly because I never win and really think some of you guys are all up in your head when you require people to jump through hoops and do 94 things in order to qualify. There, I said it. THIS will be a very simple, straightforward give-away.
To enter: Send me a fat quarter of Liberty of London fabric.
HAH! See what I did there? Okay, seriously, go check out their website – you are on your honor. Then, leave a comment with your fantasy quilting or sewing notion. For example: my fantasy sewing notion is a bobbin that works with a spool of thread. You throw a spool on top of the machine, snap a spool in the bobbin case and you sew like a maniac for days – no stopping to reload the )(#&*()@#&$ bobbin. What is your fantasy notion? Maybe some genius out there will create it and we’ll all be happy.
In about a week I’ll holler downstairs (to my husband), “Pick a number between 1 and —-” and that will be the winner. (I’ll have to do it a couple of times because he is deaf as a haddock and I have to repeat everything about three times.) Sigh.
Okay, let’s have it – what are your brilliant ideas? PS – the DVD is great for individuals or guilds or groups – lots of topics and good information. (But you knew that from going to their website, right?)
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Using the “Good” Scissors
My mother had a nice pair of Gingher scissors that were to be used ONLY on fabric. She did a lot of garment construction – clothes for her kids - but later she became a quilter. As children we were roundly and soundly clobbered if we took the “good” scissors and used them to cut up paper or magazines or newspapers.
Fast forward to about six months ago when I saw a much smaller pair of Ginghers that called my name. I could not resist the siren song of having a really, really good pair of scissors so I took the plunge. They came in a lovely little box which I kept open on my cutting table so I could admire them then and relish the pride of ownership. It was enough for me to just have them. I was content to keep them, save them for something “good.”
Fast forward again to about two weeks ago when I crashed and burned on a baby quilt for my niece. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that when things go south you need to just. walk. away. and come back later when the fog clears. I decided to take a bag of leftover quilt scraps and try my hand a paper piecing hexagons. (Note: do not start paper piecing hexagons – EXTREMELY addictive.) I went to grab a scissors to trim up the hexies when, for some unexplainable reason, I busted out the Ginghers.
You know where this is going. I could not believe the difference. Like a hot knife through cold butter, this thing sliced and clipped like a laser. I was thrilled with the results, the ease of cutting, the razor crisp edges. Like dawn breaking over Marblehead (local joke) I realized it was STEWPID to keep things “for good.” What if I get hit buy a bus tomorrow? What was I waiting for? WHY DO WOMEN DO THIS? Because honestly I know I am not the only one. Every woman on the planet has something put away “for good” and most of those things will never see use or the light of day. Why do we do this? So we have something to look forward to? Is the “looking forward to” part better than the actual joy of using it or wearing it or whatever the hell it is we’re trying to capture? I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I’m not getting any younger and I’m tired of waiting. Not only am I going to use these Ginghers, but I’m gonna bust out some cash and pick up one of the new Gingher Seam Rippers. You heard me. Retractable blade, beeuches. Who says quilters are old ladies with afghans in their laps? I’m armed and dangerous. I run with scissors. ( Really, really GOOD ones. )
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1-800-RATIONALIZE
With the multi-whammy of additional, unexpected income taxes due, an expensive major appliance “shitting the bed” (Joe’s favorite saying and I’ve just picked it up because….it’s so…. accurate), finding out the source of my knee problems is a torn meniscus and the upcoming one year anniversary of the loss of my Dad all rolling up on me………well, I kind of had a meltdown. “Kind of” in the sense that I didn’t actually throw anything (hey, I’ve grown. Besides, I don’t wear high heels anymore and I’m out of spackle) but everything else cut loose in a peri-menopausal-chronic-pain-grieving-hormonal rage of tears, angst and depression. My dark Irish side can throw down with the best of ‘em.
So what to do? I needed to drive. Serious “get out of Dodge” driving. That isn’t possible here because it’s too congested and populated. No wide open spaces and long reaches of road and open sky. This therapy always worked for me when I lived in Nebraska but in Massachusetts – well, it’s not happening. I still wanted to make a road trip and maybe do a little retail therapy ( a logical response to a cash-strapped crisis, right?) and pick up some Kaffe Fassett fabric I’ve been coveting for, oh, years. Seriously coveting.
I did not buy ALL of these....just some....
Normally I would call my sister Pat before embarkation. Pat is the queen of rationalization. You can call her and ask her about anything and she will give you really good reasons to 1) do it or 2) buy it. What I came up with would pale in comparison but I think it was pretty respectable in a dark, depressive kind of way.
Mother’s Day is approaching. I was not blessed with motherhood and my mother has been gone many years but I’m still pissed off. She was 69. Pancreatic cancer. (Insert “f” word here….) Those of us with infertility and failed adoption issues have always found MD to be a trauma-inducing “holiday” that personally guts me like a fish. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade – right? I started thinking about all the MD presents I’ve never received, all the cards and flowers and – well, that adds up to some serious cash, right? So, feeling sorry for myself, I felt free to go ahead and spend a little of what my husband and/or kids would have spent. Bingo – rationalized.
I had a lovely time at Portsmouth Fabric getting overwhelmed by bolts and bolts of amazingly beautiful fabric. That alone made me feel better. Quilters will understand how that works. I even had some laughs with the staff as a siren kept sounding in the distance and we couldn’t figure out what it was until some guy stuck his head inside the door and said, “I think that is the siren from Seabrook!” (Local nuclear power plant. I am not kidding.) I stood there and thought about where I was and if there was indeed a core meltdown I’d be dead pretty fast. Then I kept shopping. What better place to be? My husband and family all know I love them – we never separate without saying so – and I’m pretty much right with my Lord…. so I kept shopping and discussing (with the shop ladies) where the nearest bar with the best food was just in case it really was the “end of time” or something. I figured I’d fare pretty well at my judgement if my Mom saw me with a vodka tonic in my hand – she’d claim me in a minute just to have a sip or two. Or three.
Then I drove back home and listened to another podcast from Pray As You Go. You have got to love the Jebbies, they come up with some really good stuff. Anyway, I did a lot of thinking, a lot of sorting out and a whole lot of mental housecleaning. When I got home I made a new sign for my sewing room and put a copy of it in my bathroom.
It’s out there. It’s all around me. I have a feeling it would save me a lot of the time I spend worrying – AKA threading beads on a string with no knot at the end. I’m going to find joy every day. Wish me luck. I need some joy.
PS – here is a great start. I never watch these things but for some reason I did this one. WOW.
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Do-Over
We leave Sunday for a trip to Florida to stay with our friend John. This is a “do-over” trip. Last year Joe and I made our first ever trip to Florida (we live on the ocean here…..why bother, right?) and about 3 days in to our inaugural experience we got a phone call letting us know my Dad had passed away. John felt terrible and as a special act-of-love-I’m-so-sorry gift he promised us a “do over” trip this year.
I’m not sure how I feel about going. The specter of last year’s trip is kind of lurking out there… but the actual anniversary (thankfully) is a few weeks off. Don’t get me wrong - I’m thrilled to get out of Dodge, pleased for Joe (who REEEALLLYY needs a break) and I’m even OK with ironing a pile of linen shirts to pack. I’ve always found ironing to be very relaxing and therapeutic. What’s the problem, then? I just feel kind of sideways inside.
Physically, I’m ready to go. I splurged on a haircut and matching (we don’t call it “coloring”) and even managed to get my esthetician to melt a metric ton of wax and do my eyebrows. I look positively GIRLY. Luckily, John is an expert at relaxing and entertaining. I’ll have a really good bloody Mary in my hand within moments of our arrival. That should help with the mental part, right?
I’m sure it will all come together and be a great week. Right? Right.
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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.
Just Following Procedure
For the n-teenth time I recently found myself with an IV in my hand, a blood pressure cuff on my arm, an oxygen monitor on my finger, and my bare ass in the air awaiting yet another “procedure.” I got to thinking about a few things (good drugs can do that), my long medical history, how healthcare delivery has changed, and just when did surgery become merely a “procedure”?
I always thought a procedure was a series of things you did in a certain order to accomplish something. (To make a cake you must assemble the ingredients, follow the recipe, bake the thing, and at the end of all that effort you have a cake. FYI – If you do any of that out-of-order you will NOT get a cake.) There are procedures flight attendants follow for take-off, there is a procedure for building a house, and there is a procedure for doing your income taxes.
I believe the insurance companies got together and decided if they stop calling it “surgery” and start calling it a “procedure” it wouldn’t sound like a big deal and they could kick people out of the hospital on the same day – or if it involved amputation, maybe the next day. Better yet – don’t even go to a hospital at all! Let’s do it all in the doctor’s office - it’s just a “procedure” after all! For anything involving anesthesia….we’ll invent a surgical suite thingy where doctors can see patients in one room and go across the hall to the surgical suite for the “procedures.” Bonus – let’s not call it “anesthesia” anymore (because you’d need an anesthetist for THAT) – let’s call it “sedation”.
See how they did that? Who says health insurance needs reforming?
I would like some reform. A little. An effort? I don’t deal with any kind of anesthesia well, although I have been told I am a whole lot of fun when I am coming out of it. This time around I was waking up in the “surgical suite” when I heard someone knocking on the door. My response? “Penny? Penny? Penny? PENNYPENNYPENNYPENNY?” I thought it was hysterical. No one else did. Apparently they felt the fact that I was laughing like a hyena meant that I was well enough to be put in a car and driven home. This is Joe’s least favorite part of “procedures” – the nausea fueled race to get back to Gloucester before I throw up in the car. (Sorry, graphic content.) It’s awesome. It keeps our romance alive, baby.
I have come to believe we will soon see mobile procedure trucks coming to our
We Were Trained For This in Our Youth!
homes (like those dog groomers) where they fix you up in the truck right there in the driveway. After you are finished you can get your mail and walk up the sidewalk right back in to your house (with the entire neighborhood seeing your bare ass sticking out of a procedure gown. (They won’t be called “hospital gowns” because…. there won’t be any hospitals.)
In addition to the Big Bang Theory, we watch a lot of House Hunters (hey, it’s good comic relief). There are a LOT of people out there who think they can’t buy a house if the color of the rooms isn’t to their liking. ( I am not making that up. ) Can you imagine what that show will be like in the year 2019 when people have to look for a house that can accommodate a growing family and all of their “procedures”? “I like the space, but I just can’t see myself getting a pap smear / knee replacement / appendix removed in a room that needs so much updating – and the wall color (eyeroll) ewww!”
