Sit down. Settle in. Beer? Cola? Cheese ball?

OMIGOD, Y'ALL! It's been AGES since we last talked. Let's see, what has gone on since then? Oh, yeah. IT SNOWED AGAIN. Stupid fucking snow. I swear to cheeses, I am so over it. The piles of snow in my postage stamp yard are now several feet high, high enough for the kids to sled on. This is what happens when you have to remove three feet of snow from your walk and driveway and have only a couple small places to put it, places which already have three feet on them to begin with:







And while we were in the middle of the second blizzard, the most miraculous thing happened. Some dude showed up with a bucket loader and started clearing our whole street. See, we live on one of those cul-de-sacs that the county figures, "Eh. They can wait 'til spring to get out." So we never see a plow. But this guy's grandma lives on our street, and he wasn't gonna let her stay snowed in. And while he was at it? He decided to do the whole street. Which he did all that day. And all the next. We and most of our neighbors gave him as much money as we could for his trouble, but I will admit that many of us would have probably considered more, um, personal favors, so deep was our gratitude.

Another miraculous thing that happened this week was that the editors of a magazine called me and asked me to participate in their planning meeting for the June/July issue. I didn't have a lot of time to prepare, since I am still finishing up the last issue I will do for my not-so-current employer, and I was told that it would just be about features and not departments, so of course, it started off with brainstorming ideas for one of the departments. TRICKY.

I'm not going to say it went badly, but I will tell you that the meeting was shorter than planned because of one editor's prior commitment, and when it came time to confirm the day and time we were to reconvene, they basically said, "You know what? We'll take it from here." Um..okay! See you guys later! Save me a seat in study hall!

But I'm okay with it. First meetings are never my best, as it takes me time to get used to the new people, new process, and even though I may be an avid reader of a publication, the nitty gritty of how it is put together doesn't gel for me until I've had to get my hands in it for a few issues. I've always wished that, when I've started working at new places, whether magazines or optical shops or wherever, that there would be allowed some time to just observe. It's the same way I play video games. I watch you do it several times, and THEN I beat the pants off you. If I try to play without the benefit of observing, I spend all my time going, WHAT DOES THIS BUTTON DO AGAIN? and WHY WON'T THESE ALIENS FUCKING DIE?

But it really is okay, because that same day, my brother was in Tennessee, having his head sawed open to remove the one brain tumor that grew (instead of shrinking into nothing like its companion) after three weeks of drug therapy. When I finally got in touch with someone in my family who was at the hospital, I found out that he came through the surgery fine, that he was awake and talking, though in a lot of pain. My sister said she was able to see him for about 5 minutes, and in that time he said, "Did Meg get my email?" When she told me that, I lost it. That's when I just cried and cried and knew that nothing else mattered, nothing but that my brother was okay. Another eight feet could have fallen on us at that moment, and I would not have cared. My fabulous, funny, big-hearted big brother made it through brain surgery. There's not much that could ruin that.

And again, that same day, I got two of the sweetest emails from readers I have ever received. I don't know how they'd feel about me sharing what they said, but they know who they are, and that they warmed the cockles of my shriveled, black heart.

Today, our babysitter made it out to watch the girls for a few hours so that David and I could WORK ON MY NEW SEWING/WRITING STUDIO! The kids are going to have all their stuff, beds, dressers and all, in the basement playroom, and I am taking their light-filled, closet-laden room for my own. I decided that if I am going to spend this next year conquering the world humor writing market, that I would need to have my own room to do it in. All their stuff migrates down to the playroom anyway, and it was squeezing out what little room I had in there for sewing. We will need to somehow acquire two strapping youngsters to help us with the last of the heavy furniture, but I predict that within the next two weeks, I will have my own room. My husband thinks this now means that I will spend time sewing naked. What it really means is that when I take pictures of my crappy sewing from now on, it will be better lit.

So, even with eleventy-nine feet of snow and kids underfoot and HOW DO YOU GO BACKWARDS? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T GO BACKWARDS? WHAT DOES THAT RED BUTTON DO AGAIN?, it was still a damn fine week.

Update: After I wrote this post, my mom called. She was able to talk to the neurosurgeon this morning. It is cancer. Still waiting on biopsy results to determine what type and how aggressive. However the surgeon seemed very, very optimistic and so everyone is holding on hard to that right now.

Snowmageddon

These pictures do not do justice to the insane amount of snow that fell on us yesterday, but they do show my cute kids having fun while my husband shovels a path.







Approximately 28 inches of snow fell on top of the 3 or 4 that was already there from Wednesday and the 8 from last Saturday. And seriously, if I hear one more person go, "Awww! I love snow! I wish it would snow like that here," I will bring you some snow in a big box and bury you in it for a week and then YOU CAN SEE HOW IT FEELS.

This snow was so massive and fell so fast, that there was no way snowplows or road crews could keep up with it. In all our last storms, enough people with 4-wheel drive and no sense drove in and out of our cul-de-sac to tamp down the snow and make a driveable surface, but not even those loons were willing to go out in this, so the road is as deep as everywhere else. God knows when we'll get out of here.

I predict that schools will be closed most of the week, so that combined with being housebound indefinitely will make any posts I manage to compose increasingly nutty, so that by the end of the week, everything will be in ALL CAPS AND I'LL BE BEGGING YOU ALL TO SEND SCHNAPPS AND CHOCOLATE BY HELICOPTER. I'M SURE THE NATIONAL GUARD WILL BE HAPPY TO TO AN AIR DROP.

In other news, my brother goes under the knife on Thursday and I quit my job last week. Fun times all around!

That and the chin zits

Know how I can tell when my period is coming?

When I can't think of anything even remotely chuckleworthy to say.

Like now.

I just started a post about how I want to kick the kids out of their bedroom and take it over as my sewing room/media empire headquarters.

When I went back to read it, I realized I had merely described, in detail, the precise layout of my entire house WITH MEASUREMENTS and lists of every piece of furniture in each room.

Sigh.

I'm going to go scrape gunk out of the fish tanks now and hope that the Red Menace has its way with me soon so I can get back to the quilty witticisms.

And P.S.

I still haven't been paid.

Norma Rae, I ain't

Well, the strike is over, if it ever really began. (Not that I've gotten paid; I haven't.) It is important to realize that this blog is more than just my online vehicle for quilting humor. It is also my journal, my therapy, and the place where all my angsty blatherings go when my husband isn't around to listen and talk me down from whatever mental precipice I have momentarily climbed. ("Yes, honey, I'm sure that George Clooney deserved the Golden Globe more than Jeff Bridges and I absolutely agree that his latest girlfriend looks like a money-grubbing, man-eating 'hoor'—but is that really any reason to eat that entire box of Entenmann's chocolate doughnut holes?")

Sometimes, coming here and writing about how INDIGNANT I am, and how I will NOT TAKE THIS KIND OF ABUSE, over something that doesn't necessarily warrant quite that many capital letters, is just another form of eating an entire box of doughnut holes.

In this economy, I am grateful to have a job. I am grateful that the job I have allows me to work from home, part-time. I am grateful that, even if we spend a week eating ramen noodles that we HAVE ramen noodles to eat. And I am extremely grateful that, if this job falls through or I decide to leave it, that it only means belt-tightening and more careful accounting, not homelessness.

Having said that, my husband and I spent as much time as we could over the weekend discussing the possibility of me leaving my job, whether or not the pay situation resolves. Once when I left a bad job, David reminded me of all the times he had walked away from employment, feeling that he had other paths to take and I always supported him. And every time he did it, he ended up someplace better, and now he is in a career he loves.

The only real reason I have for leaving this job is that I feel I am on the verge of something. I feel like the career I've always wanted is out there for me, just within my reach, but I can't pursue it full-on unless I can get rid of the things that are holding me back. Like gainful employment.

It feels so self-indulgent to talk about this, knowing how many people are hurting, out of work, out of money. But I spent so many years not doing the kind of work I'm good at, because I was too scared to try. I thought that I could never break in to writing or editing, and every year that went by that I still didn't pursue it seemed to add to that belief. Then, I walked away from a job that I hated and found one that I loved within a week, at a magazine, editing and writing.

I don't hate this job, but I have the same feeling now that I did then: that now is the time to leap.

I'll try to make this the end of my navel gazing. For now.

A Stitcher on Strike

Well, my day just opened up in a way I was not at all expecting. As some of you know, when I am not wrangling kids or writing about my crappy sewing skills, I am the assistant editor of a local magazine. It is a job I do part-time, from home, and it nets me just enough money to pay for daycare for my little one and some extra for fabric and high-fat, low-fiber snacks. It keeps my mind nimble and gives me a socially acceptable way to correct other people's grammar.

It has drawbacks, of course, one being that I have to be available one day each month to proof the issue when it comes back from the designers. The problem with this is that though there may be a target date and time for this event to occur, it never quite works out that way. Perhaps we miss deadline by a day, or are even early, and this will cause the proof to come back off schedule. But no matter when it arrives, I have to be ready to sit down with it for 5 or 6 hours and find every mistake possible. And every month, without fail, I have managed to do this. I have hired extra babysitters and involved friends and had my husband take off work, and I have NEVER missed a proof day.

And, I'm just going to go ahead and say this, because it's MY BLOG, dammit: I am the best writer they have, and likely the best editor they have ever had. They are constantly thanking me for my excellent work and for my "dedication" to the magazine. They luurrrrve me.

When I started working for them, the terms of my contract were that I would be paid monthly, and that checks would go out on the 1st of each month. About halfway through the year, as the recession really started to take its toll, they told me and all the other staff that paychecks would have to start going out on the 15th instead. Ad payments were coming in more slowly, and so they were finding they had more money in the coffers mid-month than at the beginning. I understood that, and had no problem with it.

Occasionally, I would find that checks weren't mailed until the 17th, and since our mail system here is slow, that would mean an extra 4 or 5 days without daycare money, but still I was patient and understanding. Until today.

This morning I checked our bank account to discover that we had only $94 to our name. Today is payday for David, but he neglected to tell me that his first paycheck from his new job would come in the mail and not through direct deposit. I had a $54 check from Cafe Press (thanks y'all!) that I could deposit, and that would ensure today's daycare payment woudn't bounce, but then we'd be pretty much shit out of luck for the weekend until his check arrived. But none of this should have been an issue because I should have been paid by now.

So, one week after checks were to have been mailed, I emailed my bosses to say, Hey, guys, what's up? Gee, you know, my check still isn't here, so maybe it got lost in the mail. Do you think you could put a stop on that and cut me another and I'll come pick it up today? Thanks!

Turns out they haven't cut any checks yet for this month and aren't planning to until maybe next week IF money comes through. ("Sorry for the delay!")

Now, I'm not pissed that they haven't sent my money. That is annoying, yes, and inconvenient, sure. BUT TO NOT TELL ME? Were they hoping I just wouldn't notice? That I'm so flush with cash I wouldn't mind waiting an extra week or two? Does my "dedication" not warrant even a brief email?

I actually have a lot of patience, and I try very, very hard to be understanding and accommodating, but when I'm treated with that kind of disregard, it makes me want to throw things.

But, I'm always telling my 3-year-old, "It's okay to be mad, but it's not okay to throw forks at your sister." So, I'm not going to throw things.

I'm going on a mini-strike.

For the next few days, I'm not working. I'm going to sew. I'm going to write crazy humor articles for Quilter's Home and research other mags that accept humor pieces (Did you know that Smithsonian magazine has a humor page? And that apparently they pay, like, $1500 for one piece? And that everything I've read in there so far sucks? THAT is work I should be doing right now.)

One of the things I have been wanting to write about here is that I have a personal goal for this year, one which I haven't really mentioned to anyone out loud. I want to try to quit this job by the end of the year. I want to pursue my own writing and try to find out if I can match the monthly income I am making from the editing work through freelancing. If I can even get 2/3 of what I currently make, that would still work. I have enjoyed the editing work, and I think it has been good experience. But I also think that, within the next 12 months, the Bitchy Stitcher should become a free agent.

But, if I don't get paid, it could happen a lot sooner than that.

A project! A real project!

As the prospect of a very long long weekend loomed in front of me on Saturday morning, I realized that I had better stop all this nonsense and get a real, honest-to-god quilting project started. There were two reasons why this was of the utmost importance. One, because I was getting a migraine, and I have managed, over the last few months, to determine that my headaches are tied to my posture. When a migraine is brewing, I can be sure that I have been spending too much time with my head turned to the right. It's the way we have some of our furniture oriented with the television and the laptop, and though I can avoid sitting that way, it ends up happening if I am not vigilant about it. And the one activity that puts everything back in alignment and eases my pain - at least temporarily - is quilting. Whether it is the meditative aspect of the work or is just because I keep my head and shoulders more aligned when I am rotary cutting and stitching, or both, I don't know, but the dull throb in my head said, "Get thee to the cutting table," and I'm inclined to listen to the throb when it gets bossy like that.

And two, because a long weekend at home with my family means a long weekend AT HOME. I live with three of the laziest homebodies I have ever known; none of them would ever leave the house if they weren't compelled to, and usually the one compelling them is me. Saturday was absolutely beautiful, and Harper's friend Aidan was home, but I couldn't get her to go ask him to play because "he always wants to play outside." No! Quelle horreur!

But I knew one way to get Harper out of the house: a trip to the quilt shop where she would be allowed to pick out fabrics herself. I admit, it's a desperate move, but my only other choice was Chuck E. Cheese, so you can see my dilemma. I had a pattern that I'd been feeling wishy-washy about, but thought that since it uses a lot of fat quarters it would be a good project to let her in on and would give me something to do as well. This is the pattern:



Yep, another "Labyrinth." I guess I have a thing for mystical mazes. That or David Bowie's package.

Ahem. ANYWAY. One of the things I totally forgot as I was showing her what we were going to do, is that Harper, my darling girl, is a literalist. If she has a coloring book of a well-known cartoon character, then we must color that character and all sub-characters exactly the way they are depicted on the cover or in the show. Velma can never, ever, ever wear a blue sweater. It must be orange, and it must be the right orange. If you should perhaps be in a coloring mood yourself, and you ask her for permission to color in one of her books, she will narrow her little eyes at you and through clenched teeth ask, "Are you going to do it right?" Yes ma'am.

So, if we have, say, a quilt pattern, and there is a picture of the quilt, then we must - MUST - make our quilt exactly like the picture. There is no room for wild hares, flights of fancy, or any other freedom of thought. She's like a little brainwashed plebe from a dystopian novel.

We did our best to find 30 batik fat quarters that were exactly like the ones in the picture, though by the end I was pushing her to just "try" to pick ones that were pretty, that she just liked for themselves, instead of adhering like gum to the picture, and she stuck out her little lip and said, "This isn't turning out the way I thought it would." Sigh. Okay, sweetie. You can hold on to that big old stick up your butt. I love you no matter what.

I'm still unsure of how much I like the pattern, but it's great for my kind of quilting - which is to say, sporadic. I can cut up two fat quarters and make one block in roughly a day with the time I can generally wrest away from my kids, and that lets me feel like I am accomplishing something. Harper gets to make sure I am "doing it right" and that of course makes her feel like she is accomplishing something.

And this is what we have accomplished so far:



Not bad for a lazy, crappy quilter and her anal retentive daughter!

Well, hump.

Thank you all so, so much for all your good wishes, positive thoughts, and prayers. We are still waiting, as the neurosurgeons have yet to put their collective noggins together and say what is happening next. That may be tomorrow.

Now, if you recall, a dear friend of mine had surgery for a brain tumor over a year ago, and what really freaked me out about her story - when she FINALLY chose to tell me - was that she had been diagnosed at the beginning of the summer and chose - let me say that again, louder: CHOSE - to wait until September to have the surgery to remove it. Not only that, but she told almost no one about it until, like, the day before they were gonna cut her head open.

It floors me that the words "brain tumor" don't also mean "emergency," "stat," "of COURSE the doctor will see you now, the rest of his patients can go fuck themselves," or "IMMEDIATE SURGERY". I do realize that open-head surgery is a big deal, but that's just it: it seems like SUCH a big deal that there ought to be medical professionals fluttering about you at every moment, working 24-7 to get the process moving because, hey, BRAIN TUMOR. Precious grey matter is being squooshed! That can't wait!

Well, apparently it can. Humph.

(Oh, that reminds me. My boss, for some reason, and this has only been in the last few weeks, has been typing the word "Humph" in her emails and comments, whenever she is feeling peeved, except she spells it "hump." So her emails to me are all...humpy. So she'll be going along, saying "This sales rep is really bugging me today. Hump." Or, "I don't like the intro to this article. Too dry. Hump." And I'm at my computer going, HA HA YOU SAID DRY HUMP! I have no plans to illuminate her; it's too entertaining. It's way better than when we were participating in a local event called the P.R. Bazaar and she kept calling it the P.R. Bizarre.)

While I was in my state of panic on Monday, my editor, Jake Finch, from Quilter's Home tried to call. And if there's ANY phone call I should be answering it's hers, but I just adore Jake and I knew that I would start blubbering if I heard her voice, so I let it go to voice mail and sent her an email in response.

(OH! Did I ever tell you about the MONTHLY COLUMN HEADING? If I did, forgive me, but Jake wants my pieces for QH to have their own Bitchy Stitcher column heading! As in "regular feature"!!!! This made me so excited, that I really wished that there had been someone who had been all "you'll never make it" so I could go SUCK IT, HATERS but everyone's been really supportive, so I'll just go "woo!")

So Jake writes me back, and says many lovely and wonderful things, some involving checks, others involving extended deadlines, and the one thing that lingers with me all day is this: "Your copy is ALWAYS so clean when it comes in it's not a problem to wait a couple more days." Not the part about waiting a couple of days. The part about my copy being clean.

Because I am such a fucking nerd, that the one thing that manages to lift my spirits when I am in personal turmoil is someone noticing that that I don't write error-filled copy.

So when I am on my deathbed, and the family is asking if this paper they are waving in front of my fading eyes is my last will and testament, they had better mention how CLEAN THE COPY is if they want me to pass over in peace and contentment. Otherwise I will haunt them for eternity by sticking a wet finger in their ear whenever they try to write "irregardless."

Hump!