Oh, Thank Cuteness 2: Electric Boogaloo

We are having a week dedicated to showing off the cuteness in our lives over at GenQ (this is the first post and today's post is mine) and we are hoping other bloggers will participate (scroll to the bottom of the first post to add your link if you want to participate), so naturally I am compelled to add my own blog to the mix.

I don't have much more to add, but I do need to brag a bit. We had Harper's parent-teacher conference this evening, and when David and I walked out of there we were high fiving and doing chest bumps all the way to the car. It's pretty great when your kid's teacher says, "I absolutely adore that child and one day she won't come home because I'm going to just scoop her up and bring her home to live with me." It's even better when she proceeds to tell you that your kid is basically brilliant. She described her as hard-working, conscientious, focused, good-natured, kind, and sweet. She said that every kid in the class has a hard time not talking when they're not supposed to - except Harper. She showed us a new reading comprehension test that the class took, and which she says was new and turned out to be too hard for second grade, because scores on that test went down all over the school system this year. Except Harper aced it.

Now, I know my kid is freaking awesome. I've always known it. But knowing that her teachers are seeing it too just makes my heart swell with pride.

I can only imagine what it will be like when Devon starts school. Have I mentioned that one day, when that child was, like, three and a half, she just picked up a book and read it to me? And just like that, we discovered she could read. She is ambidextrous and will sometimes draw the same picture on two different pieces of paper with each hand at the same time. Or sometimes she'll do mirror writing. Frankly, it's kind of scary what David and I managed to produce in these kids.

I tried to come up with something funny to say today, but I just can't do it. Not that they aren't hilarious, but right now I can't get past my pride in these two.

Askhat. Askhole. Ask Blaster.

(Please also note there is a new humor piece up at GenQ: My New Fabric Line.)

What the hell has gotten into you people? In the last few weeks my email inbox has been inundated with letters from readers asking my advice about stuff. Did you all get together and say, "Let's all do the one thing that will drive Megan completely off the deep end"? What on earth makes you think I know anything? About anything? I write humor, for Chrissakes; I can barely dress myself. I went to a liberal arts college. I studied ancient Greek and Euclidean geometry. I didn't learn any marketable life skills. Do you remember when my car was apparently dying and I finally took it to the mechanic and the only problem was that I hadn't changed my oil in SEVERAL YEARS? This is who you're dealing with. Why do you think I know anything?

Now if you had been asking things like, "How can I, too, become a marginally successful humor writer, particularly in a very, very small niche such as quilting or perhaps locksmithing?" Or, "I am tired of having friends and an active social life. How can I, too, become a sad and lonely semi-hermit?" THEN I could see why you might come to me to help solve your problems. Not that I could answer those either, but at least I could understand why you would be asking.

Now truly, I am flattered that you would think so highly of me as to ask my advice on topics I know nothing about, but you have to understand I am completely neurotic about doing things right. If someone asks me a question, I get very worked up and sweaty about coming up with just the right answer. Like if I don't, I'll get a B instead of an A and I'll have to have a little talk with my parents about why I'm trying to ruin my chances of getting into law school. I actually lose sleep over it. So when I do answer, I probably come off sounding really cranky because beneath it all there is the subtext, "Why do I have to doooooo thiiiiis? I'm 42. I don't wanna go to law school. I wanna dye my hair purple and get a tattoo."

So, if this is going to be a thing now, then goddammit we're going to have some fun with it. I will start a new monthly feature here called "The Ask Master." You submit your questions about anything at all—car repair, cooking, travel, work, sex, marriage, quilting, the Japanese economy, ANYTHING—and I will reprint your questions here (anonymously of course) and answer them. Will I answer them seriously? TAKE A WILD GUESS. If we have enough fun with it, I may make it into its own website.

Send your questions to theaskmaster@hotmail.com. I look forward to serving you.

Make A Statement

Note: I sat on this piece for months because I was, frankly, scared of how it would be received. This is NOT intended to make fun of artists, art quilters, or the work of Kathy Nida. This piece is what I imagine those who find the work of artists like Nida offensive think when they imagine what an art quilter does. I have a very low tolerance for those who are immediately and automatically offended by depictions of the human body. I also have a low tolerance for those who dismiss or denigrate art because it makes them uncomfortable, and for those who assume that an artist is just tossing off shocking things to get attention. I suppose the point would have been more easily made had I written this from the perspective of one of those people, but that was not as interesting as trying to do it this way. 


I took a risk by posting this. I have probably failed in what I was trying to express. But lately I've been reading another humorist who often has the same problem, and he keeps going anyway, so I guess I will too.


And just so you know, I DO know the difference between the vagina and the vulva. However, for the purposes of this piece, it was better—and, I admit, funnier—to use "vagina." Despite the inaccuracy, in the common vernacular, most people tend to use the term "vagina" as an all-inclusive term for female gentialia, inner and outer. Therefore, to me it made more sense to use "vagina." It was a conscious choice, not a mistake.




 Sure, you may be the prince of patchwork and the queen of free-motion quilting, but if you’re starting to feel that unmistakable sense of ennui after finishing your latest quilt then you need to break free from your bias bindings and start experimenting in the world of art quilts! Anybody can whip out a nice soft blankie to snuggle up under, but you can’t be satisfied with mere comfort quilts. No, you need to make a statement, and despite what your mom says, you can indeed make a statement through quilting. Here are some statements you might consider making with your first art quilt:

- I have a vagina and I LOVE IT.
- Homelessness is bad, racism is wrong, and this vagina will help you see that.
- Some women living under oppressive regimes have no vaginas.
- Global warming is killing our environment. Plus: vagina!

Don’t be afraid to dive into the art quilt pool even if you have no formal training. Talent and skill are no barriers to the art world, and as you’ll see, you don’t even need a sewing machine to create stunning pieces that will be the talk of your next guild show. And remember, if someone says your quilt is the most offensive thing they’ve ever seen and you should be ashamed of yourself because, for goodness sakes, there are children here—then you’re doing something right!

Here are just a few ways you can shake up your stitchery and topple the patriarchy through art quilting:

- Found object quilting. Get out of your fabric rut and discover new media by rooting through a trash bin or walking through a condemned building. Greasy take-out containers, flattened soda cans, and used syringes will add lots of color and texture to your quilts and wadded up plastic shopping bags make great vaginas!

- Deconstructive quilting. Show your contempt for the trite and mundane by taking a traditional quilt and thrashing the living daylights out of it. Beat it with large rocks. Spit on it. Tromp on it with muddy hiking boots, then give it to an untrained Labrador puppy. Finally, tie it to the bumper of your car and do some doughnuts in the gravel parking lot of a seedy strip club. And when you hang its shredded carcass on the wall, give it a vibrant and thought-provoking title, such as Check Out This Vibrant and Thought-Provoking Vagina.

- Performance quilting. Who says an art quilt has to be a static piece chained to a wall? Bring new life into your art quilts by becoming a part of the art yourself. Stand on a busy street corner (naked, of course) holding a rotary cutter and an uncooked Cornish game hen as a statement about farm subsidies. Or, hanging upside-down inside an abandoned warehouse (naked), chant the lyrics to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” in a deep monotone while waving large quilt blocks in semaphore signals. And, for the ladies, the best part of performance art? Built-in vaginas!

However you decide to make your statement, be prepared to suffer your share of ignorance and intolerance. Most people are frightened of art that challenges and stimulates the mind and it is your responsibility as an artist to show them vaginas anyway. Ignore all those naysayers who claim you’re just being shocking in order to get attention. If all you wanted was attention, you’d be quilting penises instead.

Quilter War! Who's with me?

(Okay, I probably ought to say this again since I think there's a bunch of new readers: I curse. A lot. Don't read this if a potty mouth gives you the vapors. And for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, don't email me and tell me not to. Or I'll be forced to write a column about you.)

Oh, lordy day. Have you guys seen some of the latest kerfuffles in the world of quilty blogs? (I'm not linking to them; it just encourages them. Plus, they might come after me.) It amazes me that with so many quilters out there, so many blogs, so many things and people in general, that there are some who feel it necessary to pick fights and get all uppity and shit over nothing that actually concerns them. Over stuff that they can ignore. Easily. I mean, not to get all deep n' stuff, but have you looked at the world lately? Does the way one person chooses to blog or to spell her name merit all this nonsense? Cheezy crackers, y'all. I get on my blog to RELAX. To open up and have fun and interact with people who share my sense of humor. Not to get into a turf war over how I wind my bobbins.


HOWEVER. I bet these people are getting LOADS of site traffic out of this! I mean, come on. Who doesn't love a good brawl, right? But, you see, to me, these people are really missing out on the real fun. Sure a blogger can say something and get people all het up to defend someone else, but what the quilt blog world is truly missing out on is a real, honest-to-god Quilt Blogger War. Something that goes on and on. That devolves into personal insults and veiled threats. That makes the comments section look like the censored outtakes from a Jerry Springer show.

For example:

You know what I hate? Quilt bloggers who get all Photoshoppy with their quilt pics and do that soft-focus fuzzy thing around the edges. What makes you think I want to see your quilt shots looking like somebody smeared Vaseline all over the lens? Huh? What else do you do with that Vaseline? Like this blogger, Earlene from Cutie Patootie Quilty-poos. I used to love her blog, but now I am NEVER reading it again. She obviously does not care about her readers OR her quilts OR her jumbo jar of Vaseline which she OUGHT to be using for all that BUTTSEX she obviously has with her sister's husband. 

And then Earlene would put up a post called "Oh, No You Di-in't"

Oh, you think that just because my baby is a redhead and the only other redhead for MILES around is my brother-in-law, that I was somehow ANALLY IMPREGNATED by him? Haven't you ever heard of RECESSIVE GENES? And ADOPTION? And FALLOPIAN TUBES? You are obviously a sad, sex-deprived old hag and when you stop photographing YOUR quilts with that tired old Polaroid you got in the NINETEEN FIFTIES before everybody on earth was even born and start using an iPhone like the rest of us, maybe people would start reading your blog instead of using it as the first example in their class on HOW TO BLOG LIKE A BIG STUPID WHORE.

That is how you have a blogger war. Anyone wanna have one with me? C'mon! We'll hurl insults at each other over blog posts and see how much site traffic we can get and how many people we can get coming to our defense! It'll be fun!

My Crib

So over the weekend, just before the 600-pound rock of death settled on my head, I put two quilts that I have finished recently up on my sewing room walls and took a picture. I put the picture on Facebook, because I was feeling quite proud that I finally have a sewing room that looks like a quilter's room:

And everybody on Facebook was all, "That can't be a QUILTER'S room! It's too neat! Where's the dog hair? Where's the piles of scraps? Where's the mound of empty ketchup packets from McDonald's that you open and suck all the ketchup out of without even any french fries because you are hungry and it's midnight and you are too lazy to go down to the kitchen and get a snack like a normal person? Huh? Where's that?" So, in order to maintain my reputation as a Quilting Slattern, I had to promise that I would reveal the REST of my sewing room, not just the part that I keep neat and tidy so that when I am exhausted from writing yet another AWESOME COLUMN for GenQ (I have no shame. None.), I have a place where I can fall down in a swoon without getting ketchup on my pants.

So, here is my desk. WHERE THE AWESOME HAPPENS:

Please note the ice pack for my head, the dirty socks on the floor, and the paper with the tattoo design I am working on next to the computer.

This is the area next to my desk, where the printer resided along with half of the crap my kids leave in my room:

That pile on top of the printer is where I keep all of my important papers. It's crucial to have a good filing system. Also, that little kitty on the chair in the bottom right corner is wearing a white felt dress that I made. It looks like something a prisoner of war would wear AND it took me several tries to figure out how to sew it so that it had armholes and a neck hole and wasn't just an oddly shaped sack.

This is the cutting table:

This is also another area where the kids' stuff has taken over the available space, because where else are you gonna keep a princess castle, a makeup kit, a bag of plastic Easter eggs, and a homemade checkerboard? Please note that the stuffed animal on the ironing board is mine. It is an octopus, because I have some weird thing for invertebrates. Devon labors under the impression that his name is Octie, but I like to think of him as D'Artagnan.

A close-up of the cutting table:

You can see I purchased a set of plastic containers at Ikea, that I hoped would control some of the clutter, but now they seem to be as much a part of the clutter as the shit they contain. This is also a shot of the table in an unusually pristine condition, as there are usually half-drunk Dr. Pepper cans and bowls of potato chip crumbs or unpopped popcorn kernels littering the table as well.

And I have decided to save the best for last:

My crumb collection. Because it is too fucking hard to drag the vacuum all the way up the stairs, and besides, I have to take off the hose thing and jam on one of the attachments and I am usually WAY too tired from writing humor columns to do all that work. You know, I always say that I don't want to get a dog or a cat because now that Devon is FINALLY potty trained, I think I deserve a break from dealing with another creature's poop, but the crumb-cleaning capacity of such a creature might make the poop-handling easier to take.

So hopefully I have now restored my credibility, but I'm pretty sure we are now about to engage in a rousing game of "Oh, Yeah? You Think THAT'S Messy? Well, One Time, I Lost My Youngest Child In The Scrap Bin And We Still Haven't Found Her." So just remember, I spared you all by not showing you pictures of my bathroom. BUT I WILL IF MY HAND IS FORCED, SO HELP ME.

Oh, and, P.S. The migraine is gone today. I feel like dancing. So I think I will.

uuuuuhhhhh

Massive. Migraine. Can't. Form. Complete. Sentences.

New. Humor. Column. Is up. At GenQ. Click here.

And then? When you're done? Please. Get a hammer. And beat me. To death. With it.

A cool grand

Well, you did it, you crazy man-loving bunch of quilters, you. You helped me raise $1000 in just one month. eQuilter.com and LadyFingers Sewing Studio are carrying it. Luana Rubin, who owns eQuilter.com, has been a huge supporter of the project and has been encouraging me to send out press releases. "You could be in the Washington Post on on Good Morning America!" Yeah, I could see me on GMA or the Today show, vainly attempting to suck in my gut and angle my head so that it doesn't look like I have twelve chins and trying to engage in witty repartee. And I just know I'd get stuck with Ann Curry. I have issues with Ann Curry. Deep, abiding issues. She once did a special on George Clooney in Darfur - and y'all know how I feel about the G-man - and I could not watch it. Could. Not. The woman looks cracked out all the time and her questions are all vague and touchy-feely and she always has bad hair.

I would totally write a press release if I knew what to say and who to send it to. And if I didn't have fears that someone might want to take my picture. Being in a position where I might actually get looked at by another human being keeps me from doing lots of things. Like leaving the house. I like my sewing room. It has a bathroom and a bed and a TV and I keep snacks hidden behind the printer. If it wasn't for the kids I would never leave.

And yet. You know, ever since I did that piece for GenQ on quilty tattoos, I have been obsessed with getting one. And not only would I have to leave the house, I'd have to let some stranger - quite possibly a guy - look at me up close. And I'm pretty sure there would be no way to hide my chins. Not that I would get a tattoo on my chins. I'm just saying THEY CAN'T BE IGNORED. Anyway, I really want something on my arm, like a bracelet, and I've been looking up Art Nouveau motifs because I think I would want something kind of Aubrey Beardsley-ish. But I also kinda want my logo too.

I think the tattoo obsession has less to do with wanting a tattoo and more with the way my brain works when I get in a funk. I have just been so blah and unmotivated and feeling unfunny and lonely, and when I get that way I tend to get obsessive about something, like getting that one thing will somehow make it all better. Maybe when the Joel Dewberry fat quarters I cannot afford but ordered anyway arrive, those will make me feel better and I won't get the tattoo.

Nah. I'm probably still getting inked.

So, ages ago it seems. I got George Jr. back from the longarmer and I slapped a binding on that baby. I also sewed on a hanging sleeve, but the quilt is so damn big, I have no good place to hang it except my stairwell, and I can't reach the spot on the wall where I'd have to drive in the nail without some sort of pulley and harness system. But I could hang it temporarily from the front porch on the one day we've had sunshine here the last month:

Hard to be sad when looking at that, yet somehow, I manage.