Since I am a marginally famous quilt writer (I am less famous than your local TV news weatherman, but more famous than the Justin Bieber cover band that’s playing at that dive bar off the interstate where you hooked up with that sailor one time), people are always emailing me, asking for quilting advice. And not even specific quilting advice, something I could perhaps go look up in a book and then pass off as my own. No, it’s all vague, like “Do you have any tips for a newbie quilter?” And that’s when I say, “Why, yes! Click here!”
Clearly, that’s not endearing me to anyone (especially my dad, who I think has finally given up on reading this. Took you long enough, Dad). And then today I picked up the new issue of American Patchwork and Quilting, one of my favorite quilting mags. And oh, joy of joys, it was their annual “101 Top Tips: Experts Share Their Secrets” issue. Sprinkled amongst the patterns and articles are various helpful hints from almost nobody I’ve ever heard of. But they are clearly more famous than me, because they’re getting their quilting advice printed up in a magazine, with their pictures and everything. And while most of the advice is actually quite good, some of it is just BRILLIANT. Like, “Relax and enjoy it.” That’s a tip? Did you get paid for that? That’s what I tell my husband when I get out the handcuffs, but nobody forks over a twenty.
So I’ve decided to stop being such a tip hog and share with you, my seven or eight loyal readers, my very own Top Quilting Tips. Yes, I have scoured the recesses of my brain and come up with those little tricks and techniques that make my quilting so uniquely my own. Instead of yours, or that guy’s over there.
The Bitchy Stitcher’s Top 10 Quilting Tips
1. Try to use both fabric and thread for your quilting projects. You’ll find they come together much easier and you won’t run out of staples so fast.
2. When free motion quilting, ignore the oft-heard advice to have a glass of wine to loosen you up before you start. Valium’s way better.
3. Do not attempt to rotary cut while drunk, stoned, sleeping, playing Wii games, or having sex with large, redheaded Scotsmen. You can rotary cut while having sex with small, normal-haired Americans since it’ll be over pretty quick anyway.
4. Do not curse, flip off, threaten, insult, or otherwise taunt your sewing machine. Not because anything bad will happen; it just makes you look like a douche.
5. Always use a firm, flat surface when fusing appliqué pieces. But if that doesn’t work for you, try ironing on a series of spiked, rotating cubes or the back of a panicked hedgehog.
6. Some people get inspiration from nature, from cityscapes, from the laughter of a small child. I spin around really, really fast until I fall down and whack my head on something.
7. Don’t worry about Cheeto crumbs, chocolate smears, blood spots, or red wine stains. Just add some more, call it an “art quilt,” and tell everyone it’s a statement about child labor or vaginas. Then sit back and watch the show ribbons roll in!
8. Store absolutely everything in empty cardboard tubes from toilet paper and paper towels. Yes, even your sewing machine. You figure it out.
9. For machine appliqué that looks like hand stitching, simply pull a length of thread off the machine spool and thread it through a separate needle. Then get your mom to do it.
10. Relax and enjoy it. It won’t hurt at all. You can trust me, baby. Now where’s my twenty?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Ring-a-ding-ding
Some of you may recall a post from a while back where you could see the silver ring I wear on my right hand. Here it is in close up:
My mother gave me that ring and it is probably my favorite piece of jewelry. I used to be really into wearing earrings, and I had a huge collection of unusual pieces, mostly sterling silver. I had ones that were shaped like big spiderwebs, with a little spider hanging from a separate chain. I had cloisonne snakes. I had Calder mobiles. Others were mostly non-representative of the animal kingdom or works of modern art, though they were were still pretty funky, but after the kids came along, I couldn't wear them, or necklaces, because little monsters kept trying to rip my earlobes apart to get them and possibly eat them. Now the kids are big enough to not want to ingest my jewelry (or anything else, damn picky eaters) but I haven't been able to get back into wearing anything, mainly because I cannot stand to look at myself in the mirror anymore and I certainly don't want any attention drawn to my facial and neckological areas.
Still, I have this innate need to adorn myself, and since tattoos are expensive and I refuse to pierce any part of my body other than my earlobes, I have been collecting rings.
Some of these are from college, most I got in the last few years. I like big and silver and I like gemstones like garnets and amethysts. But that silver scroll thing has been my favorite and I wear it most of the time now, even though it will, I am convinced, eventually kill me.
I say this because it has already tried to on a number of occasions. If you notice, the bottom of the ring is basically a hook, which can get caught on just about anything. Usually, I get hung up in plastic shopping bags, sometimes in my own clothing, particularly sweaters. And the only way to untangle it is to wrench off the ring so I can see what I'm doing. Once, I had an, um, personal adjustment to make, and it somehow got caught up on my underwear. That was a lovely sight - me with both hands down my pants, one attached to my froot-a-da-looms and the other trying to reach it to get the ring off. And yes I was at home - alone.
When I drove back to Kentucky from visiting my brother in Nashville, I had an eight-pack (minus two cans) of Dr. Pepper on the passenger seat next to me, along with my purse and other necessities for a road trip. At some point, driving 70 mph along a stretch of country highway, I reached over to the seat to grab something, my phone maybe, and I got caught on the plastic rings that held the cans. Not only could I not extricate myself with the other hand on the wheel, but I also had approximately four pounds of soda cans attached to my finger. It's not like you can just put your hand in your lap and wait for a good place to pull over. And forget about scratching your nose. Thank god I wasn't driving the stick shift. I had to drive several miles leaning towards the passenger seat, my hand trapped by my own soda vice, until I could pull into a parking lot and free myself.
So last night, I'm taking a shower, and even though I should remove my rings when I do, I do not. Because I am lazy and also because I am afraid I will misplace them. And as I am going about my usual ablutions, the hook on that goddamn ring somehow got caught on my other ring, my wedding ring. So not only is my hand trapped AGAIN but now it has immobilized the other hand, the hand which I would normally use to get the trapped ring off but I can't BECAUSE IT'S ATTACHED TO THE RING.
I figure maybe I can get my hands soapy enough to work one or both rings free, but all of my soap bottles are the squeezy kind, and I could maybe get one hand around it to pick it up, but I need the other hand to squeeze the soap into and oh, fuck me. So I remember that there's hand-pump soap on the sink, but now I have to get my clumsy ass out of the shower without pulling down the curtain or falling on my face, and then I have to hold my hands under the soap dispenser WHILE PRESSING IT DOWN WITH MY CHIN to get the soap out.
Eventually the ring came free, none the worse for wear. That damn ring has never bent or been damaged by any of the things it has reached out and grabbed, and so I am fairly sure it is a demon ring, forged in the fires of hell, ever seeking to destroy its wearer, first through inconvenience and humiliation and eventually through somehow getting itself attached to a large piece of construction machinery or a pissed off bear. If I were smart, if I had any sense of self-preservation, I would take the damn ring and hurl it into a volcano or pass it off onto someone I dislike. Because it will be the end of me, I am sure of it.
But it's just so pretty.
My mother gave me that ring and it is probably my favorite piece of jewelry. I used to be really into wearing earrings, and I had a huge collection of unusual pieces, mostly sterling silver. I had ones that were shaped like big spiderwebs, with a little spider hanging from a separate chain. I had cloisonne snakes. I had Calder mobiles. Others were mostly non-representative of the animal kingdom or works of modern art, though they were were still pretty funky, but after the kids came along, I couldn't wear them, or necklaces, because little monsters kept trying to rip my earlobes apart to get them and possibly eat them. Now the kids are big enough to not want to ingest my jewelry (or anything else, damn picky eaters) but I haven't been able to get back into wearing anything, mainly because I cannot stand to look at myself in the mirror anymore and I certainly don't want any attention drawn to my facial and neckological areas.
Still, I have this innate need to adorn myself, and since tattoos are expensive and I refuse to pierce any part of my body other than my earlobes, I have been collecting rings.
Some of these are from college, most I got in the last few years. I like big and silver and I like gemstones like garnets and amethysts. But that silver scroll thing has been my favorite and I wear it most of the time now, even though it will, I am convinced, eventually kill me.
I say this because it has already tried to on a number of occasions. If you notice, the bottom of the ring is basically a hook, which can get caught on just about anything. Usually, I get hung up in plastic shopping bags, sometimes in my own clothing, particularly sweaters. And the only way to untangle it is to wrench off the ring so I can see what I'm doing. Once, I had an, um, personal adjustment to make, and it somehow got caught up on my underwear. That was a lovely sight - me with both hands down my pants, one attached to my froot-a-da-looms and the other trying to reach it to get the ring off. And yes I was at home - alone.
When I drove back to Kentucky from visiting my brother in Nashville, I had an eight-pack (minus two cans) of Dr. Pepper on the passenger seat next to me, along with my purse and other necessities for a road trip. At some point, driving 70 mph along a stretch of country highway, I reached over to the seat to grab something, my phone maybe, and I got caught on the plastic rings that held the cans. Not only could I not extricate myself with the other hand on the wheel, but I also had approximately four pounds of soda cans attached to my finger. It's not like you can just put your hand in your lap and wait for a good place to pull over. And forget about scratching your nose. Thank god I wasn't driving the stick shift. I had to drive several miles leaning towards the passenger seat, my hand trapped by my own soda vice, until I could pull into a parking lot and free myself.
So last night, I'm taking a shower, and even though I should remove my rings when I do, I do not. Because I am lazy and also because I am afraid I will misplace them. And as I am going about my usual ablutions, the hook on that goddamn ring somehow got caught on my other ring, my wedding ring. So not only is my hand trapped AGAIN but now it has immobilized the other hand, the hand which I would normally use to get the trapped ring off but I can't BECAUSE IT'S ATTACHED TO THE RING.
I figure maybe I can get my hands soapy enough to work one or both rings free, but all of my soap bottles are the squeezy kind, and I could maybe get one hand around it to pick it up, but I need the other hand to squeeze the soap into and oh, fuck me. So I remember that there's hand-pump soap on the sink, but now I have to get my clumsy ass out of the shower without pulling down the curtain or falling on my face, and then I have to hold my hands under the soap dispenser WHILE PRESSING IT DOWN WITH MY CHIN to get the soap out.
Eventually the ring came free, none the worse for wear. That damn ring has never bent or been damaged by any of the things it has reached out and grabbed, and so I am fairly sure it is a demon ring, forged in the fires of hell, ever seeking to destroy its wearer, first through inconvenience and humiliation and eventually through somehow getting itself attached to a large piece of construction machinery or a pissed off bear. If I were smart, if I had any sense of self-preservation, I would take the damn ring and hurl it into a volcano or pass it off onto someone I dislike. Because it will be the end of me, I am sure of it.
But it's just so pretty.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Not dead, just semi-employed (temporarily)
No, I have not succumbed to any diseases, nor hurled myself off a tall building. For the last couple of weeks, I have actually been working - a nice change of pace from my normal sitting and staring into the middle distance. First I had to finish my humor column for the June/July issue of Quilter's Home, no small task in itself since I have now written a good number of these things and coming up with new material is getting harder. Then I got word that one of my QH editors was having a rather harrowing family emergency, and I offered to help out with any editorial tasks she might not be able to handle until things calmed down. My offer was absolutely sincere, but I never in a million years thought they'd take me up on it. They did, though, and for the last week I have been happily immersed in proofreading and copyediting and remembering why I love doing that kind of work so much. I'm grateful to them that they trusted me enough to let me help out, even though they really had no way of knowing whether I'd be any good at it, and if they have in the meantime decided that allowing me near their precious publication was a stupid call, I hope they'll be kind enough to not tell me.
When I haven't been contemplating dangling modifiers and serial commas, I have been working on my cross stitch project, which, thanks to several readers, has vastly improved, since I can now separate my threads without causing Armageddon and only occasionally get knots while I stitch, instead of all the time. The girls have been fascinated with the process, and I get a kick out of how sincerely they say, "You're doing a great job, Mom! Keep it up!" Thank you, Tony Robbins.
There's a whole lot that I am doing wrong, but I can't bring myself to care. There are places in the pattern where I'm just not sure what kind of stitch I am being asked to make, so I just make up something. It seems to be working out okay so far. When I'm all done, I'll show you a picture of the back, so that you can all laugh at me and feel superior. Don't say I never give you anything.
Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day. V-Day is a big bust around this house, as I have enough of a challenge getting my husband to give a shit about Christmas and birthdays. The girls get big to-dos at school and daycare, so I don't knock myself out like I would on Easter. But I may just spend my day reading trashy romance novels and eating chocolate so that Eros gets his due from the Dougherty household. I'm sure David will say there's another way we could give Eros his due - the obvious way - and frankly if I keep reading all this trashy literature I suppose we'll have to. Fortunately, David is of the "it's-all-right-to-get-your-appetite-walking-around-town-as-long-as-you-eat-supper-at-home" school of thought, so he'll be happy no matter what. It's good to be married to a man who's easy to please and isn't having a mid-life crisis.
So, what are you doing for Valentine's Day?
When I haven't been contemplating dangling modifiers and serial commas, I have been working on my cross stitch project, which, thanks to several readers, has vastly improved, since I can now separate my threads without causing Armageddon and only occasionally get knots while I stitch, instead of all the time. The girls have been fascinated with the process, and I get a kick out of how sincerely they say, "You're doing a great job, Mom! Keep it up!" Thank you, Tony Robbins.
There's a whole lot that I am doing wrong, but I can't bring myself to care. There are places in the pattern where I'm just not sure what kind of stitch I am being asked to make, so I just make up something. It seems to be working out okay so far. When I'm all done, I'll show you a picture of the back, so that you can all laugh at me and feel superior. Don't say I never give you anything.
Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day. V-Day is a big bust around this house, as I have enough of a challenge getting my husband to give a shit about Christmas and birthdays. The girls get big to-dos at school and daycare, so I don't knock myself out like I would on Easter. But I may just spend my day reading trashy romance novels and eating chocolate so that Eros gets his due from the Dougherty household. I'm sure David will say there's another way we could give Eros his due - the obvious way - and frankly if I keep reading all this trashy literature I suppose we'll have to. Fortunately, David is of the "it's-all-right-to-get-your-appetite-walking-around-town-as-long-as-you-eat-supper-at-home" school of thought, so he'll be happy no matter what. It's good to be married to a man who's easy to please and isn't having a mid-life crisis.
So, what are you doing for Valentine's Day?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Damon and Pythias and all those other Greek chappies
The power returned to our house about 20 hours after it had gone out, so we only had to spend one night sleeping cold and one day at our friends' house. David made the very astute observation that once we knew we didn't have to be there, we could relax and enjoy ourselves, and decided to accept their invitation to stay to dinner. We drank mulled wine and ate soup and spaghetti and played Wii games and had a blast. But it was still so good to go home and sleep in our own beds, with the heat cranked up to reasonable levels. I fell asleep that night certain that we were back on the road to a normal life again.
Until Devon threw up all over me the next morning.
I am fully expecting a large boil to pop out on my ass any moment now, but for the moment, I have both kids pumped full of antibiotics, the streets are plowed and power is running. School and daycare are open, the spouse is at work and I AM IN THE HOUSE ALONE. I would invite you to join me in my tequila-fueled "Sew-n-Slash" party (where I work on various stitching projects while reading Jeeves and Wooster slash fiction and blasting Guns N'Roses), but you are not welcome. It's nothing personal; it's just that you are another human being and I have no desire to see another human being ever again for as long as I live.
In the midst of all the snow and ice and upchucking, I somehow managed to lose all the floss I purchased for my cross-stitch project. Just lost it! One day, it was sitting in a tidy little container on top of my cutting table, and the next it was gone. It was the damnedest thing and it had me stymied for days on end. It bothered me so much, that I would just burst out - in the middle of dinner, during a shower, driving to the pediatrician - WHERE THE HELL COULD IT BE? And everyone knew what I meant, because I had made such a stink about it. I finally decided that I must have somehow inadvertently thrown it away when I had been cleaning out the closets in my sewing room. This, it seemed, was a message from God or the Fates or whoever that I was not meant to do cross-stitch - as though the massive knots that kept appearing every third stitch or so weren't enough of a hint.
Then yesterday, in a rare moment of clarity, I realized that the rest of my Aida fabric, the second, smaller hoop I had bought, and the pack of needles were also missing, and they had not been in the same box, but had been sitting out on the table. THEN I finally remembered placing everything neatly into a larger container and placing it in my closet along with all of my other containers of sewing supplies, scraps, and unfinished projects. It could not have been in a more obvious spot if I had placed it in a bag and hung it from a ring in my nose. I am also the person who freaks out and yells WHERE ARE MY DAMN CAR KEYS while holding the keys in my hand and flinging them around to demonstrate how frustrated I am that I cannot find them.
For those of you who did not catch the Facebook post by alert reader Debra about the rat poop, here is what she said:
Which naturally freaked out several people, including me. Then someone else said that she orders bolts of fabric and they always come completely covered in plastic, so she doesn't think that the rat poop can get on it, but then that begs the question is the rat poop all over the plastic and do you get it on you when you are unwrapping it and then you forget for a second and touch your mouth and YOU HAVE JUST EATEN RAT POOP and anybody who comes in contact with the plastic is going to spread the poop all over everything unless they put the entire shrink-wrapped bundle into one of those Silkwood showers and then set it on fire?
So now we come to our third, and possibly final, question in the Great Quilting Debates Research Project. I am told by my QH overlords that this is a hot button issue, but it was news to me, so I'm curious to get your take on it. Do you only use an expensive, high-quality iron, or will any old iron work just as well? Related to this is the question, steam or no steam?
Have at it, my friends. And if anyone has a good story about irons and rat poop, bring it on.
Until Devon threw up all over me the next morning.
I am fully expecting a large boil to pop out on my ass any moment now, but for the moment, I have both kids pumped full of antibiotics, the streets are plowed and power is running. School and daycare are open, the spouse is at work and I AM IN THE HOUSE ALONE. I would invite you to join me in my tequila-fueled "Sew-n-Slash" party (where I work on various stitching projects while reading Jeeves and Wooster slash fiction and blasting Guns N'Roses), but you are not welcome. It's nothing personal; it's just that you are another human being and I have no desire to see another human being ever again for as long as I live.
In the midst of all the snow and ice and upchucking, I somehow managed to lose all the floss I purchased for my cross-stitch project. Just lost it! One day, it was sitting in a tidy little container on top of my cutting table, and the next it was gone. It was the damnedest thing and it had me stymied for days on end. It bothered me so much, that I would just burst out - in the middle of dinner, during a shower, driving to the pediatrician - WHERE THE HELL COULD IT BE? And everyone knew what I meant, because I had made such a stink about it. I finally decided that I must have somehow inadvertently thrown it away when I had been cleaning out the closets in my sewing room. This, it seemed, was a message from God or the Fates or whoever that I was not meant to do cross-stitch - as though the massive knots that kept appearing every third stitch or so weren't enough of a hint.
Then yesterday, in a rare moment of clarity, I realized that the rest of my Aida fabric, the second, smaller hoop I had bought, and the pack of needles were also missing, and they had not been in the same box, but had been sitting out on the table. THEN I finally remembered placing everything neatly into a larger container and placing it in my closet along with all of my other containers of sewing supplies, scraps, and unfinished projects. It could not have been in a more obvious spot if I had placed it in a bag and hung it from a ring in my nose. I am also the person who freaks out and yells WHERE ARE MY DAMN CAR KEYS while holding the keys in my hand and flinging them around to demonstrate how frustrated I am that I cannot find them.
For those of you who did not catch the Facebook post by alert reader Debra about the rat poop, here is what she said:
I do a lot of importing for my "real" job. We get merchandise in by the container from overseas and often see evidence of . . . well . . . critters. They (usually rats) crawl around - touch all the shit regardless of packaging. So - WASH THAT FABRIC - regardless of whether you think it will shirink, bleed, fade, stretch - those fucking rats have touched it - I guarantee it. Even if it is domestic (which is rare) it gets shipped and trust me - we have rats too!
Which naturally freaked out several people, including me. Then someone else said that she orders bolts of fabric and they always come completely covered in plastic, so she doesn't think that the rat poop can get on it, but then that begs the question is the rat poop all over the plastic and do you get it on you when you are unwrapping it and then you forget for a second and touch your mouth and YOU HAVE JUST EATEN RAT POOP and anybody who comes in contact with the plastic is going to spread the poop all over everything unless they put the entire shrink-wrapped bundle into one of those Silkwood showers and then set it on fire?
So now we come to our third, and possibly final, question in the Great Quilting Debates Research Project. I am told by my QH overlords that this is a hot button issue, but it was news to me, so I'm curious to get your take on it. Do you only use an expensive, high-quality iron, or will any old iron work just as well? Related to this is the question, steam or no steam?
Have at it, my friends. And if anyone has a good story about irons and rat poop, bring it on.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Pre-wash or rat poop?
I am on my last nerve here, folks. On top of the stomach viruses and flu, the kids now have strep and bronchitis, and their horrible coughs have kept me awake every night for days. Last night would have been the first night that I had even a chance of sleeping for more than 10 minutes at a stretch, except as soon as I got the girls settled in bed, the power went out, due to a wet, heavy snow. We don't have a fireplace, so all we could do was pile on the quilts (and hasn't that turned out to be a useful hobby?) and hunker down for the night. But I couldn't stay asleep in the cold and am yet again short on sleep and long on wanting to hurl myself off a bridge.
We have close friends who live nearby who have power so we are staying at their place until we are electrified once again, but of course their house is FREEZING, even with the heat on. So I am trying to keep warm with the heat from their laptop and any alcoholic beverages I can rustle up.
So, why don't you keep me occupied and answer the next question, one already posted on Facebook: do you pre-wash your fabric or not and why? And Debra, if you would be so kind as to tell our non-Facebook friends about the RAT POOP, I'd be obliged. I think you need to freak out as many people as possible, as a public service. And that little tidbit, by the way, is TOTALLY going in the article.
We have close friends who live nearby who have power so we are staying at their place until we are electrified once again, but of course their house is FREEZING, even with the heat on. So I am trying to keep warm with the heat from their laptop and any alcoholic beverages I can rustle up.
So, why don't you keep me occupied and answer the next question, one already posted on Facebook: do you pre-wash your fabric or not and why? And Debra, if you would be so kind as to tell our non-Facebook friends about the RAT POOP, I'd be obliged. I think you need to freak out as many people as possible, as a public service. And that little tidbit, by the way, is TOTALLY going in the article.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Let me have it (answers, not a pot roast)
For those of you who do not follow me on Facebook, the other day I got a hilarious email from Jake Finch, one of my overlords at Quilter's Home, which was apparently written around 1 a.m. and after who knows how many cocktails, wondering at great length why all the wangs from the Japanese Penis Festival were all circumcised, and were the Japanese secretly Jewish, and something about bonsais and pruning. And I was all, gee, Jake, don't you know that 98% of all Japanese men are uncircumcised and that those were all supposed to be ERECT wieners and that it's actually kind of hard to tell the difference between an uncircumcised trouser snake and a circumcised one when it is all up and ready for action, at least on first glance when doing a Google image search? Because I've never actually encountered an untrimmed bratwurst in real life (I once had a friend whose boyfriend was both intact and somewhat large - or so she claimed - and she said it looked like a pot roast), and NOW, THANKS TO JAKE, this is kind of a weird goal I have. Not one I'm going to pursue actively or anything, but just that, you know, IF David should suddenly kick off or file for divorce or something, and IF I should ever feel comfortable dating again, I MIGHT limit my dating pool to Europeans and Asians and whatever other cultures do not desecrate their dicks (presumably most of them). NO WAIT. I totally forgot the kid that lived down the street when I was like five and we went into his bathroom one time and played I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours! It was like a tiny pig-in-a-blanket! Never mind. I can cross that off my bucket list now.
So, right, Facebook. None of that was on Facebook. What I DID mention on FB was that Jake had also taken the opportunity (in a second email, no less) to tell me to STOP PIN BASTING MY QUILTS. She says that 505 Spray & Baste is totally the way to go, and she hasn't pinned a thing in 10 years. I expressed my skepticism and then offered the question to my Facebook peeps: pin or spray? I got so many responses that Jake and Melissa (my other QH overlord) and I decided to make an article out of it: The Great Quilt Debates. So, I want to know what all you non-Facebooky people have to say. Give your answer in the comments, and I may quote you in the article, using only your first name and maybe a city/state. Two more questions will be posited here in the next few days, after you've had enough time to weigh in.
And if you have any opinions on pot roasts, I'd be happy to hear those as well.
So, right, Facebook. None of that was on Facebook. What I DID mention on FB was that Jake had also taken the opportunity (in a second email, no less) to tell me to STOP PIN BASTING MY QUILTS. She says that 505 Spray & Baste is totally the way to go, and she hasn't pinned a thing in 10 years. I expressed my skepticism and then offered the question to my Facebook peeps: pin or spray? I got so many responses that Jake and Melissa (my other QH overlord) and I decided to make an article out of it: The Great Quilt Debates. So, I want to know what all you non-Facebooky people have to say. Give your answer in the comments, and I may quote you in the article, using only your first name and maybe a city/state. Two more questions will be posited here in the next few days, after you've had enough time to weigh in.
And if you have any opinions on pot roasts, I'd be happy to hear those as well.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Freelance editor available for parties and weddings
The spate of illness and PHLEGM! continues here at Chez Bitchy, as Harper awoke this morning with a fever and apparently has bronchitis and a sinus infection. And the experiment being conducted upon my psyche continues as well, because during the short period of time where both children were well enough to attend school/daycare we had a holiday and a snow day. Next week, schools are open only a half day on Monday, then closed Tuesday and Wednesday, giving me only one day when I might potentially have time to shower and eat a full meal, if I can fit it in between boiling everything the children have touched and shoving Oreos down my throat (medicinally, of course - seeing as how my doctor refuses to give me a prescription for Valium to deal with the anxiety that NEVER BEING ALONE produces).
Oh, and get this. Last weekend, I actually brushed my hair, put on clothes with no discernible stains, and went to a party. Granted, it was a birthday party for a three-year-old, and it was just at my neighbor's house, and I was only there in the capacity of Child Wrangler, BUT - there were other adults, there was beer and horse doovers, and no one mentioned the rash I get on my neck when I get nervous! Social success! This was Devon's first birthday party (as an attendee), and though I questioned the wisdom of any parent scheduling a gathering of small children in the late afternoon, I figured Dev, who was feeling much more herself at this point, would be okay. And she was Charm Itself when we walked in the door, talking with everyone and dancing and checking herself out in the big mirror they had in their living room (she takes after me). Then, something snapped, and she was suddenly in tears over everything. I have no idea what set her off, though I suspect it was a well-meaning older child who wanted to help her do the craft that was set up for all the kids to do. God help you if you try to assist that child without her asking you first. IT RUINS EVERYTHING. For hours. After that, she couldn't handle anything that was going on, and after the Happy Birthday song made her cover her ears and cry, I suggested that perhaps it was time for us to depart, a suggestion she was grateful to follow. So we left David to be the sole representation of Geeky Nerditude among the other grown-ups, a role he is usually quite happy to play.
The same neighbors had a party back in late November, one they have every year, where every guest is supposed to bring a homemade soup in a crockpot and everyone votes for the best one. We are the only neighbors who get invited, it seems, or at least the only ones who show. The rest of the guest list appears to be people Mrs. Schedules Her Kid Parties After 3 P.M. (I've changed her name to protect her privacy) knows from her job, which is as a stylist at one of the fancy schmancy salons in town. (Mr. SHKPA3PM cannot invite his work buddies because he Can't Tell Us Where He Works Though He Will Say It's In Virginia which is not-so-secret code in these parts for CIA.) Do you know what people who work at fancy schmancy salons are like? They are all skinny and have fabulous hair. I have nothing to talk about with people who are skinny and have fabulous hair. I am fat and have scalp psoriasis.
So I made David go by himself. He doesn't have anything to talk about with skinny, well-coiffed people either (he doesn't have a scalp condition that I am aware of, but he is "cuddly," which is how he likes me to think of his girth (and I do)), but he is much more willing to endure it for the sake of good neighbor relations. He stayed for a socially acceptable 2 hours, and then returned, having spent the bulk of his evening nursing a beer and playing with his new Android phone. I'd really like to throw a party with all of the geekiest people I know (philosophy professors - I know several of those - and programmers and policy wonks) and add one skinny person with fabulous hair just to see if she ends up sitting by herself playing with her phone. Because I would truly like to believe that the universe would balance that way, but I suspect that any skinny person with fabulous hair would get oodles of attention, even if she were practically brain dead and surrounded by cuddly, follicularly challenged PhDs.
It doesn't help matters that I was once quite skinny, and though I have never had hair one could call fabulous, it was spiky and kinda punk and totally awesome. This is how I still see myself, though I look nothing like it anymore:
Guess which one's me!
In quilting news:
I have long been coveting a particular cross-stitch piece that has been for sale at this Etsy shop, but she wanted like $300 for it (granted, it came mounted in an organic "eco-frame," but still). A few weeks ago, I noticed that it had been reduced to $99 and though that is still WAY more than I am usually prepared to pay for anything that doesn't organize my entire life/cook all my meals/provide multiple orgasms, I happened to have just a little extra cash and a guilty husband who didn't get me anything for Christmas. Or I would have extra cash, just as soon as payday arrived, but then some ho-bag got to it before I did. I begged the artist to make a pattern for it, as I noticed she was starting to do that with some of her designs (a smart business move) and she did! Eight bucks and ninety-nine cents later, I have my dream cross-stitch project:
Now I just have to remember how to actually, you know, cross-stitch. I remember it involves floss. And hoops.
I have started on it, but I am incapable of following charts or directions, and have already fucked up. Naturally, I fucked up the word "motherfucka" and instead stitched "motherfucker," apparently because I am so anal about spelling I even have to correct a foul word from rap lyrics on my cross-stitch project:
And I only noticed this as I was writing this blog post and while I am waiting for a phone call about a possible, though not probable, freelance editing job. I think this illustrates my editing skills nicely, and I plan to include a link to it in my resume. If the cross-stitch doesn't seal the deal, my college-era hair will, no doubt.
Oh, and, um...everybody? Thanks. For, you know, being awesome. You're the best blog readers a fat, flaky-headed hermit could ask for.
Oh, and get this. Last weekend, I actually brushed my hair, put on clothes with no discernible stains, and went to a party. Granted, it was a birthday party for a three-year-old, and it was just at my neighbor's house, and I was only there in the capacity of Child Wrangler, BUT - there were other adults, there was beer and horse doovers, and no one mentioned the rash I get on my neck when I get nervous! Social success! This was Devon's first birthday party (as an attendee), and though I questioned the wisdom of any parent scheduling a gathering of small children in the late afternoon, I figured Dev, who was feeling much more herself at this point, would be okay. And she was Charm Itself when we walked in the door, talking with everyone and dancing and checking herself out in the big mirror they had in their living room (she takes after me). Then, something snapped, and she was suddenly in tears over everything. I have no idea what set her off, though I suspect it was a well-meaning older child who wanted to help her do the craft that was set up for all the kids to do. God help you if you try to assist that child without her asking you first. IT RUINS EVERYTHING. For hours. After that, she couldn't handle anything that was going on, and after the Happy Birthday song made her cover her ears and cry, I suggested that perhaps it was time for us to depart, a suggestion she was grateful to follow. So we left David to be the sole representation of Geeky Nerditude among the other grown-ups, a role he is usually quite happy to play.
The same neighbors had a party back in late November, one they have every year, where every guest is supposed to bring a homemade soup in a crockpot and everyone votes for the best one. We are the only neighbors who get invited, it seems, or at least the only ones who show. The rest of the guest list appears to be people Mrs. Schedules Her Kid Parties After 3 P.M. (I've changed her name to protect her privacy) knows from her job, which is as a stylist at one of the fancy schmancy salons in town. (Mr. SHKPA3PM cannot invite his work buddies because he Can't Tell Us Where He Works Though He Will Say It's In Virginia which is not-so-secret code in these parts for CIA.) Do you know what people who work at fancy schmancy salons are like? They are all skinny and have fabulous hair. I have nothing to talk about with people who are skinny and have fabulous hair. I am fat and have scalp psoriasis.
So I made David go by himself. He doesn't have anything to talk about with skinny, well-coiffed people either (he doesn't have a scalp condition that I am aware of, but he is "cuddly," which is how he likes me to think of his girth (and I do)), but he is much more willing to endure it for the sake of good neighbor relations. He stayed for a socially acceptable 2 hours, and then returned, having spent the bulk of his evening nursing a beer and playing with his new Android phone. I'd really like to throw a party with all of the geekiest people I know (philosophy professors - I know several of those - and programmers and policy wonks) and add one skinny person with fabulous hair just to see if she ends up sitting by herself playing with her phone. Because I would truly like to believe that the universe would balance that way, but I suspect that any skinny person with fabulous hair would get oodles of attention, even if she were practically brain dead and surrounded by cuddly, follicularly challenged PhDs.
It doesn't help matters that I was once quite skinny, and though I have never had hair one could call fabulous, it was spiky and kinda punk and totally awesome. This is how I still see myself, though I look nothing like it anymore:
Guess which one's me!
In quilting news:
I have long been coveting a particular cross-stitch piece that has been for sale at this Etsy shop, but she wanted like $300 for it (granted, it came mounted in an organic "eco-frame," but still). A few weeks ago, I noticed that it had been reduced to $99 and though that is still WAY more than I am usually prepared to pay for anything that doesn't organize my entire life/cook all my meals/provide multiple orgasms, I happened to have just a little extra cash and a guilty husband who didn't get me anything for Christmas. Or I would have extra cash, just as soon as payday arrived, but then some ho-bag got to it before I did. I begged the artist to make a pattern for it, as I noticed she was starting to do that with some of her designs (a smart business move) and she did! Eight bucks and ninety-nine cents later, I have my dream cross-stitch project:
Now I just have to remember how to actually, you know, cross-stitch. I remember it involves floss. And hoops.
I have started on it, but I am incapable of following charts or directions, and have already fucked up. Naturally, I fucked up the word "motherfucka" and instead stitched "motherfucker," apparently because I am so anal about spelling I even have to correct a foul word from rap lyrics on my cross-stitch project:
And I only noticed this as I was writing this blog post and while I am waiting for a phone call about a possible, though not probable, freelance editing job. I think this illustrates my editing skills nicely, and I plan to include a link to it in my resume. If the cross-stitch doesn't seal the deal, my college-era hair will, no doubt.
Oh, and, um...everybody? Thanks. For, you know, being awesome. You're the best blog readers a fat, flaky-headed hermit could ask for.
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