Sew Bitchy

I hope you’ve enjoyed the week of Five Drunken Stories.

It’s time to move on.

Sewing Machine Drama

I bought a refurbished sewing machine last week. Yesterday, I took it out, fiddled with it, and in the end, decided that instead of throwing it through the window and then beating it to bits with a bat, I would just box it back up and hope someone buys it in a yard sale.

My struggles were based on the bobbin case. (When aren’t they?) This particular machine had a door that was impossible to get the bobbin in and out of easily, let alone trying to reset the shuttle case. I wish I had played with it while I was there, because there were others to chose from.
Learn from my mistake, will ya?

kenmore1
I have small hands, and I couldn’t get my hand in there to release it. The Mister and Sassy have nice long fingers, but they still couldn’t release the bobbin. After a few minutes with his hand shoved in there, The Mister pulled out in the entire shuttle. *sigh*

The answer was to turn the machine over, opening it up. Hot light makes machine hot!

kenmore2
After that, the machine had to be re-threaded. Every time. After doing that about fifteen times, as well as internet searches for a manual or a video, I nearly lost my mind and decided to buy a new machine. Like, new, right out of the box. I got no argument from The Mister, who said I have a lot more patience than he does.
(Shh, everyone has a lot more patience than he does.)

Some of my friends looked at one photo or another, and tried to say helpful things such as, “pull the hatch and it will come out” or “open the machine up” like I have never used a sewing machine in my life. I should probably have laughed it off, but I cried about it and spent the rest of the night convinced that no one listens to me, and that at least a handful of my friends think I have the dumb. Fortunately, some people understood the issue and rejoiced in my new purchase.

I anticipate at least one person will skim this post and offer me inapplicable advice about sewing machines.

singer

I haven’t opened my new sewing machine yet, but I know it has a horizontal bobbin and an LED light, and that shit makes me sooo happy!

Tomorrow A-Z Blogging begins!

If you’re interested in participating, just click the A-Z icon on the right side of my page, and it will link you to its origin and procedure.

 
Other Exciting News:

I’m being interviewed by another blogger!

Spring Break is here!

It’s going to be 66 and sunny today!

I took a four-hour nap!

I finally found this ice cream, *squee* and I am gonna eat it up!

jamcore

 

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A Series of Drunken Stories (1)

Our boy one turned 21 this week. He went out, had a great time, and then got sick, as he said, “at the end.” *giggles* We are so glad he stopped when he got sick.

It reminded me of my early drinking experiences.

I don’t really count, because I was allowed to drink at home, and in others’ homes, so drinking was not a novelty for me at 21.

My freshman year of college, my friends partied every weekend. I stayed in. I’d read and write and have such a good introverted time — at least until those girls would bring their drunk ass dramas to me in the middle of the night.
I’d sort out their fights, via my awesome mediation techniques, (or just by being the only sober person in the room.) Sometimes, the drama involved getting busted for underage drinking, which only made my decision to stay in more appealing. At least once a month, one of those three girls got sick.

wasted1
By the time Spring rolled around, they could not wait to take me out and get me, Miss Goody Two-Shoes, positively wasted. They had a great plan. They’d take me to a frat party with guys who would mark us as 21, so we wouldn’t get into trouble with the attending police. They would get me all kindsa fucked up, and they would laugh and laugh, they said.

wasted4
Dancing was great. Dancing was so much better than mingling and making loud small talk.

The beer wasn’t working fast enough, they said. The punch didn’t have enough kick, they said. It was best to get serious, they said. I did shots of vodka, grape syrupy stuff, and jello shots. They thought that’d do the trick.

wasted5
I continued to drink beer.

I went outside to cool off from the dancing, where I found a guy I dated in high school. He shared his flask of Irish whiskey.

More beer.

Sadly, my friends got quite sick. Cindy decided to stay with Michelle, who was passed out on the basement floor. I had to take Abby home before she passed out.

I called a cab, because I couldn’t walk a completely shitfaced Abby for half a mile, and she sure couldn’t walk herself.
When we got into the cab, my dear shitfaced friend turned to me, and shouted, “This was supposed to be YOU! You were supposed to be sick!”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” I petted her hair.
She leaned up and slurred to the cab driver, “What’s your name?”
“Scott.”
“Scott, my name is Abby, and you must never, ever let me drink this much again.”
“Okay, Abby.”
“Thank you, Scott.”

Abby was so drunk she didn’t even remember where we lived.
Abby was so drunk, the cabby had to help me get her onto the elevator.
Abby was so drunk, she was afraid to be alone, because she might die.

Me?

I was just fiiine.

wasted2
It would take another two years and fourteen shots of Mexican tequila to make me sick, and that is a story for another time.

Posted in Personally | Tagged | 15 Comments

In a Nutshell? I Am a Nutshell

Yesterday, I committed the late afternoon to hanging out in the back of the house to do laundry. I KNOW! Will the excitement never end?!?

I had a bowl of pistachios.

serving size? until satisfied

serving size? until satisfied

I eat pistachios on the regular, as well as walnuts, because they’re full of the good fats that help an anxious brain.

At some point, one of my pistachios tasted funny. It was sorta floral. In an unpleasant way.

As I continued to munch my pistachios, my mind began to unfurl the potential dangers of a poor tasting pistachio.

Poison was the natural assumption of the anxious brain.

DEATH BY PISTACHIOS.

Panic attack ensued.

ohthehorror
Super.

It had been over seven months since I had one.

I was dying. Everyone who’s ever had a panic attack knows that they knew they were dying. That’s what makes the panic attacks so fucking fun.

I accepted the panic and rolled with it. I did the breathing. It passed in 24 four-count breaths. Pretty long death, compared to cyanide.

When it was over, I walked my dog around the yard, barefoot, as a distraction, and also hoping to get some sense of grounding.

I alerted my friends via social media: while i was doing laundry, i ate pistachios. one of them tasted funny, and i thought i might die, so i hadda have a panic attack about it.
— it’s been about an hour since i ate that poison, and i think i’m alright.
so i’ll just do more laundry…but if anyone asks, it was the laundry that killed me, not the pistachios.

Because it’s good to have a sense of humor about the failures of one’s brain, and because surviving what was obviously a near-death pistachio experience feels like an important update.

I realize I have come a long way in my journey with anxiety. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine a seven-day break between panic attacks, let alone seven months.

I think I’ll celebrate with more pistachios.

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User Error Much?

As is typical, I’ve got a few irns in the far.

Oh, you don’t understand?

irons in the fire

irons in the fire

Years ago, The Mister was like, “Can you not just pick a thing?” No, I cannot pick a thing. I like reading and writing and gardening and cooking and baking and quilting and painting and making collages and scrapbooking and DIY.
Drew was quick to point out that my having several things makes me a more interesting person. Ooh, now I’m interesting?

Interesting or not, I don’t think I could ever be a person who does one thing at a time.

What would I do while the cake cools and the sprinkler runs? Those are opportune moments to do other things!

So, this weekend, I’m painting the interior of my kitchen cabinets. I had planned to remove the cabinet doors for good, which The Mister was not a fan of, and which I discussed at length with Beauty Queen, even verifying with Mr. F about what pieces I could remove. (Like I am understanding of the structural integrity of my cabinets, pshaw!) They’re homemade built-ins.  Most people would probably tear them out and put in some “updated” cabinets. I won’t. They don’t build them like this anymore. The cabinets are sturdy, which is one of the many things I love about my old house, but I grow weary of shelf liner and the look of eighty years of use.

Yes, of course I cleaned them. This is AFTER cleaning!

yes, of course i cleaned them. this is AFTER cleaning!

Despite his aversion to open cabinetry, The Mister took the doors off because he loves me, and two days later, I decided I no likey the way it looks, so he can hang those bad boys back up when I’m done painting.

dirty and dingy and no one likes you!

dirty and dingy and no one likes you!

 

no shelf liner! woot!

no shelf liner! woot!

Oh, the difference a coat of paint makes! I realize you can’t see the difference in the photo, but I assure you, it’s improved. Semi-gloss, thank you very much, because I dunno who would paint kitchen walls and cabinets with flat paint, but people do. Don’t be those people. 

The battle for clean laundry continues, because, if you can imagine, these people I live with seem to think they need to wear clean, warm clothes every time they leave the house, and apparently not everyone has spent the last decade collecting panties. *shrugs*

I did find narrow laundry hampers, and I am so pleased. Three of them fit perfectly in the back hallway, and we can still walk through! Oh em gee, y’all, it’s a laundry miracle!

According to Facebook, one of my friends did a mountain of laundry and people think she’s amazing, which made me jealous. I mean, I do laundry every week! Am I not amazing, too?!? The Mister told me if I do all of our laundry today, he will indeed be amazed. Challenge accepted.

look! one is empty already!

look! one is empty already!

We’re not going to talk about how I still haven’t sanded the back hallway for painting, and how I still haven’t found a suitable material for my message board. Also, it’s totally fine if all the wall hangings for that hallway are resting by the back door.
Tonight, boxes upon boxes will be taken to the curb. Always make sure your packages are delivered right before recycling pick up.
Moo is keeping the biggest box for a bit.

the first thing she did was write, "for moos only" on it

the first thing she did was write, “for moos only” on it

I got my compost container out yesterday, pulled The Mister’s manbag from the closet, removed the drill and spent a good five minutes figuring out how to change the bit. It’s a drill I haven’t used before, and it happens to need a key, and well, I worked it out. Then I attempted to drill air holes into the container, which resulted in a lovely polka dot pattern, but no holes. I could not believe I wasn’t strong enough to make holes! I cursed my hands and left that to The Mister. It took him less than five minutes to put hundreds of holes in it, because he’s a tool god  he didn’t have it in reverse.

meep?

meep?

Posted in Random Musings | Tagged , , , , , , | 18 Comments

Comment Fail

Do you find you’re not being notified of all comments?

Later, someone new reads and comments on an old post, and I see that several people commented. Or, someone hasn’t posted in awhile, so I check their blog, and they’ve actually replied to me, but I never knew. Then I wonder, should I be the blogger who replies six days or six months later? Is it better late than never, or best to let it go?

How do other bloggers handle this?

Please know, I do not intentionally ignore comments or replies, either on my own blog or those of others.

HAPPY FRIDAY

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20 Things I Love Madly

I’m taking this prompt from Aussa Lorens, who took it from someone else, as part of some massive blog trend that I know nothing about because I live under a rock. I decided “madly” was better than “irrationally” for me, because by now, you really should know that irrationality is my friend. Also, I aimed for 21, but I failed.

1. Speaking like the small children who have changed my life. “How you are? What you do? You do fings? Kinda fings? S’at? Mmm, dat mell good. I’un some. I’un poon? Fanks. Dat you yip goss? You siss me? I yip goss too! We eat shushis morrow yesterday laters again? Mow kitty ccchhhkk at me! She say ‘ccchhhhkk’ like that. Why she do like that? She no like it when I pull her tayell?” Stuff like that.

2. Cool, blustery days. Specifically, wind in my hair. A light rain is always a bonus.

blustery

3.  When I begin to think something and my husband says or does exactly what I’m thinking.

4. Words. Duh. Reading words, writing words, saying words, learning new words, word games, crosswords.

5. Schadenfreude. Particularly when irony or karma are involved.

6. Walking through baby sections of stores while smiling and commenting loudly, “Ming-mings? Nope! Nursing pads? No thank you! Diapers? Hell to the no!”

7. Giraffes.

giraffetattoo

8. The smell of my husband when he needs a shower. Not after a day of air travel on a C-130 packed full like a sardine can, just on a regular day.

9. Being quiet and nodding along pleasantly right before launching into a crazy bitch tirade no one expected.

bitch
10. Playing and working outdoors, particularly in dirt, (while it’s windy and there’s a light rain?)

11. Novocaine shots. It’s the one pain killer the dentist will always give you. It always works.

12. Having philosophical, existential, esoteric conversations long into the night.

13. Regular Oreos. Classic Oreos. Not colored Oreos, not dipped in fudge, or white chocolate, or for a limited time only. Not double lard Oreos. No Oreos that taste like something else. Just regular Oreos. With milk. No milk? No plain ol’ Oreos? No thanks.

14. Sleeping after a hot bath, hot tea, opening the window and sliding into cold sheets.

15. Morning sex. “Is that for me?” I’m already mostly naked and completely relaxed, what else would I want?

morning_sex

16. Driving on ramps. Big, long, curvy ramps. My favorite ramp is the one from I-70E to 465N but I also like the new ramp in a tunnel from Shadeland to 465N.

17. Noticing some stranger in public wears the scent of my best friend, my grandmother, an old lover, a favorite teacher. Sometimes that woman who appears to be following you is just in it for the sniffing.

18. Stroking the faces and hair of my daughters, like my mother did with me.

19. Leaves in Fall. Wet leaves, burning leaves, colorful leaves, crunchy leaves, piles of leaves, leaves blowing in the wind.

20. Watching movies with subtitles on. Subtitles enhance my viewing pleasure.

Now, don’t you want to list things you love madly or irrationally? DO YOU LOVE LISTS?

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The Weekend’s Over, Right?

My son came in for his spring vacation, which was splendid. He came with a lot of equipment. Cords and cords and more cords, all over everything.
He asked for curry, so I made curry. He wants something for his upcoming birthday that I can’t even understand, so I wrote him a check.
I told him to wear headphones a lot, because he watches this terrible video series where the man screams all the damn time.
I washed his laundry and made him his very own tiny meatloaf.
It’s very strange when adult children come home. It’s a new stage, and I’m not sure yet how to be his parent and treat him like an adult at the same time. Hopefully I’m doin alright and he’ll keep comin home from time to time.

parents

Over the weekend, I was social. For me, I was extremely social. Friday, The Mister and I ran around like mad, running errands. When the girls got home, we took them for new shoes and then we all had dinner at The Palace of Rules. I’m almost convinced that my in-laws invite us four “kids” over to entertain them, as if we are the jesters at their palace. Not that we mind!

I kept Simon for the weekend, because I just love him to bits, and he’s Bubba’s oldest friend, as cousins often are.
We were that giddy, silly family you saw buying groceries at midnight on Friday.

On Saturday, Drew and Ace spent the day, and Mr. F joined us in the evening. I do not think I have had such a wonderful day since late September. I had the bestest time!

We’ve all become obsessed with the dialogue from this video, which Sassy and I have watched at least eleventythousandtimes:

On Sunday, more of the same, but less energy. By then, we were all on the verge of kaput.
When everyone had said goodbye and I closed the door, I took to my bed, bone-weary, where I remained sluggish all night. I was drained completely.

I don’t know exactly what everyone else did to get all sapped, but I cooked my ass off for two days, never mind lack of sleep, the introversion, and the anxiety disorder. Still, so worth it!

Monday seemed like it would be a great day to enjoy solitude, just me with my laundry and ironing, but when it came down to it, I was still shot, and spent the day online, researching dishware instead. Well, maybe it’s not for everyone, but I had a good time.

turquoise

I could be as blue as the dishes now that it’s all over, but instead I’ll just smile at all the new memories made.

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That Time I Od’d on Cough Syrup

It was a Friday like this, about twenty years ago, when I was wrapping up finals, and I had a terrible cold. (If I don’t check myself, I’ll go and go and go, wear myself completely ragged and then get good and sick. It’s my thing.)
As a long time allergy sufferer, I didn’t have any trouble managing the unending snot that came with my cold, but I couldn’t handle the cough. Since I had to work with the public over the weekend, I scheduled a doctor’s appointment before my shift started.

Drive.Drive.Drive.Cough.Cough.Cough.

My doctor confirmed my cold, said I was probably at the peak of it. He gave me a dozen tiny bottles of purple cough syrup. He said to take two every six hours, and to call back on Monday if I wasn’t feeling any better.

Drive.Drive.Drive.Cough.Cough.Cough.

Once I got to work, I took two bottles and started my shift.

Everything was fine until I went to the bathroom.
I must have blacked-out in the bathroom. When I came to, my head was resting on the wall of the stall, I had actually dripped dry, no need to wipe, and people were asking where I was through my headset.
I pulled myself together and headed out into the store. I felt unbalanced. All of the lights in the store were very, very bright. I mean, I shaded my eyes because oh! the lights were so bright! Also, we had skylights, which I had never noticed before. So pretty skylights.

I decided I was not well. I didn’t actually need to say this to my boss, who took one look at me, and asked, “So you’re really sick, huh?” He drove me home in my car, someone else followed and took him back. When we were in the car, and I was barely conscious, I vaguely remember showing him the tiny bottles of cough syrup, and saying how I am very sensitive to medication.

I went home, blathering to my mother about how I had to sleep, how I saw the doctor, how this cough medicine just knocked me out.

I slept. I slept and slept and slept.

My mother came in off and on. Blurry hand on my face.

Thirteen hours later, I woke up. I felt fine. No cough.

My mother read aloud to me from the bottle, “Take 2 teaspoons every 6-8 hours, do not exceed…”
Two TEASPOONS?!?

And that’s the time I overdosed on cough syrup. With Codeine.

codeine

Cured me completely.

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Don’t Drop By

(Inspired by Unpacked Writer’s post.)

I grew up in a house where visitors were not received without notice. This meant that my friends and suitors often spent their visiting time on the porch with me, or sometimes, in the driveway.

However, with my own household, I am only a bit more relaxed.

I’ll open the door for a few people. If I’m not in the mood for company, I might hide in the back of the house. Really just depends on how the dog reacts to who’s at the door…Yes, my dog makes a lot of my decisions about etiquette.

I opened my door to a policeman the other day, because I think one should, but I was clad only in my towel, with dripping wet hair. Policeman was extremely embarrassed, probably because he looked to be about twelve. He could have called first, couldn’t he?

I’ve often had the house where all the kids hang out and I’m okay with that, because I know where my kids are and I know where my kids are and I know where my kids are. There are a lot of strange people in the world, and they make strange little kids, and it’s just better for me to deal with strange little kids than to subject my children to strange adults. Please note: if allowed, strange adults and their strange little children will come to your house and behave strangely, while saying strange things.
For inside hospitality, we hafta know the kid’s parents, or have come to know the child pretty well before the welcome has been issued. Most of our children are introverts, who really just seem to collect a friend here or there, but Moo brings the entire party home. For this reason, I’m happy to be the mom with boxes of ice pops and plenty of outside toys.

drop3

I lived on an Army base for seven years, and many of my neighbors came to call regularly, which I enjoyed, and did in turn. I had several neighbors who became friends, almost like family, in the way that we were, at times, the only local support we had. Army Wives are extremely independent people, but they are also incredibly vulnerable and no one is an island. With all of our families and closest friends states away, we came together easily. Who will babysit, throw you a baby shower, give you a ride, or make you soup when you’re sick? An Army Wife.
drop
Seeing the same people day-in and day-out, through all their highs and lows produces a certain level of comfort, I suppose. I didn’t hesitate to leave my children or my house key with the exemplary women I came to know and love.

Now that I am back in civilian world, few people are welcome to drop by my house at any time. No one has my house key.

My schizophrenic neighbor comes by at least once a week, always with a kindly, but completely ridiculous token. He has terrible timing, bless his heart.

drop2

The about six people I welcome to drop in on me do not do so often, because it’s quite a drive, or because their good manners prevent them from doing so, but they really are always welcome.

I’m not much for dropping by. I prefer to call ahead, in case you’re knee-deep in oven grease, or worse, you’re already entertaining a person I can’t stand.

The people who drop by here the most are my in-laws, which ALWAYS happens at the least convenient times: I am barely dressed, I am painting the dining room, I am crazy neem-faced lady, I am giving the dog (and most of my clothes) a bath, I am having a nap, I am wiping out cupboards and all of my items are on the counters while loud, inappropriate music rocks the casbah. *facepalm*

 
drop1

I wish very much that I could tell them always to call first, but it would offend them, I’m sure.

Ironically, when they call me, they always ask me if it’s a good time.

How do you handle unannounced company? Do you let your dog make your decisions, too?

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Pips!

Y’all, it’s still really warm here. Almost seventy degrees. And since I had about twelve hours of sleep and ate pecan pie for breakfast, I felt ready to tackle the yard today. Don’t hate me because my life is so dreadfully fulfilling.

Most of my time was spent pulling leaves from the flower beds. I know there are a few theories about mulching beds, and people get really passionate about leaf removal, blah blah blah, but my own practice is that the last leaves I collect in the fall cover the beds. I think of it like a warm winter blanket. Then, instead of carrying around dry leaves that blow everywhere for another month in the fall, I uncover my beds, bag the wet leaves, and move them to the wildflower bed in the spring.
The reason it’s a wildflower bed is because people built it with treated lumber, which is unsuitable for food. So I think of it as a little wildlife conservatory, where native plants gather, and in late summer, I can cut bits of purple and yellow for vases indoors, but it will still look untouched. Butterflies and birds enjoy it, and I enjoy all of that.

pips6
The best part of spring cleaning outdoors is uncovering the beds, because life returns from under those warm, wet leaves.

pips2
After living in Georgia for seven years, and spending last spring in not-my-house, I was beside myself with happiness today! Just look at all that dark rich earth!

pips1

pips3

And behold, the tiniest pip of tulip, which I found here and there.

Once the girls got home, we played pick-up-sticks, the literal game. It’s really only a chore because the sticks are everywhere in the front where most of the trees are, and the bonfire pile is in the wide open space of the back 40. Surely I walked my ten thousand steps today. The stick pile is about the size of … well, we’ll need to call the fire department before we torch it, let’s just put it that way. If I felt more like a pioneer woman, I could probably fashion the limbs into an extensive fence, which I do think about from time to time.

pips4
The big maple in the back is covered in ivy, where bits of green are starting to come through.

pips5
Then, good gravy with all the sweeping! The wind blew the leaves into every possible nook and cranny.
Of course, the snow froze on top of that! Our street was frozen for almost five months straight. It’s only been thawed-out for about a week.
I’ve never had such a winter. We in Indianapolis broke our records for cold and snow this year.
I’m not stupid; I’m a local, so I know that tomorrow’s snow will not be the last of the cold.

This growing year isn’t so much about landscaping for pretty, as much as it’s about growing food. In the weeks to come, I’ll be building my raised beds and starting my seeds.

I’ve started one compost pile, too.

When late summer comes, I know I will plant even more tulips, as well as mums. When fall comes, I’ll be adding hyacinth and crocuses, because can you believe three-generations lived here ninety-four years without so much as a single early bulb?! I know, I’m shocked, too!

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