Project Project

As you're reading this paragraph, this very one, I will be attempting to stuff a quilt into the small right-hand section of the sewing machine, pushing the batting and fabric more compactly to squeeze in the stitches--I may even break a sweat.

I will also be experiencing full on desire for chips and salsa. I haven't been able to find a good salsa lately, do you have a recommendation? The first person to say Pace will receive a crusty-eyed squint and significant derision in mixed company.

Is there a worse snack than chips and salsa when quilting? Maybe triple fudge cake that you have to eat with your fingers because you don't have any utensils. (Rest easy, homeless children, I don't have triple fudge cake, either.)

Tamsin asked me to guest post for her, on the occasion of finding out that her baby will be a boy. I thought long and hard about what I would say to a woman who just found out she is carrying a boy. (Lock up your Sharpies! You can't leave those utility knives laying around anymore! Do you have enough trains/cars/planes?) I came up with something called Beautiful Things.

Created By Chicks

Quinn from Created by Chicks interviewed me for a feature on her blog. You may go read it here if you just haven't gotten enough of my nonsense this week.

Thanks Quinn, you are delightful.

Handle THIS

A few weeks ago my friends Allison and Marie suggested that we all go up to the book signing that Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman, would be having in Salt Lake. If you read Ree, you know that this was the easiest decision ever, worth the hour drive and a full-price book purchase.

We all agreed to meet at 6:30 at the King's English Bookstore in Salt Lake. I got stuck in traffic and then trying to find a place to park, so I didn't get to the shop until 6:45. Allison and Marie had gotten me a ticket, though, so I wasn't worried. I should have been worried.

When I walked the extra distance to the gallery where Ree would be speaking, the line was out the door, 4 people wide, and around the corner. Whoa. I asked the handler if we should get our books before getting into the gallery. Affirmative. I ran into the bookshop where I picked up the copy I'd bought over the phone. I walked back to the gallery and I brought my ticket to the front, were I was told that they weren't letting people in. I was confused. "But I have a ticket," I said, clutching the copy of the Pioneer Woman's book.
"WE ARE AT CAPACITY," the handler told us.
"But if I have a ticket..."
"NO MORE. CAPACITY."
"I'm confused, if we have a ticket then why..."
"CAPACITY. I will NOT be letting ANY ONE ELSE in."

It was fun being outside the gallery while my friends were inside. In the mean time, Janet and a few of my other friends showed up. We were all outside, staring at our friends who were inside the shimmering gallery windows, listening to Ree do a reading, and probably dining on ambrosia, baby lamb, and liquid gold chasers. The laughs coming from inside sounded impossibly happy, like Ree had invited them all to spend a holiday at the lodge surrounded by sets of perfect Le Creuset, vintage-colored Kitchen-Aids, and her famous southern hospitality. I clutched my ticket in goldenrod yellow with my rapidly freezing fingers. Thank goodness I can read lips so I could see what Allison and Marie were saying to us through the glass (which I will not repeat here, because GROSS.)

One rep from the bookstore told the handler that there was plenty more room for people in the back, and she could let about 20 people inside the sparkly glass windowed paradise. The handler counted 21 people in, turned to our group and said, "None of you are getting in. I saw how late you came." The handler would let one person in per person that left, however, definitely none of us.

Janet was fuming. Turns out that she had called the bookshop earlier and asked about their preparations. The person she spoke with admitted that they didn't know who Ree Drummond was and that they didn't anticipate a large crowd. I'm sorry, what? Now, if you're reading this blog and you don't know who Ree Drummond is, that's fine (inexplicable, but fine) because it's not your job to know. It's a bookstore's JOB to know who they are hosting and how to accommodate a crowd (because when a blogger like Pioneer Woman, who has literally millions of readers, comes to town, you OUGHT TO KNOW, so sayeth a former bookseller.) Janet told King's that they needed more space than they would be providing and they basically shut her down. Honestly, if Janet is offering you advice, you might want to take it, she's kind of savvy.

The reading ended and Ree walked from the gallery to the bookshop, stopping for a second to say "Hi!" to Allison (they've met. See here.) (Also, Ree is thin, tall, lovely, and may have left a trail of soft, perfumed, imaginary ruffles in her wake.) The crowd followed her over. It was announced that the tickets we were holding had a letter from A-Z on them that determined in which group we were included. Marie, Allison, and I were letter O. As in O GRAVY that's a long time to wait in line. So we sat outside the empty gallery, wondering if the scary handler lady would be back to eat our babies.

And that's when Dooce showed up: all long legs, rockin' hair, and flanked by glam assistant Katey. Dooce walked into the gallery, which gave we castoffs all the incentive we needed to finally crash the now empty shop. We cornered her. I apologized for cornering her, although it wasn't really a corner, we'd just backed her into a window and she couldn't move. Heather was kind, self-effacing, awesome, and trying to keep a low profile, even though she was conversing with us. Someone brought up boobs. It was probably me.

Katey said that she had tried to convince Heather that having boobs is rough, and Dooce, like many a svelte-chested woman, did not believe her. "It's true," I said, letting the levity of the situation completely run away with my tongue, "All kinds of things get stuck in cleavage. At night you take off your bra and shake it out and say, 'Huh, I don't remember eating sesame seeds.'" WHICH IS TRUE, and made Dooce laugh. Did I just make all of you male readers uncomfortable? SORRY, but it's STILL TRUE. Dooce just makes those kinds of inappropriate things come out of your mouth, like when I asked when the cocaine would be arriving a mere ten minutes later. (Help me.)

Dooce led us around to the back of the shop where we waited to see if they'd let us in. Short answer: No. Scary handler lady was inside the bookshop and was not about to let any of us interloping upstarts inside. They eventually let in Dooce, which, believe me, is always the right decision.

I was a little drunk on the crazy we'd been experiencing during the whole event. I may have also demonstrated to the cool and stylishly dressed Moosh in Indy, along with her friend Barbara, that I am not to be trusted in social situations, or in fact trusted in public, period.

Allison was chatting at the back door with Ree's sister-in-law, Missy, who is quite pretty and very gracious. When Missy asked handler lady if Allison and her children could come inside and get her book signed, handler lady looked at straight at Allison and said, "That woman will NOT be getting her book signed tonight." Yes. Refused, even though Allison paid full price for her book at King's English (which sold out of their 300 copies--not enough for the 500-600 people who showed up.) Janet and a few other friends got in with a gift basket they'd put together for Ree, but eventually we all left. I met everyone at The Pie Pizzeria where I happily ate half a Combo Pie, watched the last two innings of the World Series, and witnessed the noble Phillies lose to the evil Yankees.

Moral of the story?

Careful when you go to meet The Pioneer Woman because you'll end up talking with Dooce about boobs.

THE END.








p.s. If you want to read about a successful PW encounter, go read my friend Fig. Love her.

Craft Hope Blankets

A couple months ago a friend shared the Craft Hope website with her network. Crafters had volunteered to hand make dolls to give away to orphanages in Nicaragua. What does a doll represent to us? An evening? A few hours spent sewing and stuffing? When to these girls, who have no parents, no real hope, nothing truly of their own, gifted hundreds of unique, beautiful, personalized dolls, they represented a piece of love wrapped in flannel and yarn. "I can do that," I thought, and waited for the next Craft Hope project to tug on my heart.

The current project is to create quilts for homeless children in Michigan through Margaret's Hope Chest. These children move from place to place, unsure of where their next meal or next bed will be. If you have young children you know how hard it is for them when they sleep in a new place A quilt represents something permanent, something that is always theirs no matter where they go; a piece of movable home. For many of these children, this will be the only hand made item they have ever had. A quilt? I can do that.

I decided to make two quilts for two little boys. I can't hand quilt them right now because I ruined my wrists last year making a quilt and a few other items by hand (I had to sleep in braces for months) but I can machine quilt them.

When Craft Hope updated that they needed to make sure that some of us were making quilts for 10-12 year old boys, I picked up some more flannel. Three quilts it would be.

These are the pictures of the first quilt for Craft Hope that I made last night, intended for a 3-5 year old boy. The pictures are terrible because they were taken with my phone, but you get the idea. It took me 4 hours from start to finish (including ironing the cleaned flannel, through the binding.) I wanted the cars and trucks to look like they were driving on the horizontal stitches. If I have the time, and my wrists can spare it, I'll use some white yarn to make dotted lines on the 'road' (unless they'll just obscure the print.)

I sewed a tie onto one end so that a child could roll up the quilt and button it for easy transport--and I made it tie loosely, so that some little boy out there can sneak in a few other treasures in his blanket and still have the tie button.

This morning, La Yen sent me a link to Rachel Cox's blog, who is gathering quilts and blankets for children in Appalachia. I immediately decided to split the quilts, sending two, including this smaller one and the one for the 12 year old boy, to Craft Hope, and the other smaller quilt to Rachel.

If you want to make a quilt for Craft Hope, they're accepting them until November 15th, and be sure to subscribe to her blog to be alerted to new crafting service opportunities. Rachel's blog is seeking ongoing donations of blankets, quilts, tie quilts, knitted, crocheted, anything that is machine washable and will keep a baby warm.

Obligatory Halloween Pictures

Last week's madness has vanished, replaced by a beautiful indian summer, all the leaves we could ever hope to rake, and a pile of empty Whopper wrappers. 

I stayed up late to make sugar cookies for El Guille's school class.  I was to bring them to school for the kids to decorate as part of the Halloween party. I was also a little nervous since I've never been a room mother before. From what I remember of room mothers, they were the ones responsible for dying the milk green at my second grade St. Patrick's Day party that turned into my lifelong fear of artificially-colored foods. Hey, that's me! I am shaping the future neuroses of our children!


Proximo pitched a fit because he wanted to help a student decorate his cookie for him. The other kid, surprisingly, didn't want help from a 2-year-old. Proximo, who will not take no, logic, or attention diversion for an answer, was beside himself with anguish. "But I want to HEeeelp him! I hep! I hep" he sobbed. I resorted to stuffing M&Ms into his mouth to stop the crying. It worked. Must start carrying M&Ms with me at all times. 

E.G. was in the third group of kids to decorate. He walked into the art room and was so excited to see me, "Hey everyone! This is my MOM!" Everyone nodded a little, because moms are nothing new, and got down to decorating their cookies with black sparkle gel and orange frosting. "My mom makes the best cookies EVER!" E.G. declared. I nearly died on the spot from happy-shock with complications of bursting heart.
"Who here thinks my mom makes the best cookies, raise your hands!" Three or four kids, who have not even tried the cookies, raised their hands. Thanks for the votes, kids.

I made the kids eat oatmeal for breakfast and then raw vegetables for dinner two days straight. True story.  That way I felt less guilty about the volume of junk they were about to consume.

I made Proximo's costume. He went as a crayon. 

Here's a before shot of his teeth so when they rot out by next Thursday, we have a memory of pearly whites past:

El Guille went as an army guy. He begged for two months. I think it was mostly a ruse to get a gun.

(He didn't get a gun.)

He did, however, get an ACU (Active Combat Uniform) from Captain Galan and La Yen, stationed at Fort Bliss.  They are the exact same uniforms as the real soldiers wear, down to the fabric and number of pockets. "If these are camouflage, mom, then how do they find their friends?"
Good question, we might have to ask the captain.

E.G. was so excited that he wore the costume for three days. I even put him on latrine duty so he could have the full experience. He woke me up by standing next to my bed in his gear. "I bet you can't even see me right now, can you?" he giggled.
"Nope," I answered, "Who is even talking right now? I can't see anyone!"

What I didn't know, until I got to school on Friday, was that his best friend also dressed as an army guy so they could be soldiers together.

And YES, real soldiers wear cute black snow boots with fur sticking out the top (right?)

Boy, we had a lot of fun.

Especially Proximo, who spontaneously kissed several old women simply because they gave him candy.



Love these pictures? My sister took them.

Nice Neighborhood

My new house is in a nice neighborhood. It's a neighborhood that without the significant downturn in the housing market we would never have been able to afford (thanks, Giant Pool of Money and Credit Default Swaps!) The manse is not a small house and is in need of some updating. We will be doing this updating in tiny increments so as not to interfere with our giant string cheese budget.

The funny thing is, people assume all kinds of things about us and our neighborhood. All kinds of solicitors try to get us to do stupid stuff. There was a dude yesterday who was selling a service of moving pictures from film to CDs. Really? I can't even express this problem without my brain growing an aneurysm. You want us to pay you to do something that we could easily do ourselves? And you want us to pay you to move a format that we no longer use to a format that we no longer use? GOBSMACKED. When Other Half got after the solicitor, the dude responded with, "Well, everyone is selling something."
Other Half removed that notion from the dude's cranium using lots of fancy mean words and some growling. He'll turn this place into the 'hood, like his native Florida, before we know it. Just kidding. Other Half didn't live in the 'hood (but Florida is still a hole with no mountains and lots of insane people.)

Can we talk about the fliers rubber-banded to our door? We have a few every day. I wish I could count the number of fliers pitching plastic surgery that are attached to the handles. REALLY? I know I live in a fancy neighborhood, but come on. If your idea of marketing technology involves advertising by neon rubber-band fliers, I would never, not in a million years, use your plastic surgery skillz.

A rumor has floated around for years, I even heard it when I was a child, that our neighborhood hands out full-size candy bars. THIS IS NOT TRUE. Even if it was, we will not be handing out full-size candy bars, not even the gross ones. I think we are going the individual M&M route this holiday, maybe it will confuse the hordes of strangers (honestly, they unload by the van-full) who descend on our streets in search of a full-sized Kit-Kat. NEWSFLASH: Put three fun-sized Kit-Kats together and it's THE SAME as a full-size bar. Do the math, or knock on our door and ask Other Half to do the math for you.

On that note, I'm going to bed, before midnight, because Hell called and they saw flurries.

This Week is Madness...

And not the good kind, with the ska.

I have every minute of this week scheduled--something which usually irritates me to the point of fury. I am a delicate swan who comes up with creative ideas! I do not execute! All this executing is going to strike me down in the prime of life!

Wednesday night I sewed much of two costumes, including this little sneak peek.

Much like any well-oiled machine, every part in my life must work properly. I stopped for a lunch on my way to work. I wanted a reuben sandwich. Sadly, the reuben on the menu came with 1,000 Island dressing. What a terrible abuse of a sandwich and a dressing. MUSTARD, mustard belongs on a reuben (and mustard belongs on a hot dog; ketchup is for children.) The sandwich place explained that they make their reubens in advance (what?) and couldn't substitute dressings. I considered a small lecture on the evils of 1,000 Island on a reuben and the transcendence of mustard, but thought better of it. The lady taking my order suggested a custom sandwich instead. So I ordered pastrami and swiss on rye with sauerkraut (spelled as sourkraut on the menu*,) and grilled.

When I got to work and opened my sandwich I found this:

Roast beef and swiss on rye, with SPROUTS.

But by the beard of Golda Meir, it had mustard on it!

*Probably the best sign in the world that you have no business ordering a reuben from the establishment in which this egregious spelling error appears.