Of Mice and Men

What is in the air, people? Seems like everywhere I turn these days, inwardly or outwardly, sweet souls are suffering. Suffering from loss or loneliness or purposelessness. Some have some real biggies going on: deaths of loved ones, ends of relationships, isolation from their support system. And the rest of us? Just feeling low and lost. Whenever a big wave of a particular emotion washes over, collectively, those I love, I am oddly reassured. What did Anne Morrow Lindbergh say? We are all islands in a common sea.

For two weeks now I've felt a bit out of my body. Maybe because I've been a little ill...I don't know, but my energy level and spirits have been low. But yesterday, miraculously, in the most unlikely place, I was blessed with a little karmic boost, and just that tiny nudge seems to have directed me back to a more gentle path.

I have one friend, Amy, who so intuitively knows when to reach out to me that sometimes it's a bit shocking. She's one of my closest friends from midwifery school and still lives in NY, so our contact isn't terribly frequent. The occurrence of her calls, though, is always so serendipitously timed that I often have that Addams Family sensation - the one where an unsuspecting guest shows up at the haunted house and accepts something graciously from a ghost, and then does a double-take. Nearly every time Amy calls I do the same thing, looking around the room suspiciously and thinking, "Who told her??".

My conversations with Amy are inevitably nourishing, as this is how she is in her life, in all things. She is a Healer, a calm and steady presence. Amy treads lightly upon the earth, lives consciously and with purpose. She cans vegetables and makes her own cheese, all in her Astoria home. How did all this wisdom and tenderness get crammed into a beautiful NY broad? - hard to say. I'm just glad we're friends.

The only creative pursuit I've been able to fulfill is my crochet-frenzy. I found these wonderful patterns on Crochet Pattern Central and have been making Andrew some veggies and mice. I never grow tired of this kind of crocheting, and Pete has even caught the fever. He's getting it down pat, and it's an oddly intimate and enjoyable thing to do together. For a man who's taught me so much, it's fun to teach him a thing or two. About mice. And turnips.

Grumps

Feeling grumpy. I love that word. It sounds just exactly like what it means. Onomatopoeia.

Think I need to get out of the house for a bit, before the sun's vicious rays singe off my top layer of skin. This weather's getting to me. A very, very inconvenient truth.

On a more adorable note:

Envy and the 8-hr Quilt

My mother's birthday was last week, and I love to hear her tell the story of when she was about 8 yrs old and she got a new bike for her birthday. She just loved that sucker. The afternoon of her birthday she was riding it around the neighborhood and one of the little kids next door was admiring her new treasure and she said to him, "Don't you wish you had a bike like this?".

To hear my mom tell it, the question was asked not in a boastful way, but simply with the intention of expressing gratitude for her enormous blessing. Unfortunately for her, her father overheard her comment, interpreted it as a completely snotty statement, and took the bike away from her for a month. This is the same man who to this day will drive his pick-up to church because he can't bear others knowing his dirty little secret, his hidden shame.... that locked up in his immaculate garage is a $50K Mercedes. What would God think??

So after receiving 2 huge boxes yesterday from my grandmother marked "fragile" and then unwrapping them to discover a staggering collection of pink depression glass, it really is all I can do not to say, "Don't you wish you had all this pink glass? Don't 'cha? Don't 'cha??".


I am willing to concede that you may not love depression glass as much as I do and therefore have no more envy than if I had suddenly come into the possession of the TV Guide collection my husband procured as a child. But if you do love it, you will understand my glee. And if you come visit me, I promise we will eat truffles and lace cookies off of it.

On another note, there are things people could say about me that would hurt my feelings. For example, if you said I have bad teeth (not true). Or if you said that I have B.O. (mostly not true). However, if you were to spread the nasty rumor that I am the World's Worst Quilter, I would have no option but to agree. I am.

I decided on Friday afternoon to piece together a quilt from my scraps, kind of borrowing from this color scheme. I'd found this really gorgeous flannel fabric a while ago and wanted something simple for the top - something to cuddle up under this winter.


I cut out all the squares and started to sew them together, and by Saturday evening the whole things was pieced and ready to be sandwiched and quilted. That's when it went south, simply because, to be blunt, I don't give a shit. I cannot seem to sew a straight line when I have about 30 lbs of fabric on my lap and scrunched up in my machine, and then I just don't care. I let the needle go where it may, bunching what it will. I told Pete it was in the quilting style of "Rustic Chic". He believed this is a legitimate genre of craft.


My friend Kerri makes quilts that will be honored as heirlooms. I make quilts that you throw in the back of your station wagon when taking the dogs to the lake.

Rock throwin'

So tonight I am walking into TJ Maxx and this woman is walking out toward me and I think, "Boy, that outfit really isn't working for her." And then I look down and realize that I am wearing the exact same outfit - a purple tank and khaki shorts.

You know what they say about folks who live in glass houses...

Hinges of Hades

It is 8000 degrees here in NC. It's true - I saw it on the thermometer.

Well, maybe not exactly 8000, but definitely over 100. When I got in my car this afternoon it was 120. Lawhdy.

I took the sorbet over to our new neighbors last night, and they are just the sweetest things - going to get married in October, so he's moved in now but she is going to wait until after the nuptials. So old-fashioned....I love it. I mean, I lived in sin with Pete for 2 years before he "bought the cow" (as my mother was apt to put it), but I still love the idea.

Anyway, I couldn't help but think how lucky they were to have me bring sorbet, because for goodness sakes, who in the world can eat lasagna in this weather?!? I just want to crawl between cold sheets, a George Pelecanos novel in one hand and some frozen grapes in the other.

So you want to hear a funny story? Well, I have this friend - a new friend - who isn't too much older than I am but has a daughter in her late teens and another baby on the way any day now. I taught her some childbirth education classes a while back, and when I discovered that she lived right around the corner from me I invited her over for dinner. It was supposed to be on Saturday but I had made myself horribly nauseated on too much BBQ and sweet tea, so we postponed it for last night.

Her daughter is really cool and I invited her along as well, but my friend said she'd be unlikely to make it, so I prepared a small dinner for just the three of us (Pete included). I set a pretty table and had everything ready to go, so all I would have to do was barely lift my hand to combine the topping for the pasta (as my other hand was busy tending to a wine glass).

So she was a tiny bit late, and when she arrived I saw that she not only had her daughter, but her daughter's sweet boyfriend in tow! I was thrilled to have more company (really, truly - I was), but historically I have not handled last-minute changes to plans very well. I'm kind of rigid about stuff like that, but I have to tell you - you would have been proud. I nearly effortlessly rearranged the table and rustled up some more eats. The only glitch was when I was about to serve the crab-dressed pasta and the boyfriend shyly informs me that he is deathly allergic to shellfish. Oops. He graciously dined on a frozen pizza with fresh basil instead, and it was an all-around lovely, fabulous evening.

If there is anything better than sharing a delicious impromptu dinner with delightful friends, I do not know what it is.

Vice

I've been feeling just so totally icky and grumpy this week...lots of mental eye-rolling coupled with a very short fuse. In other words, tons of fun.

Some folks, when faced with the doldrums, do emotional eating, which boils down to cramming in as many fist-fulls of high-caloric shit as they can while watching The Girls Next Door. Instead of testing my junk-food limit this weekend, I have had a compulsion of another sort: junk shopping.

I kid you not when I tell you that today I have darkened the door of a mega-Dollar Tree, a Burlington Coat Factory, two huge Asian markets, and a Big Lots. And our local Hood Lion. I didn't end up with anything even remotely sexy - just some deodorant and kitchen towels and a scrub-brush, but I was on the prowl. Since I am a total crap shopper because I hate to spend alot of money, potentially going for broke in a discount store is, for me, the equivalent of a dieter tearing through a church pot-luck with no witness. My heartbeat quickens a bit in the Dollar Store...What do I want? What do I want? With a twenty in my pocket I am on Supermarket Sweep.

I never really end up buying much, but that feeling of indulgence, even if it's mostly on crap, makes me feel a bit satiated, much like a full pan of caramel-pecan dark-chocolate brownies.

The Devil Buys $180 Secret-Santa Gifts

Anne Hathaway was on TV this morning, and even though I'm not a daytime-watcher, I did manage to catch her on both GMA and Live!. Just love that girl. First, I think she bears an enviable resemblance to Nigella Lawson. Second, Kelly Ripa (whom I find very tiring) was asking her dumb questions and she responded to them with a thoughtfulness and integrity that almost seemed out of place among the scads of mindless talking heads that usually appear for interviews. I am going to round up girlfriends and go see Becoming Jane.

Thinking about Anne makes me think about The Devil Wears Prada. I loved both the movie and the book. Show me a fledgling career-person in NYC who has not had that kind of job and I will show you a liar (or someone with a very rich Daddy). My first job in Manhattan was for a very large pharmaceutical advertising agency, based in Times Square. I didn't do the advertising - I got to work for the "medical education" department of this agency, which was FDA code for "Bribe-the-Doctors-with-Expensive-Lunch-and-Learns-and-
Vacations-
and-They-Will-Feel-Guilty-and-Prescribe-Our-Drug" department. I was working crazy hours with even crazier people and making slightly above minimum wage. The offices were always filled with an anxious, uncomfortable energy and the employees took out their frustrations on their subservients. Since I was literally the lowest rung on that nasty ladder, you can just imagine the hell.


My most vivid DWP moment was around Christmas time. We had drawn names for the office Christmas (er, Holiday) party and had capped the price at $20, but since I hardly had money for groceries that seemed like a total extravagance. I had umpteen supervisors (Pete would say "too many chiefs and not enough Indians"), mostly all flamingly gay, yet contrary to the population's reputation, completely void of any lusciousness. One such supervisor, I'll call him Dean, called me into his well-appointed office one day to ask me to accompany him during his shopping expedition for the holiday party. The request didn't make sense, as we weren't friends, but clearly I had no choice but to go.

I hated walking around NYC in the cold, and I hated being with that man. He marched me straight over to 5th Avenue, and preceded to very obviously drop $180 on a Secret-Santa gift! I was so young and cold and poor and bored that I didn't figure this out right away, but when I reminded him that the cap was $20, his MO became disgustingly clear: he just wanted to rub his wealth in my minimum-wage face. Even worse, he insomuch said so on the walk back to the office. Looking back on it, I should have felt angry with him or even sorry for him, but for some reason I just felt ashamed.

I quit the job 2 weeks later.

It was in the elevator of this office building where I met my sweet Peter. I saw the value of Dean's Secret-Santa gift and raised it. Exponentially.

This American Life

In yet another hefty leap onto a bandwagon that nearly passed me by, I have to tell you that I cannot listen to enough episodes of This American Life. I love them all. I love Ira Glass. I love listening to any of the tales: from the inside of Chicago's Golden Apple Diner to those family legends that, retold to generation after generation, morphed into an all together fabulous story. Most of all I love that it is on the radio (even though, ironically, I listen to it on the internet). I know, I know, rumor has it you can find it on Showtime, but I just want to listen. What's the frequency, Ira?

I listened to the "Special Ed"-themed show today while performing a minor overhaul of my studio space. This was not an Extreme Makeover. It was more of a Slap-a-Little-Lipstick-On Makeover. A few weeks ago I found out that our local Pier 1 Outlet was going out of business and not only was clearing out everything on the shelves, they were clearing out the shelves themselves! So for $30 I got 2 pretty incredible display cabinets to stack my stuhf in. You know, my fabric stuhf, my notion stuhf, my crafty stuhf. And of course, the amount of stuff you have automatically and obligingly expands in direct proportion to the space you've allotted to store it. Even though I don't feel like I have alot more room now, I do think things are more organized and accessible. In the deepest, most obscure recesses of my being I lust for a type of neurotic organization, although precious few examples of my secret desire can be identified in my life.


p.s. I have been crocheting little cakes like some kind of crazy crafter-baker on crack, and I will post them soon. Norma Lynn wrote me the sweetest little note after my last post. Gotta love her.

Sweet

There's been a lot of change in my life lately and the other day I was talking with a friend about how external change can really cause a change throughout. I shared with her that the older I get (and certainly after becoming a mother), I was trying to shed some of my harsher edges and become....what's the word?....I couldn't find the right one, so I just said, "sweet." I hate the saccharine connotation of the word, but for some reason it seemed the right adjective to choose.

Nearly days later, and right on cue, as books have always been with me, I was reading Michael Pollan's The Botany of Desire and found this beautiful paragraph. It took my breath away when I read it, as it completely captured what I was trying to express to my friend. To share:

Sweetness is a desire that starts on the tongue with the sense of taste, but it doesn't end there. Or at least it didn't end there, back when the experience of sweetness was so special that the word served as a metaphor for a certain kind of perfection. When writers like Jonathan Swift and Matthew Arnold used the expression "sweetness and light" to name their highest ideal (Swift called them the "two noblest of things"; Arnold, the ultimate aim of civilization), they were drawing on a sense of the word sweetness going back to classical times, a sense that has largely been lost to us. The best land was said to be sweet; so were the most pleasing sounds, the most persuasive talk, the loveliest views, the most refined people, and the choicest part of any whole, as when Shakespeare calls spring the "sweet o' the year." Lent by the tongue to all the other sense organs, "sweet," in the somewhat archaic definition of the Oxford English Dictionary, is that which "affords enjoyment or gratifies desire." Like a shimmering equal sign, the word sweetness denoted a reality commensurate with human desire: it stood for fulfillment.

Perfect. Beautiful. Sweet.

The Good Ol' Days

I remember my mother telling a story of the summer she worked at a Piece Goods store to raise spending money for college. She learned to sew then, because the mannequins in the displays all wore garments made of in-stock fabrics and the employees were expected to know how to sew. Ahhh....does anyone out there long for that time?

I had a most unsucculent experience yesterday at a large chain fabric store. The employees might as well have been working in an ice-cream parlor, that is how little they knew about fabric, notions, and sewing. I think this is a trend in the larger fabric stores I frequent and it makes me sad. Maybe turnover is high or employee training is lacking, but it's always disheartening to visit a fabric store, so ripe with possibility and rich with sensory stimulation, only to see employees looking bored, often irritated, and worse of all - completely uninformed.

The obvious solution to this, of course, is to patronize small, locally-owned fabric shops staffed by active quilters and textile aficionados. And I do, with frequency. However, due to budget constraints, these sprees are largely limited to times when I am working on an extra-special project and am in need of only the finest fabrics. I really cannot afford to spend $9/yd on solids or interfacing, tempting as it is.

I think I am going to write these corporations and in my little voice encourage them to select and train their employees in a way that enhances the shoppers' experiences and just the general vibe of the store. There is actually one guy who works at said disappointing fabric store who is just *awesome* - so knowledgeable and passionate and helpful. He wasn't there yesterday and was obviously very missed.

ahhhhh...that feels better.

Goodwill, on the other hand, it a totally different story. I love it. I love, love it. I dabbled in some thrift shopping several years ago with great success, and for some reason took a break when we were in Manhattan. Now I'm addicted. Look at all of the beautiful things I found yesterday for less than $17!!! (2 exceptions in this picture : the pitcher was found at an antique show for $5, and I got the creamer/sugar on sale - they're Nigella's - at a local gourmet kitchen shop.) The little painted pitchers are Vietri and usually cost a pretty penny. When I saw them there for $1.98 my hands started to shake.




My sweet niece is coming to visit next week and I wanted to make her a little something (since I am her only crafty aunt!) and so I again attempted a project out of The Crafter's Companion and here it is - a little clutch designed by Lyn Roberts. She'll love it - if I don't keep it for myself!


I hope all of you have a most lovely weekend, filled with tender moments and little treasures.

My 2 Cents

I have been to 3 universities for my 3 degrees, all private, all very expensive (just the thought of my $90,000 grad-school debt makes me throw up a little in my mouth). My first undergraduate degree (courtesy of my parents) was awarded to me by a prestigious southern college, an institution recognizable by its breathtaking and gated campus, old-south traditions, and a predominately Anglo student body with young adults who looked as if they had one foot in a J. Crew catalog and the other in a prestigious, stuffy law school.

It was its own unique type of hell.

It's hard for me to tease out my feelings about this school because even though I felt so screwed by it academically, financially and socially, I do count my friends from that place as among those very closest to my heart. (Some of those friends even survived the institution and subsequent prestigious law schools with a great amount of succulence intact.) I've been known to attend a few homecoming games and get a bit wistful when walking around campus (it is, after all, where I got engaged, many years later), but it has no real designs on my heart. I would not actively encourage my children to apply there.

Yesterday I received a large 8x10 envelope from the school, addressed to both me and my husband, who is not a graduate of said institution. The envelope was so large and somewhat grand that I had the fleeting fantasy that this might be an invitation of some sort. I've been known to do some guest lecturing on women's health there, so clearly they were granting me some honorary degree.

The contents turned out to be what I largely expected: fundraising propaganda. Let me preface this by saying 1)I know that schools are expected to do fundraising and that alumni should expect some degree of upper-echelon panhandling, and 2) I know that alumni gifts are credited with providing many opportunities for less-advantaged students. Even knowing these things I always bristle a bit at these requests. As the saying goes, you can't get blood from a turnip, and the way I see it, if Pete and I are able to scrape together a bit to give to a university, it will daggum sure be Andrew's future college, not the one who has already received a pretty penny from my parent's estate (to the tune of $100K +).

However, instead of just being able to shrug this off as yet another philanthropic opportunity for those graduates not living off a single, modest income, this year the institution urged us to consider ways that even the smallest donation could be a big help. And, in most cases, I believe this is true. We give to our church and other organizations not because we have a huge amount to give, but because I feel strongly that if everyone just gave a little, things could truly be improved for the human condition. Like famine. And health care. So I read on.

For example, it said, $18 would buy a case of toilet paper - to roll the quad!!!!!!!

Oh my gosh! Why had I never considered this? How selfish of me!!! You mean for just $18, an amount that would provide a full course of vaccinations for an Ethiopian child, I could buy a whole case of toilet paper not to be used, but to decorate old Magnolia trees after our basketball team won a championship game???

Now that's where the little man can make a difference!!