A Stitch in Time... Will Not Do a Damn Thing...

Sewing is not for the weak-willed or faint of heart - and NO ONE BOTHERED TO FREAKIN' TELL ME THIS!!! I will freely admit that my level of patience and calmness could fit into a thimble on a good day - but even that seems massive in comparison to sweating profusely, staring at a needle and concentrating on sewing in a perfect straight line on imperfect, bumby fabric!

Needless to say, night two of the Sewing Sisters did not receive a standing ovation (although Phoebe tried - or else she was trying to eat some thread - I prefer the former rather than the latter).

We're getting better - and after sewing a few yards WITHOUT THREAD IN MY NEEDLE, breaking the bobbin twice and pricking myself with pins so much that I was starting to look like I had taken a free acupuncture session in the back of a supermarket - I tagged Summer and she sat down to sew.

Finishing off the last piece of fabric - she stuck her freakishly pale, long fingers down into the cocoon and began to turn it rightside out. She had flipped it about three inches when she held it out towards me, cocked her head to the side and said "It looks like a dog's penis when it's happy."

I stared at her as she wriggled it at me and then went back to turning it rightside out.

Yes. That's it. I was done for the night. However - I think anytime I look at the finished apron (if it ever is completed) I will think not of the hard time spent on the development of a lovely and useful piece of kitchen couture, but of "dog penis."

Thanks for that, sis.

Sew....You'd like to be a Millionaire...

Summer and I look nothing alike. She's my sister and I often wonder if she sucked the gene pool dry so that there was nothing left in there for me except the sludge that got caught in the filter. Anyway, so here she is, tall, blonde, pale like Nicole Kidman and with a nose that is non-denominational (unlike mine) and we're in Walmart (the land of plenty) looking at fabrics.

Why?

Because they're in the dollar bin, duh!

Anyway, so we're up to our elbows in cheap and sometimes tacky fabric, and I'm talking about how Mommy Dearest is/was teaching me to sew on my never-before-used sewing machine. See, it's kinda hard for Mom to trust me with the machine - she still sees me as a five-year-old with grubby jelly hands and potentially harmful reflexes that may be hell-bent on tearing up her Singer - her only real means of financial gratitude (she was also a teacher). So - every time I would reach for her scissors (the "bone-cutters" of my youth) she would sharply draw in her breath. Finally, I got so frustrated that I told her we'd finish it "later" (a point to be determined later when my patience, and my Xanex prescription, has increased).

Summer suddenly grabs a "Sew Easy" pattern off a rack and thrusts it towards me.

"Wehavetomakethisandnottellmomwecandoitallbyourselvesandnooneneedstoknowuntilit'sdone!" It was all in one breath. I stared at her, wide eyed - my synapses were firing rapidly, trying to make sense of the high speed comment that was just hurled at me at five times the speed of sound.

"Okay." I replied and jumped up and down for emphasis (not knowing that emphasis is sometimes not the thing that is emphasized when a chubby girl bounces in the middle of Walmart) and began the task of finding corresponding prints. I settled on a tame purple and green plaid with a tiny flower print accent for the pockets. Very tasteful. Summer, however, decides that only a bright pink fabric with accents of black and silver crossbones will do -oh - and a pink studded ribbon trim, too.

Two hours later we are back at my house, spread across the floor.  The pattern is in Greek. Well, not really, but it might as well've been! "Sew easy" - my ass!

We finally figure it out by combining the brain power of two excited girls and one reluctant husband and began the task of cutting, pressing and sewing our soon to be world-reknowned aprons. Our excitement is cut short when Summer gets behind the needle of the sewing machine and makes something that looks eerily like the hair spider of nightmare's passed. Oh - we forgot to lower the foot. Our second attempt is better - my turn at the wheel.

My pocket is perfect and I'm beaming like a proud fabric-loving mother. Until I break the bobbin. Crap.

Crap.

Crap.

I have NO idea how to change the bobbin.

Precious hours are wasted as we study the picture on the top of the sewing machine that is supposed to be a helpful artist's rendering of a successful bobbin winding. We curse, we throw things and we hit the fragile machine while pulling and tugging and readjusting every knob, bell and whistle on it.

Finally, I look hard at the picture - and - pick up the bobbin from underneath the foot and place it on the spindle on top of the machine - just like the drawing illustrates.

Well - shit, that was easy.

We dissolve into shrieks of laughter before toiling onward and upward in our quest to conquer the world - one apron at a time.

 

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words...

This is my  hubby, on left, and his friends Mike and Trey. 

This was the evening I spent with them in Mike's basement - they played Halo on Xbox and tried to goad me into playing, too.  I refused.  Why?  Because they insist on naming me "Target" and always give me the "light red" armor and then proceed to blow me up, repeatedly.  Fun for them.  Not so much fun for me.   I think I may have killed one of them once.  Not coincidentally, it was Harry - and I relished that one, oh yes, relished it!

I am thinking of secretly practicing my Halo fighting skills while Harry is out of town.  I figure, I can get really good and then murder them all!  Problem is - my hand eye coordination is not as honed as theirs is.  They have spent years mastering the arts of hand coordination (giggle - had a bad thought with that one) and I have not.  I still may try though.  I've even thought of a name to replace "Target"  - "Darth Holly" - whattayathink?

Till we meet again - "Boys - Who's your daddy?!!!"  (get it?  It's like "Luke, I am your father" but modernized! hahahaah! Okay - well I thought it was funny! :) 

 

Disney Do's and Don't's

I just realized that I have devoted not a single entry to the happenings of my Third Honeymoon/Vacation to the Happiest Place on Earth!

Well, there's a reason for that - it was kinda sucky.

It was hot. Really hot. Like Wicked Witch of the West "I'm melting" kind of hot. And if that wasn't bad enough - it rained everyday, too. Not just a teeny bit of misty rain, nope, this was Monsoon-sized droplets that pelted you and instantly drenched you so that no amount of Poncho covering would do. We bought four ponchos and an umbrella, by the way - totalling just over $50 - for raingear.

I was so sick of seeing Mickey by the time the week was over and Stitch, too. And, really, all the rest of the Disney troops. And kids. And people in general. The only highlight of the trip (besides some great acquisitions of Kate Spade and Coach gear) was after a late night spent at the Magic Kingdon and a rather uncomfortable monorail ride. We were just heading back to our building at The Grand Floridian and were walking past the 24-hour pool. An EXTREMELY large man with a tatoo beside his eye (ew and ouch) walked by in his black velour robe. Behind him, piled high, was a trolley full of drinks. This large man was toting around a drink tray of Margaritas, beer, vodka and other varieties of alcohol. It was the most hilarious and unique sight we saw while in Orlando. His little girl - clad in a pink Disney princess bathing suit that stretched across her round roly-poly belly was playing in a puddle at the end of the sidewalk.

Suddenly, Tatoo stopped and sniffed the air.

"I smell gas," he says. "That's poisonous gas, that is, I'm a firefighter, I should know poisonous gas..."

The other bulky members of his posse began investigating, sniffing the air and looking around. The little girl stopped playing and looked around. Her face contorted, nose screwed up and brow furrowed in concentration.

"Wait! Hey!" She was running toward Mr. Tatoo and was now beaming with the wisdom of youth. "Hey, maybe it's me!"

This made my day. I doubled over laughing in the middle of the sidewalk.

And that, my dear readers, is why Disneyworld unites people from all over theworld, because no matter what language you speak, or where you come from - a little fat girl in a Disney Princess Bathing suit emitting poisonous gas - is always funny.

A Boob of a Conversationalist

So - I joined this website - Myspace.com cuz everyone told me how much fun it was - you can find people you haven't seen since High School - and make new friends. Literally. You have to send people Messages that say "Holly would like to be your friend" and then that person - just like the "check yes or no box" from those wide-ruled notes from Elementary School - has to either "accept" you or "deny" you. Personally, I think they should have another boxed choice. One that says "Oh, HELL no," or something as equally eloquent as that.

So far - I have been propositioned, proposed to, proposed to have things done to me by different parts of the senders (obviously small) extremities ( I know cause I saw the picture) and asked insanely intimate questions about sex and my female parts. My favorite one was a guy who offered me all of his Navy personnel. I think he was meaning something else - but I chose to ignore it, and him.

What am I most upset about?

I have these wonderful, intelligent conversations with these really nice guys who seem to be into the fact that I can string words together in a rather pleasing order. And then, they ask me the inevitable question - "so - I know yer married - but - hey - how big are your boobs?" Ouch. My intellect has been thwarted by the twins in my sweater. As women, we are taught that men will always respond to a woman with big hooters - so if you don't have 'em -buy 'em - and if you have 'em - flaunt 'em. Well - I figured that since mine were not so visible on-line - not that they rival mountains or anything by any means - that I would be able to talk and have great convos with perfect strangers. Sigh. Big sigh.

When did making friends on-line become this hard?

Has it always been like this?

When did it switch from "G" rated to "NC-17" or worse, "XXX"?

Am I naive to think it was ever NOT a sexual predator's wet dream?

Oh well, I am still here, on-line, and fighting for pleasant conversations that do not, for once, include my cup size.

Musings on Muses

I was asked today, by someone I greatly respect as a member of the "trying to get published" writing world, why I hadn't started a book or a collection of essays to attempt to break into the literary mainstream.  My response, half-wit that it was, went like this:  "I'm disenchanted with the whole thing and am quite content to sit here until my Muse decides to smack me upside the head with a Thesarus."   Funny as it is - I don't know if I quite believe it.  Am I really disenchanted?  Or am I just burned out from trying to be nice and entertaining all the time - and - if so - is that really such a bad thing?  What's wrong with turning a smile onto a world that is so full of cynacism that it can't bend over to tie its own shoes?  Worse yet, am I one of those bloated, pompous, self-important people that watch the news just to be able to get the jokes of the late night commediennes? 

I'd like to think that I'm not. 

I'd like to also think that things like beautiful, inspiring muses do exist - if not just in theory so as to squish out the anti-muses of self-doubt and self-loathing.

I'd also like a pickle.  But that's a whole other story entirely.

Terrorism Truths

Today on the news I heard that a string of bombings occurred in England - unlike the rest of the world - my first thought was not of Terrorists - but of Parisians. Were they so distraught over losing the Olympic venue that they were willing to bomb the heck out of their neighbors?

Don't really think so.

Too organized, and too, well, petty.

Why go after London's mass transits?

Why go after our planes?

Why don't these self-dubbed "geniuses'" (cuz you know that's what they call themselves) go after things that would really bring the country to it's knees?

Buy all the McDonald's of the world - change the fries to curly ones - without salt.

Procure all of the Walmarts - have them all close at 4pm.

Switch peak hours with free nights and weekends - watch as we all struggle to send calls.

Ban smoothies.

Take Frappacinos off of the menu at all Starbucks.

Remove pages 116-172 of the new Harry Potter book.

Raise oil prices to make gas a very expensive luxury... oh... wait a sec...